It was still dark when the phone rang. Claire looked at the clock. It was 5:32 in the morning. Was Michael calling her already? She rose and tried to make it to the telephone in the kitchen before it rang again and woke Imogen, but she was too late. ‘It’s for you,’ Imogen called from behind her bedroom door.
Claire picked up the phone to hear Safta’s voice. ‘I think it’s time to go to hospital, Claire,’ Safta said. ‘Mummy’s having contractions. And her waters have broken. It’s time, isn’t it?’
Claire tried to clear her head. ‘Yes. Do you have the number for a mini cab?’ she asked. There would be no black taxis tooling around Camden at this time of the morning. ‘Do you have some money?’
The always-prepared Safta told her she did. ‘Call the mini cab right now. I’ll meet you at the Royal Free Hospital,’ Claire said – she had checked, some weeks back, which maternity unit was nearest to the Patels’ home.
By the time Claire threw on some clothes and arrived at the hospital, Mrs Patel had already been taken into the labor room. The children, all three of them, were huddled in the visitors’ lounge. ‘I wanted to leave them to sleep, but Maudie doesn’t have a phone and I couldn’t leave them or Mum to go get her,’ Safta explained.
‘You did the right thing,’ Claire told her. She patted Safta on the arm and chuffed Devi under the chin. She tried to do the math and figure out how long Mrs Patel had been pregnant. Was it eight months? She wasn’t sure. ‘They took Mummy on the wagon,’ Devi said.
‘It wasn’t a wagon. It was a bed with wheels,’ Fala corrected. All three, graced with large expressive eyes to begin with, now had them open so wide that enough white showed to make them look like brown spotted eggs. Claire crouched down beside the little ones.
‘There’s nothing to worry about,’ she said. ‘Mummy is going to be fine. Making a baby isn’t easy but your mummy has done it three times before.’ She looked at Devi. ‘The last time it was you.’ Devi shook his head, his silky hair flying.
‘I was the first time,’ he said.
Claire smiled, reached into her pocket and took out five pounds. ‘Here,’ she said, handing it to Safta. ‘Take them to the café, get some breakfast and then come back. Do you think you can manage that?’ Safta nodded. ‘I’ll go and check on your mother.’
Claire wasn’t so sure she would be allowed to, but a maternity nurse nodded and took her into the labor room. Claire, of course, had never been in one. She vaguely remembered Fred being brought home from the hospital, but there were no babies in her life at home. Mrs Patel was lying there, her hair unplaited, sweat beading her entire face. A nurse was busy at the side of the room but Mrs Patel had her eyes closed and seemed very alone.
As Claire approached the bed Mrs Patel was taken by a contraction. She balled her hands into fists, her eyes flew open and she let out a deep frightening groan. The noise scared Claire. This, after all, was Mrs Patel, always strong and self-contained. Of course, she also contained a new life which was pushing to become its own self. Claire approached the bed. She wasn’t sure if Mrs Patel, whose eyes were turned upward, could see her. As gently as she could she put her hand on her friend’s shoulder. For a moment, while she felt the body under her hand tense and hard as mahogany, there was no other reaction. But after the contraction ended Mrs Patel turned her head.
Her wet face glistened, and the top of her gown was open. Sweat pooled between her breasts. ‘Claire?’ she asked. Her fists unclenched and she reached for Claire’s hand. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Safta called. I came over as soon as I could. Is it time for the baby? I mean, have you gone full term?’
‘It’s just a few weeks early,’ Mrs Patel said. ‘A doctor looked and she says there’s no problem.’ Then she was racked by another pain. Her hand clenched around Claire’s and Claire could feel her knuckles pressed against each other until she too felt like crying out. Mrs Patel began to pant and moaned again. It was the moaning that scared Claire. The nurse, busy all this time in the corner of the room, turned around.
‘There, there, Mum. It’s not so bad.’
‘It is!’ Mrs Patel gasped. ‘And I’m not your mum.’
The nurse paid no attention and approached the bed. She felt Mrs Patel’s stomach and looked below. ‘About two centimeters,’ she said. ‘You have a long way to go.’
Claire felt like smacking her but turned back to Mrs Patel who had loosened her hold on Claire’s hand.
‘I always forget how hard it is. But I always did this alone,’ Mrs Patel said. ‘It’s nice you’re here.’
‘But didn’t your husband come in? Wasn’t he …’
‘He was useless. And he didn’t want to see. And now he’s gone, and won’t ever see the face of his child.’ Once again her hand tightened around Claire’s but this time it wasn’t because of the pain. ‘Where are the children?’ she asked. ‘Are they very frightened? I had no time to fetch Maudie. Are the children outside?’
‘They’re getting something to eat and they’re behaving well and they’re waiting for their new little sister or brother,’ Claire assured her. ‘By the way, Devi says he was your first baby.’
Mrs Patel smiled, and despite the sweat, the circles under her eyes, and the rat’s nest her hair had become, she did look lovely. ‘He would. No fear. Safta will set him straight.’ The smile left her face and her eyes softened. ‘Thank you, Claire,’ she said. ‘I don’t know how to thank you. Doing this without family, without anyone to help … it’s very hard.’ To Claire’s complete surprise tears welled in Mrs Patel’s eyes. Claire knew it had been hard for her to break from her family and to put her husband out, but she didn’t know, she couldn’t know, how very frightening it must be, even for a woman as strong as Mrs Patel. She paused and licked her lips. ‘Believe me, you must make sure of this man before you go further. You don’t want to be in a room here as I am unless you trust him and love him very much.’ Claire put one hand on Mrs Patel’s shoulder and squeezed it. Her other was in her pocket, where the little box with the big ring waited. She thought of taking it out and showing it to Mrs Patel, then thought better of it. ‘Promise me you’ll do that,’ Mrs Patel asked.
‘I promise,’ Claire told her.
‘Good. Now go to the children. Tell them not to eat too many sweets or I shall be very cross with them. And remind Devi not to be naughty. And ask them to think of a name for their new brother or sister.’
Claire nodded. ‘Fala suggested “Beckham”.’
‘I think not,’ Mrs Patel said and laughed – until another contraction hit. Claire took back her hand.
‘I’ll stay with them for a little and then I’ll come right back,’ she promised.
Mrs Patel, gripped with pain, managed to nod. Claire didn’t like to leave her, but she certainly didn’t like to witness it either. Another nurse came in, moved to the side of the bed and Claire took her leave.
The better part of the next three hours had Claire shuttling back and forth between Mrs Patel and the kids. Devi fell asleep on her lap, while Fala drew and colored pictures with the crayons and paper a nurse’s aide supplied. Only Safta stayed focused on her mother and the baby. ‘It will be all right?’ she asked Claire several times. Claire assured her it would be.
And in the end it was.
Claire was allowed into the delivery room though she stood back and was more than a little frightened. But though she had seen births on television, the birth of Mrs Patel’s third daughter seemed so miraculous that Claire found herself crying.
When the baby, cleaned and wrapped in toweling, was given to Mrs Patel her face was transformed. All the pain and fatigue seemed to disappear. The baby, though small, was beautifully formed and already had eyelashes long enough to touch her cheeks. ‘She’s a beautiful little girl,’ the doctor said and smiled. ‘Have you named her?’
Mrs Patel nodded. ‘Claire,’ she said. ‘Her name will be Claire.’
After the children saw their mother and new sister, Claire took them home and settled them in with the help of Maudie – who she had Safta call from the hospital.
On the way back to Camden, through the cab window, Claire had watched the morning sun as it changed the colors of the horizon and the clouds. She tried to imagine what it would be like to have Michael’s baby and was repelled by the thought. He was, even now, essentially a selfish person. Though he wanted her, it was once again because he had decided on it. Would she be a different acquisition from the ones he made at Crayden Smithers? Would she be more important to him than the BMW convertible he traded in every year or so? Even if she was, how could she live the life he did?
What she had witnessed – the reality of a woman birthing a child fathered by a man who wasn’t there – was the essence of a question between men and women. Michael Wainwright might have been what she once wished for, but he wasn’t what she wished for now. Then with equal certainty she knew she couldn’t return to New York. Somehow, she had been lucky enough to find her place and she couldn’t give it up. London was where she felt real, most alive and truly at home. It was if she was born to live here, amidst the low buildings, the clean tube, the books and the people she had met. Perhaps the gamble she had made by wishing upon a star had paid off in the end!
It was late afternoon before Claire had a chance to call Michael. She knew he was leaving that night and though she was exhausted and bedraggled, when he begged her to meet him she agreed. She took a taxi to Harvey Nichols and tried to use the cab time to comb her hair, put on some lipstick and brush enough mascara on her lashes to at least look as if she had made an effort. Then, walking past the makeup counters on the ground floor she let a cosmetician apply some blush and eye shadow to her face. She took the elevator up to the roof and moved through the aisles of specialty foods, espresso cups and glossy cookbooks to the restaurant. It was big and noisy, but Michael – of course – had secured a table beside the large windows that looked out onto a small terrace, roofs and chimney pots. Claire made her way to the table and took the seat opposite him.
He stood up, kissed her, and took her hand. ‘Would you like some tea?’ he asked. ‘Or an early dinner?’ He took the seat beside her, facing away from the window.
‘I’m not hungry. Maybe some coffee.’ She actually felt light-headed. Going from the focused intensity of the delivery room to the frivolous bustle of the restaurant seemed too wide a gap to breach. Though she hadn’t had a cup of coffee in weeks, somehow it seemed not just good but necessary right now.
They ordered – staff always hovered ready to serve Michael with alacrity – and he took her other hand, this time her left. ‘Do I get to put a ring on that finger?’ he asked.
Claire looked down, bit her lip then tried to look Michael in the face. The light was behind him and it was difficult to see his features. That was just as well, Claire decided. She put her hand into her pocket, took out the box, and placed it on the table between them. He reached for it. ‘Let me put it on you,’ he said, his voice assured. Claire realized he was certain of her answer. He probably always had been.
But she shook her head. ‘I can’t say yes, Michael,’ she told him.
She heard him actually take in a breath as if he’d been punched. ‘But why not?’
‘We aren’t right for one another,’ she told him, though it was such a cliché.
‘Of course we are,’ he said. He gently squeezed the hand that Mrs Patel had bruised just hours before.
‘Claire, I love you,’ he said. ‘And I think you love me. If you want to move, for us to get a new place together, I’ll do it. If you want to elope, that’s fine. If you want a big wedding, I can pay for it. We can have a wonderful life. I’ve learned things about myself. That success at any price is too expensive, that you need someone truly loyal at your back. Claire, won’t you become Mrs Michael Wainwright? I know my parents will love you.’
Claire doubted it, but it didn’t seem to warrant a response. She knew she couldn’t possibly marry him. ‘Michael,’ she began, ‘I just can’t. You … you lead a big life. You deal with big business. You like big restaurants and big hotels. You want the most expensive car and the best clothes.’
‘But you can have those things,’ he said, interrupting. ‘Let me give them to you.’
Claire shook her head. ‘Michael, I don’t want them.’
‘What?’ he said, and for the first time Claire saw Michael Wainwright truly confused. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Michael, I like small businesses. Little shops and small groceries. I like the local pub, not a posh hotel bar. I don’t like to go out at night. I like to read. And knit. Michael, I like to knit.’
He blinked. ‘Well, knitting is okay, Claire.’
‘But I like to knit my own clothes. And I don’t like to have too many. And I don’t feel good when I’m all dressed up. I didn’t like that cerise dress I wore, the one that you loved. I bought it for you, but it wasn’t me. And the clothes I had on yesterday, the blouse with the low neck, that was borrowed. They weren’t even my clothes, Michael.’
‘That’s okay, Claire. I mean, I don’t care how you dress. We can buy you a little shop. It will all work out if you love me.’
Claire shook her head. There was no pay-back here, no pleasure in hurting him. ‘I don’t think I do,’ she said. Though she steeled herself to say it, it was still hard to get the words out of her mouth. She felt sick. It wasn’t easy to be rejected, but she didn’t find it any easier to reject. ‘I’m very sorry, Michael,’ she told him.
He picked up the ring box and without a word pocketed it. ‘You have nothing to be sorry about. I’m the one who’s sorry.’ He moved and the light from the window fell on his profile. She could see his face and it did have a look of pain. She turned her eyes away. This was not what she had wanted, but she didn’t have another choice.
‘I guess there’s nothing else to say.’ He stood and threw some notes on the table. ‘Goodbye, Claire.’
But she didn’t have time to say goodbye to him. Before she could utter the word he was halfway across the restaurant and on his way to the elevator.