Oh, Claire!
After I escorted Hillary home and perfunctorily kissed her at the door, I snuck back to the servants’ quarters to enjoy a midnight snack with the help.
I know Mother thought Hillary was from our social class and perfect for me, but I had other ideas.
The truth was there was a whole different world 'below the stairs', as Mother described the servants' quarters.
I enjoyed spending time with the servants more than with Hillary or Mother—and I especially enjoyed being around Claire Lockwood, the Maid’s twenty-year old daughter.
She was everything Hillary was not—she was beautiful, sexy and fun—and she was not enamoured in the least with me.
“So, you tickle the ivories, do you?” asked Reginald, the chauffeur.
“I do—sometimes I even get paid to do it,” I replied.
“Oh, shush Reggie,” said Hilda, the Maid, “Frederick plays in the Symphony—of course, he gets paid.”
“Yeah, well I heard him play that long hair stuff,” Claire teased, “—and he’s no Elton John”
I immediately felt defensive. “Hey, I like popular music too—you’d be surprised at how many pop artists are classically trained.”
Claire laughed, handing me a plate of toast, “They might be, but at least they don’t dress like a nerd.”
“What’s wrong with the way I dress?”
“You look like an old man.”
“Claire Lockwood!” Hilda scolded, “Mr. Frederick dresses in keeping with his station in life.”
“He still looks like a nerd,” she laughed.
I was embarrassed but overlooked a lot of her teasing. As a matter of fact, I overlooked a lot of what Claire was all about.
I loved the way her chestnut coloured hair fell over her eyes and I loved her beautiful smile. To tell the truth, I loved everything about her.
“So, you think I need a make-over?”
“I think you need an overhaul,” she smirked.
“So, instead of criticizing, why don’t you help me pick out some clothes that’d be less nerdy, as you call it?”
“Sure, Freddy—I’d be willing to do an intervention—how about you meet me at the front doors of the Manhattan Mall tomorrow at seven?”
“It’s a date.”
“No, it’s not, “ she corrected, “It’s a favour.”
“Same difference,” I replied, trying to be cool.
She rolled her eyes. “And don’t try to be cool—the best you can hope for is Hugh Grant.”
I smiled. Hugh Grant—that’s not half bad—it sure beats the hell out of looking like Glenn Gould.
She was waiting as promised and one glance made my heart ache—she was so beautiful and unspoiled. I could imagine nothing more wonderful than waking up beside her every morning for the rest of my life.
She must have dragged me through twenty different shops and I bought and bought—taking her word on every purchase. At the last shop, she made me change out of my slacks and cashmere sweater and put on jeans and a sport shirt.
She folded her arms, stepped back and studied me. I felt embarrassed. “Now you look cool—in a Hugh Grant sort of way.”
I could feel my heart swell. “You really think so—I look cool?”
“Don’t let it go your head, Cooler,” she smiled. “Now you can buy me a drink.”
“But you’re underage, “ I protested.
“Nope—just turned twenty-one today.”
“It’s your birthday?”
“It is.”
“And you’re spending it with me?”
“Yeah, well—buy me a cupcake. C’mon.”
She grabbed my arm and pulled me toward a nearby bar. I liked the feeling of her arm in mine. My heart was racing so fast, I felt sure she could hear.
It was midnight by the time we got home. I parked the Porsche in the back, just outside the servant’s quarters.
The kitchen area looked dark. “Will everyone be in bed?” I asked.
“Naw, are you kidding? They’ll stay up till one or two in the morning.”
We entered through the outside doors and I fumbled for a light switch. Claire grabbed my hand, presumably to guide me to the switch, but instead pulled me closer and kissed me sweetly on the lips.
I could hardly breathe. There was a roaring in my ears and I was trembling like a leaf.
Suddenly, the lights flared and a cacophony of sounds filled the air. Ladles beat on pots and pans and horns and other noisemakers joined in the mock serenade. Hilda was actually throwing rice.
“HAPPY BIRTHDAY,” everyone shouted. The entire distaff was there and they had balloons and streamers and a huge Birthday cake with lighted candles.
“Sorry it’s not the Symphony,” Reggie deadpanned.
It certainly wasn’t, but they serenaded Claire as they knew best with an elaborate shivaree—and the noisy, happy celebration brought tears to my eyes.
I looked at Claire—her eyes were shining.
I looked around me at the honest, frank faces of the people I realized, I had come to love… along with Claire.
I knew then I too had come of age. Mother was right—it was time to take to wife.
I could only hope they’d repeat the same ruckus when Claire and I tied the knot—and with luck, Claire’s eyes would again be shining.