Adrian phoned Michael’s wife and briefed her on cheap trips to the States when accompanying your husband. “How kind of you to be so thoughtful, Adrian, but alas my school never allows time off during term, and in any case,” she added, “I have a dreadful fear of flying.”
Michael was very understanding about his wife’s phobia and went off to book a single ticket.
Michael flew into Washington on the following Monday and called Debbie Kendall from his hotel room, wondering if she would even remember the two vainglorious Englishmen she had briefly met some months before, and if she did whether she would also recall which one he was. He dialed nervously and listened to the ringing tone. Was she in, was she even in New York? At last a click and a soft voice said hello.
“Hello, Debbie, it’s Michael Thompson.”
“Hello, Michael. What a nice surprise. Are you in New York?”
“No, Washington, but I’m thinking of flying up. You wouldn’t be free for dinner on Thursday by any chance?”
“Let me just check my diary.”
Michael held his breath as he waited. It seemed like hours.
“Yes, that seems to be fine.”
“Fantastic. Shall I pick you up around eight?”
“Yes, thank you, Michael. I’ll look forward to seeing you then.”
Heartened by this early success, Michael immediately penned a telegram of commiseration to Adrian on his sad loss. Adrian didn’t reply.
Michael took the shuttle up to New York on the Thursday afternoon as soon as he had finished editing the president’s speech for the London office. After settling into another hotel room—this time insisting on a double bed just in case Debbie’s children were at home—he had a long bath and a slow shave, cutting himself twice and slapping on a little too much aftershave. He rummaged around for his most telling tie and shirt, and after he had finished dressing he studied himself in the mirror, carefully combing his freshly washed hair to make the long thin strands appear casual as well as cover the parts where his hair was beginning to recede. After a final check, he was able to convince himself that he looked less than his thirty-eight years. Michael then took the elevator down to the ground floor, and, striding out of the Plaza toward a neon-lit Fifth Avenue he headed jauntily for Sixty-eighth Street. En route he acquired a dozen roses from a little shop at the corner of Sixty-fifth Street and Madison Avenue and, humming to himself, proceeded confidently. He arrived at the front door of Debbie Kendall’s little brownstone at five past eight.
When Debbie opened the door, Michael thought she looked even more beautiful than he had remembered. She was wearing a long blue dress, with a frilly white silk collar and cuffs, that covered every part of her body from neck to ankles, and yet she could not have been more desirable. She wore almost no makeup except a touch of lipstick that Michael already had plans to remove. Her green eyes sparkled.
“Say something,” she said smiling.
“You look quite stunning, Debbie,” was all he could think of as he handed her the roses.
“How sweet of you,” she replied and invited him in.
Michael followed her into the kitchen, where she hammered the long stems and arranged the flowers in a porcelain vase. She then led him into the living room, where she placed the roses on an oval table beside a photograph of two small boys.
“Have we time for a drink?”
“Sure. I booked a table at Elaine’s for eight-thirty.”
“My favorite restaurant,” she said, with a smile that revealed a small dimple on her cheek. Without asking, Debbie poured two whiskeys and handed one of them to Michael.
What a good memory she has, he thought, as he nervously kept picking up and putting down his glass, like a teenager on his first date. When Michael had eventually finished his drink, Debbie suggested that they should leave.
“Elaine wouldn’t keep a table free for one minute, even if you were Henry Kissinger.”
Michael laughed and helped her on with her coat. As she unlatched the door, he realized there was no baby-sitter or sound of children. They must be staying with their father, he thought. Once on the street, he hailed a cab and directed the driver to Eighty-eighth and Second. Michael had never been to Elaine’s before. The restaurant had been recommended by a friend from ABC who had assured him: “That joint will give you more than half a chance.”
As they entered the crowded room and waited by the bar for the maître d’, Michael could see it was the type of place that was frequented by the rich and famous and wondered if his pocket could stand the expense and, more important, whether such an outlay would turn out to be a worthwhile investment.
A waiter guided them to a small table at the back of the room, where they both had another whiskey while they studied the menu. When the waiter returned to take their order, Debbie wanted no first course, just the veal piccata, so Michael ordered the same. She refused the addition of garlic butter. Michael allowed his expectations to rise slightly.
“How’s Adrian?” she asked.
“Oh, as well as can be expected,” Michael replied. “He sends you his love, of course.” He emphasized the word “love.”
“How kind of him to remember me, and please return mine. What brings you to New York this time, Michael? Another film?”
“No. New York may well have become everybody’s second city, but this time I only came to see you.”
“To see me?”
“Yes, I had a tape to edit while I was in Washington, but I always knew I could be through with that by lunch today, so I hoped you would be free to spend an evening with me.”
“I’m flattered.”
“You shouldn’t be.”
She smiled. The veal arrived.
“Looks good,” said Michael.
“Tastes good too,” said Debbie. “When do you fly home?”
“Tomorrow morning, eleven o’clock flight, I’m afraid.”
“Not left yourself time to do much in New York.”
“I only came up to see you,” Michael repeated. Debbie continued eating her veal. “Why would any man want to divorce you, Debbie?”
“Oh, nothing very original, I’m afraid. He fell in love with a twenty-two-year-old blond and left his thirty-two-year-old wife.”
“Silly man. He should have had an affair with the twenty-two-year-old blond and remained faithful to his thirty-two-year-old wife.”
“Isn’t that a contradiction in terms?”
“Oh, no, I don’t think so. I’ve never thought it unnatural to desire someone else. After all, it’s a long life to go through and be expected never to want another woman.”
“I’m not so sure I agree with you,” said Debbie thoughtfully. “I would like to have remained faithful to one man.”
Oh hell, thought Michael, not a very auspicious philosophy.
“Do you miss him?” he tried again.
“Yes, sometimes. It’s true what they say in the glossy magazines, it can be very lonely when you suddenly find yourself on your own.”
That sounds more promising, thought Michael, and he heard himself saying: “Yes, I can understand that, but someone like you shouldn’t have to stay on your own for very long.”
Debbie made no reply.
Michael refilled her glass of wine nearly to the brim, hoping he could order a second bottle before she finished her veal.
“Are you trying to get me drunk, Michael?”
“If you think it will help,” he replied, laughing.
Debbie didn’t laugh. Michael tried again.
“Been to the theater lately?”
“Yes, I went to Evita last week. I loved it—”Wonder who took you, thought Michael “—but my mother fell asleep in the middle of the second act. I think I’ll have to go and see it on my own a second time.”
“I only wish I were staying long enough to take you.”
“That would be fun,” she said.
“Whereas I shall have to be satisfied with seeing the show in London.”
&nb
sp; “With your wife.”
“Another bottle of wine please, waiter.”
“No more for me, Michael, really.”
“Well, you can help me out a little.” The waiter faded away. “Do you get to England at all yourself?” asked Michael.
“No, I’ve only been once, when Roger, my ex, took the whole family. I loved the country. It fulfilled every one of my hopes, but I’m afraid we did what all Americans are expected to do. The Tower of London, Buckingham Palace, followed by Oxford and Stratford, before flying on to Paris.”
“A sad way to see England; there’s so much more I could have shown you.”
“I suspect when the English come to America they don’t see much outside of New York, Washington, Los Angeles, and perhaps San Francisco.”
“I agree,” said Michael, not wanting to disagree. The waiter cleared away their empty plates.
“Can I tempt you with a dessert, Debbie?”
“No, no, I’m trying to lose some weight.” Michael slipped a hand gently around her waist. “You don’t need to,” he said. “You feel just perfect.”
She laughed. He smiled.
“Nevertheless, I’ll stick to coffee, please.”
“A little brandy?”
“No, thank you, just coffee.”
“Black?”
“Black.”
“Coffee for two, please,” Michael said to the hovering waiter.
“I wish I had taken you somewhere a little quieter and less ostentatious,” he said, turning back to Debbie.
“Why?”
Michael took her hand. It felt cold. “I would like to have said things to you that shouldn’t be listened to by people at the next table.”
“I don’t think anyone would be shocked by what they overheard at Elaine’s, Michael.”
“Very well then. Do you believe in love at first sight?”
“No, but I think it’s possible to be physically attracted to a person on first meeting them.”
“Well, I must confess, I was to you.”
Again she made no reply.
The coffee arrived, and Debbie released her hand to take a sip. Michael followed suit.
“There were one hundred and fifty women in that room the night we met, Debbie, and my eyes never left you once.”
“Even during the film?”
“I’d seen the damn thing a hundred times. I feared I might never see you again.”
“I’m touched.”
“Why should you be? It must happen to you all the time.”
“Now and then,” she said. “But I haven’t taken anyone too seriously since my husband left me.”
“I’m sorry.”
“No need. It’s just not that easy to get over someone you’ve lived with for ten years. I doubt if many divorcees are quite that willing to jump into bed with the first man who comes along, as all the latest films suggest.”
Michael took her hand again, hoping fervently he did not fall into that category.
“It’s been such a lovely evening. Why don’t we stroll down to the Carlyle and listen to Bobby Short?” Michael’s ABC friend had recommended the move if he felt he was still in with a chance.
“Yes, I’d enjoy that,” said Debbie.
Michael called for the bill—eighty-seven dollars. Had it been his wife sitting on the other side of the table, he would have checked each item carefully, but not on this occasion. He just left five twenty-dollar bills on a side plate and didn’t wait for the change. As they stepped out onto Second Avenue, he took Debbie’s hand, and they started walking downtown. On Madison Avenue they stopped in front of shopwindows and he bought her a fur coat, a Cartier watch, and a Balenciaga dress. Debbie thought it was lucky that all the stores were closed.
They arrived at the Carlyle just in time for the eleven o’clock show. A waiter, flashing a pen flashlight, guided them through the little dark room on the ground floor to a table in the corner. Michael ordered a bottle of champagne as Bobby Short struck up a chord and drawled out the words: “Georgia, Georgia, oh, my sweet … .” Michael, now unable to speak to Debbie above the noise of the band, satisfied himself with holding her hand, and when the entertainer sang, “This time we almost made the pieces fit, didn’t we, gal?” he leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. She turned and smiled—was it faintly conspiratorial, or was it just wishful thinking?—and then she sipped her champagne. On the dot of twelve, Bobby Short shut the piano lid and said, “Goodnight, my friends, the time has come for all you good people to go to bed—and some of you naughty ones too.” Michael laughed a little too loudly but was pleased that Debbie laughed as well.
They strolled down Madison Avenue to Sixty-eighth Street chatting about inconsequential affairs, while Michael’s thoughts were of only one affair. When they arrived at her apartment, she took out her latchkey.
“Would you like a nightcap?” she asked without any suggestive intonation.
“No more drink, thank you, Debbie, but I would certainly appreciate a coffee.”
She led him into the living room.
“The flowers have lasted well,” she teased, leaving him as she went to make the coffee. Michael amused himself by flicking through an old copy of Time, looking at the pictures, not taking in the words. She returned after a few minutes with a coffeepot and two small cups on a lacquered tray. She poured the coffee, black again, and then sat down next to Michael on the couch, drawing one leg underneath her while turning slightly toward him. Michael downed his coffee in two gulps, scalding his mouth slightly. Then, putting down his cup, he leaned over and kissed her on the mouth. She was still clutching her coffee cup. Her eyes opened briefly as she maneuvered the cup onto a side table. After another long kiss she broke away from him.
“I ought to make an early start in the morning.”
“So should I,” said Michael, “but I am more worried about not seeing you again for a long time.”
“What a nice thing to say,” Debbie replied.
“No, I just care,” he said, before kissing her again.
This time she responded; he slipped one hand onto her breast while the other one began to undo the row of little buttons down the back of her dress. She broke away again.
“Don’t let’s do anything we’ll regret.”
“I know we won’t regret it,” said Michael.
He then kissed her on the neck and shoulders, slipping her dress off as he moved deftly down her body to her breast, delighted to find she wasn’t wearing a bra.
“Shall we go upstairs, Debbie? I’m too old to make love on the sofa.”
Without speaking, she rose and led him by the hand to her bedroom, which smelled faintly and deliciously of the scent she herself was wearing.
She switched on a small bedside light and took off the rest of her clothes, letting them fall where she stood. Michael never once took his eyes off her body as he undressed clumsily on the other side of the bed. He slipped under the sheets and quickly joined her. When they had finished making love, an experience he hadn’t enjoyed as much for a long time, he lay there pondering the fact that she had succumbed at all, especially on their first date.
They lay silently in each other’s arms before making love for a second time, which was every bit as delightful as the first. Michael then fell into a deep sleep.
He awoke first the next morning and stared across at the beautiful woman who lay by his side. The digital clock on the bedside table showed 7:03. He touched her forehead lightly with his lips and began to stroke her hair. She awoke lazily and smiled up at him. Then they made morning love, slowly, gently, but every bit as pleasing as the night before. He didn’t speak as she slipped out of bed and ran a bath for him before going to the kitchen to prepare breakfast. Michael relaxed in the hot bath, singing a Bobby Short number at the top of his voice. How he wished that Adrian could see him now. He dried himself and dressed before joining Debbie in the little kitchen, where they shared breakfast together. Eggs, bacon, toast, English marmalade, and steaming
black coffee. Debbie then had a bath and dressed while Michael read The New York Times. When she reappeared in the living room wearing a smart coral dress, he was sorry to be leaving so soon.
“We must leave now, or you’ll miss your flight.”
Michael rose reluctantly, and Debbie drove him back to his hotel, where he quickly threw his clothes into a suitcase, paid the bill for his unslept-in double bed, and joined her back in the car. On the journey to the airport they chatted about the coming elections and pumpkin pie almost as if they had been married for years or were both avoiding admitting the previous night had ever happened.
Debbie dropped Michael in front of the Pan Am terminal and put the car in the parking lot before joining him at the check-in counter. They waited for his flight to be called.
“Pan American announces the departure of Flight Number 006 to London Heathrow. Will all passengers please proceed with their boarding passes to Gate Number Nine?”
When they reached the “passengers only” barrier, Michael took Debbie briefly in his arms. “Thank you for a memorable evening,” he said.
“No, it is I who must thank you, Michael,” she replied as she kissed him on the cheek.
“I must confess I hadn’t thought it would end up quite like that,” he said.
“Why not?” she asked.
“Not easy to explain,” he replied, searching for words that would flatter and not embarrass. “Let’s say I was surprised that—”
“You were surprised that we ended up in bed together on our first night? You shouldn’t be.”
“I shouldn’t?”
“No, there’s a simple enough explanation. My friends all told me when I got divorced to find myself a man and have a one-night stand. The idea sounded like fun, but I didn’t like the thought of the men in New York thinking I was easy.” She touched him gently on the side of his face. “So when I met you and Adrian, both safely living over three thousand miles away, I thought to myself, Whichever one of you comes back first …”
A CHAPTER OF ACCIDENTS
Collected Short Stories Page 37