As he picked up his briefcase it knocked the armrest in front of him and the lid sprang open. Everyone in the carriage stared at its contents. For there, on top of his Prudential documents, was a neatly folded copy of the Evening Standard and an unopened packet of ten Benson & Hedges cigarettes.
ONE-NIGHT STAND
The two men had first met at the age of five when they were placed side by side at school, for no more compelling reason than that their names, Thompson and Townsend, came one after the other on the class register. They soon became best friends, a tie which at that age is more binding than any marriage. Having passed their eleven-plus examination they proceeded to the local grammar school with no Timpsons, Tooleys or Tomlinsons to divide them and, after completing seven years in that academic institution, reached an age when one has to go either to work or to university. They opted for the latter on the grounds that work should be put off until the last possible moment. Happily, they both possessed enough brains and native wit to earn themselves places at Durham University to read English.
Undergraduate life turned out to be as sociable as primary school. They both enjoyed English, tennis, cricket, good food and girls. Luckily, in the last of these predilections they differed only on points of detail. Michael, who was six feet two, willowy with dark curly hair, preferred tall, bosomy blondes with blue eyes and long legs. Adrian, a stocky man of five feet ten, with straight, sandy hair, always fell for small, slim, dark-haired, dark-eyed girls. So whenever Adrian came across a girl that Michael took an interest in or vice versa, whether she was an undergraduate or a barmaid, the one would happily exaggerate his friend’s virtues. Thus they spent three idyllic years in unison at Durham, gaining considerably more than a Bachelor of Arts degree. As neither of them had impressed the examiners enough to waste a further two years expounding their theories for a Ph.D., they could no longer avoid the real world.
Twin Dick Whittingtons, they set off for London, where Michael joined the BBC as a trainee while Adrian was signed up by Benton and Bowles, the international advertising agency, as an accounts assistant. They acquired a small flat in the Earl’s Court Road which they painted orange and brown, and proceeded to live the life of two young blades, for that is undoubtedly how they saw themselves.
Both men spent a further five years in this blissful bachelor state until each fell for a girl who fulfilled his particular requirements. They were married within weeks of each other—Michael to a tall, blue-eyed blonde whom he met while playing tennis at the Hurlingham Club; Adrian to a slim, dark-eyed, dark-haired executive in charge of the Kellogg’s Cornflakes account. Each officiated as the other’s best man and each proceeded to sire three children at yearly intervals, and in that again they differed, but as before only on points of detail, Michael having two sons and a daughter, Adrian two daughters and a son. Each became godfather to the other’s first-born son.
Marriage hardly separated them in anything as they continued to follow much of their old routine, playing cricket together at weekends in the summer and football in the winter, not to mention regular luncheons during the week.
After the celebration of his tenth wedding anniversary, Michael, now a senior producer with Thames Television, admitted rather coyly to Adrian that he had had his first affair: he had been unable to resist a tall, well-built blonde from the typing pool who was offering more than shorthand at seventy words a minute. Only a few weeks later, Adrian, now a senior account manager with Pearl and Dean, also went under, selecting a journalist from Fleet Street who was seeking some inside information on one of the companies he represented. She became a tax-deductible item. After that, the two men quickly fell back into their old routine. Any help they could give each other was provided unstintingly, creating no conflict of interests because of their different tastes. Their married lives were not suffering—or so they convinced each other—and at thirty-five, having come through the swinging sixties unscathed, they began to make the most of the seventies.
Early in that decade, Thames Television decided to send Michael off to America to edit an ABC film about living in New York, for consumption by British viewers. Adrian, who had always wanted to see the eastern seaboard, did not find it hard to arrange a trip at the same time, claiming it was necessary for him to carry out some more than usually spurious research for an Anglo-American tobacco company. The two men enjoyed a lively week together in New York, the highlight of which was a party held by ABC on the final evening to view the edited edition of Michael’s film on New York, “An Englishman’s View of the Big Apple.”
When Michael and Adrian arrived at the ABC studios they found the party already well under way, and both entered the room together, looking forward to a few drinks and an early night before their journey back to England the next day.
They both spotted her at exactly the same moment.
She was of medium height and build, with soft green eyes and auburn hair—a striking combination of both men’s fantasies. Without another thought each knew exactly where he desired to end up that particular night and, two minds with but a single idea, they advanced purposefully upon her.
“Hello, my name is Michael Thompson.”
“Hello,” she replied. “I’m Debbie Kendall.”
“And I’m Adrian Townsend.”
She offered her hand and both tried to grab it. When the party had come to an end, they had, between them, discovered that Debbie Kendall was an ABC floor producer on the evening news spot. She was divorced and had two children who lived with her in New York. But neither of them was any nearer to impressing her, if only because each worked so hard to outdo the other; they both showed off abominably and even squabbled over fetching their new companion her food and drink. In the other’s absence each found himself running down his closest friend in a subtle but damning way.
“Adrian’s a nice chap if it wasn’t for his drinking,” said Michael.
“Super fellow Michael, such a lovely wife and you should see his three adorable children,” added Adrian.
They both escorted Debbie home and reluctantly left her on the doorstep of her 68th Street apartment. She kissed the two of them perfunctorily on the cheek, thanked them and said goodnight. They walked back to their hotel in silence.
When they reached their room on the seventeenth floor of the Plaza, it was Michael who spoke first.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I made a bloody fool of myself.”
“I was every bit as bad,” said Adrian. “We shouldn’t fight over a woman. We never have done in the past.”
“Agreed,” said Michael. “So why not an honorable compromise?”
“What do you suggest?”
“As we both return to London tomorrow morning, let’s agree whichever one of us comes back first…”
“Perfect,” said Adrian, and they shook hands to seal the bargain, as if they were both back at school playing a cricket match and had to decide on who should bat first. The deal made, they climbed into their respective beds and slept soundly.
* * *
Once back in London both men did everything in their power to find an excuse for returning to New York. Neither contacted Debbie Kendall by phone or letter, as it would have broken their gentleman’s agreement, but when the weeks grew to be months both become despondent and it seemed that neither was going to be given the opportunity to return. Then Adrian was invited to Los Angeles to address a Media Conference. He remained unbearably smug about the whole trip, confident he would be able to drop into New York on the way back to London. It was Michael who discovered that British Airways were offering cheap tickets for wives who accompanied their husbands on a business trip: Adrian was therefore unable to return via New York. Michael breathed a sigh of relief which turned to triumph when he was selected to go to Washington and cover the President’s Address to Congress. He suggested to the head of Outside Broadcasts that it would be wise to drop into New York on the way home and strengthen the contacts he had previously made with ABC. The head of Outside Bro
adcasts agreed, but told Michael he must be back the following day to cover the opening of Parliament.
Adrian phoned up 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 phone ring. Was she in, was she even in New York? At last 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 calendar.”
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 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, shirt and suit, 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 lift down to the ground floor, and stepping out of the Plaza onto Fifth Avenue he headed jauntily toward 68th Street. En route, he acquired a dozen roses from a little shop at the corner of 65th 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 cut 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’ve 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 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 87th 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 importantly, 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 for himself. 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 blonde and left his thirty-two-year-old wife.”
“Silly man. He should have had an affair with the twenty-two-year-old blonde 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 have liked to remain 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 menopause magazines, you 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 shall have to go and see it on my own a second time.”
“I only wish I was 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.”
“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.”
A Quiver Full of Arrows Page 10
