The Collected Short Stories Read online

  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.”

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