The Collected Short Stories - Jeffrey Archer [160]
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