The Collected Short Stories - Jeffrey Archer [162]
“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