The Collected Short Stories - Jeffrey Archer [164]
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
We first met Patrick Travers on our annual winter holiday to Verbier. We were waiting at the ski lift that first Saturday morning, when a man who must have been in his early forties stood aside to allow Caroline to take his place so that we could travel up together. He explained that he had already completed two runs that morning and didn’t mind waiting. I thanked him and thought nothing more of it.
As soon as we reach the top my wife and I always go our separate ways, she to the A-slope to join Marcel, who only instructs advanced skiers—she has been skiing since the age of seven—I to the B-slope and any instructor who is available—I took up skiing at the age of forty-one, and frankly the B-slope is still too advanced for me though I don’t dare admit as much, especially to Caroline. We always meet up again at the ski lift after completing our different runs.
That evening we bumped into Travers at the hotel bar. Since he seemed to be on his own we invited him to join us for dinner. He proved to be an amusing companion, and we passed a pleasant enough evening together. He flirted politely with my wife without ever overstepping the mark, and she appeared to be flattered by his attentions. Over the years I have become used to men being attracted to Caroline, and I never need reminding how lucky I am. During dinner we learned that Travers was a merchant banker with an office in the City and a flat in Eaton Square. He had come to Verbier every year since he had been taken on a school trip in the late fifties, he told us. He still prided himself on being the first on the ski lift every morning, almost always beating the local blades up and down.
Travers appeared to be genuinely interested in the fact that I ran a small West End art gallery; as it turned out, he was something of a collector himself, specializing in minor Impressionists. He promised he would drop by and see my next exhibition when he was back in London.
I assured him that he would be most welcome but never gave it a second thought In fact I only saw Travers a couple of times over the rest of the vacation, once talking to the wife of a friend of mine who owned a gallery that specializes in Oriental rugs, and later I noticed him following Caroline expertly down the treacherous A-slope.
It was six weeks later, and some minutes before I could place him that night at my gallery. I had to rack that part of one’s memory that recalls names, a skill politicians rely on every day.
“Good to see you, Edward,” he said. “I saw the write-up you got in The Independent and remembered your kind invitation to the private view.”
“Glad you could make it, Patrick,” I replied, remembering just in time.
“I’m not a champagne man myself,” he told me, “but I’ll travel a long way to see a Vuillard.”
“You think highly of him?”
“Oh yes. I would compare him favorably with Pissarro and Bonnard, and he still remains one of the most underrated of the Impressionists.”
“I agree,” I replied. “But my gallery has felt that way about Vuillard for some considerable time.”