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 each other on the class register. They soon became best friends, a tie which at that age is more binding than any marriage. After passing their eleven-plus examination they proceeded to the local grammar school with no Timpsons, Tooleys, or Tomlinsons to divide them and, having completed seven years in that academic institution, reached an age when one either has to go to work or to the 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 major in English.
Undergraduate life turned out to be as sociable as at 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 blonds 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 & Bowles, the international advertising agency, as an accounts assistant. They acquired a small flat in the Earls 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 they each fell for a girl who fulfilled their particular requirements. They were married within weeks of each other: Michael to a tall, blue-eyed blond 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 Corn Flakes 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 on 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 blond 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.
They 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. She was divorced and had two children who lived with her in New York. But neither man 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.
“I was every bit as bad,” said Adrian, “we shouldn’t fight over a woman. We never have in the past.”
“Agreed,” said Michael. “So why not an honorable compromise?”
“What do you suggest?”
“Since 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, since it would have broken their gentleman’s agreement, but when the weeks grew to be months, both became 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 to London. It was Michael who discovered that British Airways was 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 State of the Union address. 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 Broadcasts agreed, but told Michael he must be back the following day to cover the opening of Parliament.
“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.
“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 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.
“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.
“Well, you can help me out a little.” The waiter faded away. “Do you get to England at all yourself?” asked Michael.
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 don’t think anyone would be shocked by what they overheard at Elaine’s, Michael.”
“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 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 intonation.
“No more drink, thank you, Debbie, but I would certainly appreciate a coffee.”
“The flowers have lasted well,” she teased, leaving him as she went to make the coffee. Michael amused himself by flicking through an old copy of Time, looking at the pictures, not taking in the words. She returned after a few minutes with a coffeepot and two small cups on a lacquered tray. She poured the coffee, black again, and then sat down next to Michael on the couch, drawing one leg underneath her while turning slightly toward him. Michael downed his coffee in two gulps, scalding his mouth slightly. Then, putting down his cup, he leaned over and kissed her on the mouth. She was still clutching her coffee cup. Her eyes opened briefly as she maneuvered the cup onto a side table. After another long kiss she broke away from him.
“What a nice thing to say,” Debbie replied.
“No, I just care,” he said, before kissing her again.
This time she responded; he slipped one hand onto her breast while the other one began to undo the row of little buttons down the back of her dress. She broke away again.
“Don’t let’s do anything we’ll regret.”
“I know we won’t regret it,” said Michael.
He then kissed her on the neck and shoulders, slipping her dress off as he moved deftly down her body to her breast, delighted to find she wasn’t wearing a bra.
“Shall we go upstairs, Debbie? I’m too old to make love on the sofa.”
Without speaking, she rose and led him by the hand to her bedroom, which smelled faintly and deliciously of the scent she herself was wearing.
She switched on a small bedside light and took off the rest of her clothes, letting them fall where she stood. Michael never once took his eyes off her body as he undressed clumsily on the other side of the bed. He slipped under the sheets and quickly joined her. When they had finished making love, an experience he hadn’t enjoyed as much for a long time, he lay there pondering the fact that she had succumbed at all, especially on their first date.
black coffee. Debbie then had a bath and dressed while Michael read The New York Times. When she reappeared in the living room wearing a smart coral dress, he was sorry to be leaving so soon.
“We must leave now, or you’ll miss your flight.”
Michael rose reluctantly, and Debbie drove him back to his hotel, where he quickly threw his clothes into a suitcase, paid the bill for his unslept-in double bed, and joined her back in the car. On the journey to the airport they chatted about the coming elections and pumpkin pie almost as if they had been married for years or were both avoiding admitting the previous night had ever happened.
Debbie dropped Michael in front of the Pan Am terminal and put the car in the parking lot before joining him at the check-in counter. They waited for his flight to be called.
“Pan American announces the departure of Flight Number 006 to London Heathrow. Will all passengers please proceed with their boarding passes to Gate Number Nine?”
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 …”
Thanks for reading this story.💞