A Quiver Full of Arrows

“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 spot. She was divorced and had two children who lived with her in New York. But neither of them 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.

“Adrian’s a nice chap if it wasn’t for his drinking,” said Michael.

“Super fellow Michael, such a lovely wife and you should see his three adorable children,” added Adrian.

They both escorted Debbie home and reluctantly left her on the doorstep of her 68th Street apartment. She kissed the two of them perfunctorily on the cheek, thanked them and said goodnight. They walked back to their hotel in silence.

When they reached their room on the seventeenth floor of the Plaza, it was Michael who spoke first.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I made a bloody fool of myself.”

“I was every bit as bad,” said Adrian. “We shouldn’t fight over a woman. We never have done in the past.”

“Agreed,” said Michael. “So why not an honorable compromise?”

“What do you suggest?”

“As 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, as it would have broken their gentleman’s agreement, but when the weeks grew to be months both become 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 back to London. It was Michael who discovered that British Airways were 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 Address to Congress. 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 Bro

adcasts agreed, but told Michael he must be back the following day to cover the opening of Parliament.

Adrian phoned up 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 phone ring. Was she in, was she even in New York? At last 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 calendar.”

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 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, shirt and suit, 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 lift down to the ground floor, and stepping out of the Plaza onto Fifth Avenue he headed jauntily toward 68th Street. En route, he acquired a dozen roses from a little shop at the corner of 65th 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.