Eagles

by Lewis Orde

  Monty paid no attention to the two men as he took the trousers and set one leg neatly across the desk. He plugged in one of the sample irons and, with the familiar manner of a housewife, touched his tongue and flicked his finger across the base of the iron to judge for heat. When the saliva sizzled, he nodded in satisfaction.

  ‘Are you any good at pressing trousers?’ Roland asked. He was still unable to believe he had undressed at the old man’s command.

  ‘Just watch and learn,’ was Monty’s only comment. He set the damp tablecloth on top of the trouser leg and pressed down gently with the iron. Steam rose as he worked carefully up the leg, exerting just the right amount of pressure. Satisfied, he rearranged the trousers and started on the second leg. When he was finished, Roland’s trousers had knife-edge creases.

  ‘Nice job,’ Roland said as he dressed.

  Monty unplugged the iron, tossed the two tablecloths onto the floor and gave Roland a smile that creased his face like a white prune. ‘Sonny, I was pressing trousers in a tailor’s shop in the East End of London before your grandfather was even born.’

  ‘What do you think, Mr Monty?’ Chivers asked. He glanced at Roland and winked.

  Monty passed the question on to his son. ‘What are your feelings, Albert?’

  Roland studied Albert as he answered. Suddenly he could understand why the son was so thin. He probably had an ulcer from having to put up with his father all week long, especially after he’d managed to get rid of him once . . .

  ‘Simpkins recommends the products. Isn’t that what we pay our buyers for – to buy?’ Albert’s voice was like the rest of him, thin and reedy.

  ‘You mean, what’s the point of having a dog and barking ourselves?’

  ‘That’s another way of phrasing it.’

  ‘Because this business was not built up that way. It was built because I take an interest in everything that goes on. You should, too, if you want to keep it making money once I’m gone.’ Monty turned back to Roland and Chivers. ‘You’ll work out the size of the order with Simpkins. We’ll want delivery by the middle of November, two months from now. You’ll have the merchandise delivered here and we’ll arrange for its distribution to our other stores in Manchester and Edinburgh. One other thing,’ Monty added as Chivers began to repack the samples. ‘Adler’s believes in promoting itself to its customers. We don’t believe in promoting our suppliers unless they are very, very special.’

  Which we are not, Roland concluded to himself.

  ‘On each piece of merchandise,’ Monty continued, ‘we want you to stamp: “Made expressly for Adler’s of Regent Street.” The same message will be printed on the packaging.’ He turned around and went back to his seat behind the leather-topped desk. ‘Thank you for coming, gentlemen.’

  Roland looked around. Simpkins was already standing by the door, holding it open. ‘I’m glad we could do business,’ Roland said, shaking hands first with Monty, then Albert. ‘I hope this is the beginning of a long and rewarding relationship between our two companies.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Monty concurred. ‘Now go on with Simpkins. I’ve got work to do, even if you haven’t.’ With that said, his visitors passed through the door.

  Roland and Chivers returned to Simpkins’ office where the buyer wrote out the order. Every so often he stopped to wipe perspiration from his forehead until his large white handkerchief was soaked through.

  ‘Did we behave ourselves satisfactorily?’ Roland asked, amused by the effect old Monty Adler had on the buyer.

  ‘You got the order, didn’t you?’

  The moment they were outside the store, standing in Regent Street, Chivers set down the sample case and lit his pipe. Roland took it as a cue and brought out his gold cigarette case. ‘Quick cup of tea somewhere?’ the sales manager asked.

  ‘I think something stronger’s more in order.’

  ‘I agree. At least now we know why Albert’s brother ran off to America, don’t we?’ he said with a grin.

  *

  Sally Roberts picked Roland up in a taxi at six-fifteen. He was relieved she had decided not to drive her old MG which she refused to trade in for a newer, more practical model; in her long turquoise evening dress and he in white tie and tails they would have arrived at Claridge’s looking like someone’s poor relations.

  During the ride he related what had happened that afternoon at Adler’s. It wasn’t until the taxi neared the restaurant that he stopped talking about himself long enough to ask Sally why the new Argentinian ambassador was hosting the function, and why she had been invited.

  ‘Nicanor Menendez is an Anglophile,’ Sally explained. ‘Maybe that’s why he landed the plum of all diplomatic positions – the Court of St James.’

  ‘Sure, that and all the money from his ranches, his copper mine and his hotels. He probably paid Perón a fortune for the position.’

  ‘That’s the way it’s done over there, so don’t criticize.’

  ‘Do I hear Sally Roberts the socialist saying it’s all right?’

  ‘Not at all. But why should you, of all people, question it? When you’re as wealthy as Menendez, won’t you use the power?’

  ‘I would hope we never have a Perón in this country I’d have to bribe.’

  ‘Menendez went to university here at Oxford,’ Sally continued. ‘Now that he’s back he wants to begin his tenure with a big splash. What better way than to play host to all the upper crust at Claridge’s? The press is invited to make sure he’s not ignored in the society and gossip columns.’

  ‘Conceited bugger.’

  ‘Actually, he’s doing it for his son and daughter, Juan and Catarina. He’s hoping, can you believe this?’ – Sally started to laugh at the thought of it – ‘He’s hoping that they’ll meet some members of the British aristocracy. Then Nicanor Menendez will be able to boast that he’s got an earl or a duke for a son-in-law and a princess for a daughter-in-law. Can you imagine British aristocracy welcoming South American Catholics into the family?’

  ‘For a share of Menendez’s wealth, yes. Some of our titled chinless wonders aren’t so well off anymore.’

  ‘Roland Eagles, you’re beginning to sound like a cynical socialist yourself.’

  ‘Maybe I learned it from you. I take it you’re covering this bash for the women’s page – ambassador’s daughter makes London debut?’

  Sally nodded. ‘Juan Menendez already has a reputation as a playboy, Latin man about town. But Catarina is supposed to be something worth writing about. Barely eighteen years old and already the toast of the pampas. I’m looking forward to finding out for myself.’

  The taxi turned into Brook Street which was already jammed with Rolls Royces and Daimlers depositing their elegantly attired guests. Never before had Roland seen so much jewelry in one place; wherever he looked, diamonds sparkled. He and Sally might joke about the ambassador’s conceit, but his real guests were taking it all very seriously indeed.

  Holding Sally’s arm, Roland entered Claridge’s and joined the stream of guests waiting to be announced by the red-coated toastmaster, then greeted by the receiving line made up of the ambassador and his family. Nicanor Menendez – his black hair streaked with gray, brown eyes overshadowed by bristling brows – wore a cluster of medals and decorations which reflected flashes of light from the chandeliers. To his left, his wife – a portly, dark-haired woman wearing a glittering tiara – offered her hand with an affected limpness. Next was Juan Menendez, the ambassador’s twenty-one-year-old son, a slim, dark, intense-looking youth who would be spending his time in England working at the Savoy, preparing to enter his father’s hotel business when he returned to Argentina.

  But Roland paid scant attention to the first three people in the receiving line. He was too captivated by Ambassador Menendez’s eighteen-year-old daughter to look anywhere else . . . Slender, with flawless olive skin, her flashing dark brown eyes were framed by flowing black hair that tumbled down in gentle waves onto her shoulders, accentuating the simple,
but elegantly styled white silk gown she wore. On Catarina Menendez the diamond tiara and bracelet seemed fitting. The jewels only served to emphasize her looks while on other, plainer women, they removed attention from their less than perfect features.

  ‘Miss Sally Roberts and Mr Roland Eagles,’ the toastmaster announced.

  As they walked forward to have their hands automatically shaken by the ambassador and his wife Roland realized that Menendez hadn’t the faintest idea who they were.

  ‘We’re so glad you could come,’ Menendez said, his eyes flicking over Roland and Sally before moving on to the next guests. ‘I hope you both have a wonderful time.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  They passed Juan Menendez, again receiving the same handshake and greeting. In front of Catarina, Roland stopped as if mesmerized. Never before had he been so struck by a woman’s beauty, and for a brief instant he forgot about Sally holding his arm, the other guests waiting in line behind him . . .

  ‘Is this your first time in England, Señorita Menendez?’

  ‘Yes.’ The girl appeared startled by the question, at having one of her father’s guests take the time to speak to her. This man seemed different from the countless others who had politely greeted her. She had noticed him staring at her when he was still three guests away from being announced – very tall, perfectly at ease in his white tie and tails, a disarmingly frank face with piercing blue eyes, and a touch of gray around the temples that made him seem distinguished. Catarina wondered about the woman with him. She wore no rings, although the man wore two. And their names were different. Though she wasn’t sure she understood why, this pleased Catarina immensely. ‘Are you a friend of my father?’ she asked in lightly accented English.

  ‘At this moment I wish I were.’ He looked down and saw that he was still holding Catarina’s gloved hand; he couldn’t recall taking it in the first place, but he made no move to let go. ‘What will you be doing in London?’

  ‘My father wants me to attend school. A finishing school for very proper English ladies.’

  Roland felt Sally gently tug his arm but he paid her no attention. ‘How do you like London so far?’

  The young woman warmed even more to the tall Englishman with the arrogantly clear blue eyes. She hadn’t wanted to attend her father’s banquet. She wanted no part of his social ambitions for her. But now, suddenly, she was glad she had come. ‘The embassy is stuffy, everything is very formal. But I hope school will be more fun. What do you do?’

  Roland was about to answer that he was with the press, otherwise how could be explain his presence at the banquet? Before he could open his mouth, though, he felt someone pushing him in the back. He turned around and saw the next group of guests waiting impatiently, annoyed by the delay. ‘Perhaps I’ll see you later.’

  ‘I do hope so.’ Catarina gave him a bright smile and Roland would have risked another push in the back but Sally dragged him away.

  ‘I could say I’m offended,’ she murmured, ‘but I guess it’s just a waste of time.’

  ‘How do you mean?’ He followed her to a notice board which held the seating plan. They were at a table reserved solely for the press, close enough to hear any speeches and distant enough from the top table not to be considered too important.

  ‘You came here as my escort, remember? It looks like I’ve lost you already.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ he said, kissing her on the cheek. ‘Was I very rude?’

  ‘Not really.’ If anything she was amused by his infatuation with the Argentinian girl. She had never seen anyone smitten that quickly. She couldn’t blame him, though. The girl was a real beauty. No wonder the ambassador had high hopes of marrying his daughter off to some English aristocrat; looks like those could alter a lifetime of anti-Catholic prejudice.

  They sat down at the press table where Sally introduced Roland to journalists from the other newspapers. Conversation centered around the Menendez family and gossip about the real wealth in the clan coming from the ambassador’s wife; it was her grandfather who had discovered the copper mine on which the family fortune was based. Roland found himself unable to concentrate on the talk. His eyes kept wandering to the main table, where Catarina sat with her family. Even Claridge’s cuisine failed to interest him. Dishes were placed in front of him and removed, hardly touched. Had Sally not known what was occupying his thoughts she would have been concerned for his health.

  After dinner, when the ball began, Roland tried to approach Catarina. To his stinging disappointment he learned that a dance card had been organized for her, filled with a long line of socially acceptable young men. So Roland settled for dancing the entire evening with Sally, with one eye constantly searching out Catarina. Whenever she passed close by he nodded a greeting and was rewarded each time with that same lively, impish smile she had given him in the receiving line. Sally quickly picked up on Roland’s frustration and responded magnificently. She waited until Catarina had begun to waltz with a young, fair-haired man, then guided Roland so that the two couples collided in the center of the floor.

  ‘Excuse me!’ both Roland and the fair-haired man exclaimed together.

  ‘Aren’t you Giles Prideaux, the artist?’ Sally burst out, focusing on Catarina’s partner.

  The man nodded. ‘I’m afraid you have the advantage of me.’

  ‘I interviewed you a year ago for the London Evening Mercury.’

  ‘Of course, forgive me. Sally, Sally—’

  ‘Sally Roberts.’ She stepped hard on Roland’s foot. ‘I understand you’re putting on another exhibition soon.’

  ‘Yes, in a couple of months as a matter of fact. Hold on a moment—’ Prideaux swung around to his partner, frightened that she might think he was neglecting her. He did so just in time to see her waltzed away in Roland’s arms.

  ‘Seems to have been a bit of a mix-up,’ Sally offered apologetically. ‘Shall we continue this dance together, Giles, or shall we stand in the middle of the floor like a couple of fools?’

  Struggling to conceal his irritation, Prideaux took Sally in his arms. He had waited half the night for one dance with Catarina Menendez, only to have her stolen from him. As the two couples passed each other, Prideaux glared furiously at Roland. Sally, though, gave him a secretive wink.

  Roland returned the wink and chuckled softly. ‘What is so funny?’ Catarina asked, having missed the exchange.

  ‘Your former partner. He’s still wondering what happened, how he began this dance with one woman and is finishing it with another.’

  ‘Serves him right. He ignored me to talk to your friend. Anyway he is no terrible loss. He kept talking about his paintings and I didn’t understand a single word. What do you do? Something more interesting than painting, I hope.’ She was certain he did. Not for one moment could Catarina imagine the man who held her being able to stand for hours in front of an easel.

  ‘I own a company that manufactures small electrical appliances for the kitchen – kettles and irons.’

  ‘Are you very wealthy?’

  ‘Not at the moment, but I hope to be.’

  ‘Are you related to the King then, a duke of something or other, a viscount?’

  ‘If I am, the Royal Family keeps it a big, dark secret.’

  ‘Pardon?’ Catarina was mystified by the flippant answer.

  ‘No, I’m not.’

  ‘What a shame. That means my father will not be interested in you. He wants to marry me off to some noble lord.’

  ‘Do you want to marry a lord?’

  ‘Not any I have seen here tonight.’ She made such a disgusted face that Roland burst out laughing.

  ‘What kind of man do you want to marry? Or am I being too inquisitive?’

  ‘Not at all.’ Catarina was delighted by his questions; everyone else she had danced with had either talked about her father or himself. ‘When I marry it will be because I have found a man I love, not because of my father. And then’ – she grinned and lowered her voice to a whisper tha
t Roland could barely hear – ‘I want to be surrounded by a mountain of dirty – what do you call them? – diapers.’

  ‘We call them nappies over here. Americans call them diapers.’

  ‘English in Argentina is full of American words. But you know what I mean.’

  ‘You could always find a job in a laundry.’

  She stuck her tongue out in a most unladylike manner and Roland almost yielded to the urge to bite it gently, forgetting what the other guests would think.

  ‘Who is the woman you came with tonight?’

  ‘A friend of mine. She works on a newspaper.’

  ‘How much of a friend?’

  ‘A very good friend.’ Roland was uncertain why Catarina asked – was she interested in him or just curious? Sally had been the same way when they first met, only she had wanted the information for a story.

  ‘She must be a very good friend to arrange for you to dance with me.’

  They passed close to where Catarina’s father and mother stood. The ambassador gazed curiously at Roland, uncertain whether he was one of the young men he had wanted Catarina to dance with. Roland smiled at him and said: ‘A wonderful evening, sir. Just wonderful.’ Ambassador Menendez smiled back, ever the gracious host, but still unsure.

  The waltz ended. Reluctantly, Roland relinquished his hold on Catarina to the next man on her card. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she responded. ‘I enjoyed it immensely. You’re much more fun than my father’s idea of the perfect escort.’

  ‘Will I see you again?’

  ‘You can reach me at the embassy.’

  ‘I will.’ He turned away to find Sally waiting for him. ‘Thank you as well.’

  ‘Glad to know I’m appreciated. How did it work out? Did you get as far as proposing marriage?’

  ‘Marriage?’

  ‘You heard me. The last time I saw anyone as glassy-eyed as you was at a boxing match. And he was being counted out!’

  ‘Maybe he had a glass jaw.’

  ‘And maybe you’ve got a glass heart, Roland Eagles.’