by Lewis Orde
‘Good luck to both of you!’ she shouted before she dove into the taxi that was waiting to take her to the airport for the flight back to London.
‘When are you returning to London?’ Roland asked Michael.
‘In a few days.’
‘Catarina and I will be putting on an official wedding reception. You’re getting your invitation as a guest of honor now.’
Michael laughed. ‘I’ll be there. And don’t forget the ring next time.’
‘It was your responsibility.’
‘Then you should have told me.’
*
Roland and Catarina drove back to London the following day. News of their wedding was carried in all the newspapers, although the Mercury was the only one to carry exclusive photographs. Some of the papers substituted with pictures of Ambassador Menendez and his wife, running with them the ambassador’s statement that ultimately it was his daughter’s happiness that he was concerned about; that was why he had relented and given the couple his blessing.
For Catarina’s sake Roland pretended to forgive her father. Deep inside, though, he nursed a steady anger at the ambassador. Menendez had inferred that Roland was drawn to Catarina only for her money; he couldn’t forgive him for that, just as he couldn’t forgive him for his sneers at Roland’s background. Nor could he forget that some reporters had gleefully accepted the ambassador’s allegations as truth, if only to add spice to their stories.
Roland and Catarina’s first stop in London was at Wilton Crescent to collect Catarina’s remaining clothes. The cases she was supposed to have taken to Madrid were still in Spain, and as far as bride and groom were concerned they could stay there; they were only a reminder of tragedy that had been narrowly averted. The ambassador was in the embassy when they arrived and Maria Menendez went with Catarina to her room, tearfully watching her daughter clear out the closets and drawers. Roland sat patiently in the drawing room, content to allow Catarina as much time as she wanted with her mother.
‘Mr Eagles, may I offer you my congratulations?’
Roland swung around to see a uniformed maid standing in the doorway. ‘Would you be Anita Alvarez?’
‘Yes, sir.’ The middle-aged woman closed the door and came closer. ‘I am so happy that everything worked out so well for you and Señorita Menendez . . . Mrs Eagles.’
‘Bless you.’ Roland felt in his pocket and pulled out all the money he had with him. He knew it was in excess of two hundred pounds, probably more than this woman would see in a year, but she deserved every penny of it. ‘Here, our wedding gift to you.’
‘Sir, I cannot.’
‘If you don’t take it, I’ll tell Ambassador Menendez it was you who tipped me off about Catarina going to Spain,’ Roland threatened with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes.
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘Thank you, Miss Alvarez. You don’t know how much joy you’ve brought.’
‘I think I do, sir. I have been with the family ever since Catarina was a child. All I have to do is look into her eyes and I can see the happiness.’
When Catarina had finished packing she had filled three large suitcases. Roland loaded them into the car and they set off for Regent’s Park. While she unpacked Roland went through the stack of mail that had accumulated. Most of it was cards wishing him and Catarina well. There was also a framed photograph of himself and Catarina standing on the steps of the Registrar’s Office. Attached to the picture was a card from Sally containing the cryptic message that she was giving it to him before he called her up in the middle of the night to demand it; as a postscript, she mentioned that Mercury sales had increased by ten percent following the newspaper’s exclusive coverage of the elopement. Roland laughed and showed the card to Catarina.
‘Rollie, when I first saw you at Claridge’s I wondered why you wore two rings on your right hand,’ Catarina said as they lay in bed that night. ‘Now I know – they were for us.’
‘I knew it, too, the moment I saw you in the receiving line.’ He reached out to turn off the bedside lamp. ‘We have to make plans for a proper wedding party.’
‘Where? Here?’
‘Good Lord, no. We haven’t got the space. I was thinking of Eldridge’s in Knightsbridge, where I bought that picnic hamper that first day in the park.’
‘Would you invite my family?’
‘Of course. They’d get the first invitation.’ He placed the flat of his hand on her stomach, convincing himself that he could already feel the baby kick. She held his hand there, breathing evenly, wondering how she would look when her belly swelled.
‘Happy?’ she asked.
‘You’ll never know how happy. It’s been a long time since I’ve had a family.’
‘Would your family have approved of me?’
Roland thought about his parents; they, more than anyone, would have appreciated what he and Catarina had been through. ‘Not only would they have approved of you . . .’ He moved his hand higher, cupped one of her breasts. ‘They’d have sanctified you.’
‘Santa Catarina!’ She laughed with delight at the notion. ‘First you call me a witch because I can pick better horses than you, now you say I’m a saint. How can that be?’
‘Schizophrenia,’ Roland answered easily. ‘One side of you is close to the devil, the other side’s close to God.’
‘Rollie, do you believe in God?’
‘I started believing in Him one evening last autumn. Why do you ask?’
‘Because of our child. I would like our child to be raised as a Catholic.’
Roland had no feelings either way, but if that was what Catarina wanted she would have it. ‘Certainly.’
‘Even if I’m no longer here, I want you to promise me that.’
Roland stirred uneasily at the words. ‘Where are you going?’
‘Please, I’m serious.’ Catarina remembered how she’d considered suicide when her father arranged for her to go to Spain. Now, lying in bed with Roland, discussing the child growing inside her, she was beset by the idea of death again; as if she would be punished for defying her father, for breaking the rules of the church by making love to a man outside of marriage. ‘Will you make me that promise?’
‘I promise.’ Roland’s hand fell away from her breast and he held her tightly, disturbed by her words. For Catarina to even harbor such thoughts seemed so out of place. She was eighteen, pregnant, in love. A new, wonderful phase of her life was just beginning. Why would she even think such a thing?
By the time the Friday sales meeting came around, Roland had brought himself completely up to date with what had happened at the factory during the three weeks he’d been gone. Orders were strong, spurred by the trouble with Adler’s. Other large stores were showing their admiration for his stand in the only way they knew how – with business.
‘Nice to see you back again,’ Simon said. ‘Perhaps we can all get down to some work now.’
‘You’re making it sound like I’ve been on holiday,’ Roland protested. ‘Scotland in the middle of winter isn’t exactly the same as a luxury cruise in the Caribbean, you know.’
‘Nonetheless, while you were gallivanting around Scotland, I did some work. Your idea of starting a retail side is now more than just an idea.’ He pushed a large envelope across the desk to Roland. ‘The details are in there. I’d like to know if you see it the same way I do.’
Roland opened the envelope and pulled out the contents. The name of the company Simon was interested in was P.D. Jameson, a sprawling, old established firm that included two factories that manufactured an assortment of products, from hair dryers for beauty parlors to battery chargers, and a group of fifteen electrical shops. ‘We keep the shops and sell the factories?’
‘Precisely. The same way, basically, that we took over Mar-Cross.’
Roland returned to studying the papers. The shops were losing money; the factories were barely breaking even. ‘What about capital?’
‘I don’t anticipate any problems. One
of the advantages of success, Roland, is that it tends to breed further success.’
*
Two weeks after their return from Scotland, Roland and Catarina hosted a party at Eldridge’s. Their guests included a cross-section of people in their lives, Roland’s friends and customers, Catarina’s parents and brother, Argentinians living in London who were friendly with the Menendez family. It was the newlyweds’ way of both thanking everyone and mending fences.
For Catarina’s sake Roland spent as much time as possible with her parents. Despite his own feelings toward the ambassador, he wanted to demonstrate to everyone that the wounds had healed. When he gave a short, after-dinner speech, Roland pointedly referred to his father-in-law: ‘Now that our differences are history, I look forward to nothing but the finest possible relationship between us.’
Ambassador Menendez responded just as graciously, followed by a sustained round of applause. But later in the evening he quietly cornered Roland. ‘I want to leave you in no doubt that what I did was for my wife’s sake and for the sake of our family name. I still do not approve of you, and if it were at all possible to turn back the clock, I would make certain that my daughter never got the opportunity to meet you.’
A brief spark of anger flashed in Roland’s eyes. ‘So you still believe I am only interested in your wealth.’
Menendez nodded slowly. ‘But you will never see one penny of it.’
‘How much are you worth, sir? Just a quick, conservative estimate.’
Menendez blinked at the directness of the question. ‘Perhaps fifty million pounds.’
‘Sir, by the time I am your age I will be worth at least twice that much. And I will not have inherited a single penny of it from you. I will have made it all myself. Neither Catarina nor our child will ever want for anything. And if we did, we certainly wouldn’t come to you for assistance.’
Roland bathed the ambassador with a smile like a January wind, his blue eyes dark with scorn. ‘Enjoy the party, sir. Enjoy it in the knowledge that we don’t expect you to pay for any of it.’ With that, he walked away to find Catarina, and together they mingled happily with their other guests.
Chapter Eight
Catarina stood naked in the bedroom, inspecting herself in the mirror, running her hands lightly across her distended belly. ‘Rollie!’ she called toward the open door. ‘Do you want to feel the baby kick?’
Roland came in from the hallway, fully dressed in a charcoal gray suit and a wine colored tie. ‘Come on, Catarina, you should have been dressed already. It’s past two o’clock.’
‘Feel our baby kick first.’ She took Roland’s hand and placed it against her stomach. ‘Can you feel it? Like a football player.’
Despite his mild irritation at being ready to go out while Catarina stood admiring herself, Roland felt a thrill as her belly seemed to jump of its own accord. A tiny jab hit the palm of his hand as if the child were throwing a very weak punch. ‘I think he wants to come out but he hasn’t found the way yet.’
‘Not for another four weeks. And I wish you would stop calling our daughter a he.’ Catarina flounced away to put on the clothes spread across the bed. ‘We’re going to have a little girl.’
‘Good . . . we’ll have a little girl. Now that we’ve agreed on that will you please hurry up? We can’t keep my girlfriend waiting.’
‘Your girlfriend?’ Catarina laughed at Roland’s description of Sharon Aronson, whose sixteenth birthday party they were going to. ‘Just because I’m fat at the moment doesn’t mean you can look elsewhere. Besides, what makes you think a beautiful sixteen-year-old girl like Sharon would ever look at you?’
‘I know a beautiful eighteen-year-old girl who did.’
‘She was too young and inexperienced to know any better.’
Roland left Catarina alone, certain that she would dress quicker if he weren’t there to talk to her. While waiting for her he walked aimlessly around the new apartment they had leased four months earlier. It was also in Regent’s Park but far more spacious, with four bedrooms. He went into the smallest bedroom, which had been transformed into a nursery. Papered and carpeted in pale blue, the nursery overlooked the park and shared a balcony with the master bedroom. A white crib was in the center of the floor with a table and chair beside it – for when Roland diapered the baby, Catarina had pointed out. Above the crib, hanging from strings pinned to the ceiling, was a cluster of cartoon characters which moved in the gentle breeze blowing in from the balcony. On top of a white dressing table, already filled with clothes, was the model racing car Catarina had given to Roland during the early days of their romance.
‘Are you ready yet?’ he called as he came out of the nursery into the hallway.
‘Another minute.’
Roland glanced at his watch. He and Catarina were supposed to have been at Simon’s South Kensington home ten minutes ago. He considered returning to the master bedroom to see how far along Catarina was, then decided against it. His presence would only distract. Instead he went into the second bedroom which, as in his last apartment, he had converted into an office. He picked up the agenda for the previous week’s sales meeting and leafed through it, noting the figures for the string of Jameson shops. Since they had taken them over at the beginning of the year the two factories had been sold off to slash the purchase price. He and Simon then expanded the inventory of the shops to include luxury items such as radios, black-and-white television sets and phonographs. Two of the shops which seemed to have no future were sold, but the remaining thirteen were well above their projected budgets. Jameson had been a sound buy.
‘I’m ready!’ Catarina announced triumphantly, standing in the hall. Roland dropped the folder and turned to her. Pregnancy had done nothing to tame Catarina’s impish spirit and gypsy looks. If anything, her black hair was even more lustrous and her dark eyes shone with an increased vivacity. ‘Do you have the gift, Rollie?’
‘In my pocket.’ Roland said, patting the small box containing a gold pendant.
‘We’d better hurry, then . . . we’re late.’
‘Late? And who made us late?’ He pretended to give her a swat across the rear as she walked past him, then caught her arm and pulled her close, feeling the baby between them. ‘I’m not so sure you’re even going to fit into the car.’
‘I’ll manage. Or are you thinking of trading in my beautiful Jaguar for something old-fashioned and conservative like yourself?’
Downstairs, he opened the passenger door and helped Catarina into the car. It was a tight squeeze but she made it; another week or so and Roland wouldn’t want to put any money on her repeating the feat. He was about to get into the driver’s seat when he heard the tapping sound of wood on stone. He looked around and saw the elderly blind widow who lived in their building.
‘Everything all right, Mrs Peters?’ Roland called out. The blind widow was a familiar sight in the neighborhood tapping her way around with as much dexterity as if she had full sight.
‘Is that you, Mr Eagles?’ she asked, recognizing his voice. ‘Beautiful day, isn’t it? Going out for a ride with your roof down.’
‘Wouldn’t miss a day like this, Mrs Peters.’ He grinned as he climbed into the car and started the engine. The blind woman knew more about the neighborhood than any sighted person; she paid more attention to her surroundings with her other senses.
*
The garden of Simon’s home had been transformed into a park-like setting. Tables with gaily colored umbrellas dotted the lawn, and an artificial fountain in the center sent a stream of water soaring into the air. From a bar and kitchen set up inside a brightly striped marquee, smartly dressed waitresses kept up a steady supply of food and drink for the hundred guests.
Simon and Nadine were the first to greet Roland and Catarina. As Nadine showed Catarina to an empty table and made the expected joke that she hoped the baby didn’t arrive during the party, Simon took Roland over to Sharon, who was holding court among her friends.
‘
Happy sweet sixteen,’ Roland said and handed her the box containing the pendant.
Sharon opened the box, saw the gift and threw her arms around Roland’s neck, kissing him. He backed away, aware that he was blushing. Damn . . . Sharon always seemed to do that to him. ‘You’re going to make someone very upset,’ he whispered.
Sharon looked past Roland to where Catarina sat, talking to Nadine. ‘I think Catarina’s too sure of you to ever worry. Pity,’ she said with a playful grin. ‘If you were really set on capturing an eighteen-year-old, couldn’t you have waited a couple of years?’
‘For you?’ Roland was amused by the suggestion. ‘I don’t think your father would have approved of me.’
‘What difference would that have made? Catarina’s father didn’t approve of you either.’ She gave him another kiss, slipped the pendant around her neck and went back to her friends. Roland joined Catarina and Nadine, who were discussing names for the baby.
‘If it’s a girl we’re going to name her Elizabeth, after Roland’s mother,’ Catarina said. Listening, Roland felt relieved that she never used his pet name in front of other people. What would they have made of Rollie?
‘And if it is a boy?’ Nadine asked.
‘It won’t be. But, in that unlikely event, we’ve decided on Henry Nicholas. Henry for Roland’s father, Nicholas for my father – an anglicized version of Nicanor.’
‘Personally, I prefer naming the child something original,’ Roland couldn’t resist interrupting. ‘Like Bald or Golden.’
Nadine gazed at him, not comprehending. ‘Pardon . . .?’
‘Don’t listen to him,’ Catarina advised. ‘His English sense of humor – Bald Eagles or Golden Eagles.’ Nadine burst out laughing and went off to tell Simon.
The party broke up just after seven. Roland drove home slowly, the Jaguar’s roof folded down, asking Catarina every few minutes if she was comfortable. Finally she told him to stop it; he was beginning to sound like her mother who telephoned every morning and night to check that her daughter was well and following the doctor’s advice. Roland appreciated his mother-in-law’s concern. Since the wedding he had become genuinely fond of Maria Menendez, and once a week he and Catarina visited the Menendez home for dinner. His father-in-law, though, remained a different matter altogether. Roland’s relationship with the man was strictly formal, a mutual respect given grudgingly; no small amount of affection had developed between the men. Menendez continued to distrust his son-in-law, waiting for the moment when Roland would come to him for money, demand it as his due – then, too late, the ambassador’s worst fears would be proven. Roland, in turn, could never bring himself to forget what the ambassador really thought of him and his background.
