by Lewis Orde
The article reached Roland when he and Sharon were having breakfast in Jamaica, one of the stopover points on the Caribbean cruise they’d chosen for their honeymoon. Roland ripped open the envelope, read the story and passed it to Sharon. He refused to be angry about it; he was on his honeymoon and he wasn’t going to allow anything to interfere with his happiness. Or anyone – even a muckraking journalist like Daniel Rushden.
‘Why don’t you telephone my father?’ Sharon asked after Roland told her about the earlier episodes with Probe and Rushden. ‘This article maligns him as much as it maligns you. Let him take the magazine to court and put an end to it once and for all.’
‘I don’t think it would help, and your father agrees with me. We’ve talked about it before. That’s just what Rushden wants, an ugly libel suit that would only win him sympathy and increase his circulation. Actually, he hasn’t stated anything as fact . . . I even would have found some of those points interesting if they didn’t damn well center on me,’ Roland paused. ‘No, Sharon, I won’t give him the satisfaction of suing him.’ Roland picked up the article, read through it again. ‘Besides, it’s partly my own stupid fault. If I’d listened to your father the first time and just ignored Rushden, he would have lost interest in me; someone who doesn’t hit back is of no use to him. As it was, I tried to drown him with money – buy him out, pay him off – so he got the needle to me.’ That much was clear. Roland’s attempt to try to shut down Probe by taking it over had been a gross error. Now Rushden would never drop his interest in him . . .
*
The next day, as they were about to reboard the ship and continue on to the next port of call, Roland received another jolt – this time one he couldn’t ignore. He received a letter from Alf Goldstein with the details of his investigation into Christopher Mellish’s nocturnal wanderings. Those nights didn’t involve women – they involved a man. For three nights Goldstein had followed Mellish to an apartment in Marble Arch which was rented in the name of Charles Marsden. Inquiries revealed that Charles Marsden was a twenty-three-year-old actor who, Goldstein added cryptically, didn’t make enough money acting to buy food, let alone pay the rent of a luxury flat. Roland didn’t need any help from Goldstein to figure out what the relationship was: Mellish was paying for the young actor’s friendship.
Roland thought it over for a long time before deciding he didn’t feel strongly enough one way or another to do anything about it. He considered himself liberal enough to accept such a relationship, could even appreciate Mellish’s attempt at discretion. Roland wondered about Sally, though. Did she know what her husband was up to, and simply didn’t want to tell Roland? Or did she just assume he was chasing after other women?
Roland decided it was Sally’s problem – if she ever saw it as a problem – and she could handle it herself. She would be happier that way, far happier than she would be if Roland stuck his nose in and told her what he knew about Mellish. If he did that he would be sure to lose a friend. Perhaps even two friends, he thought ruefully. Goldstein’s revelations about Mellish didn’t make him like the man any less. He was still good company – even if he did prefer to spend time with a young actor instead of losing money to Roland that he never paid.
The thought of it made Roland laugh, and when Sharon asked to share the joke, he just shook his head and tossed the crumpled letter into a wastepaper basket. It never occurred to him that Sharon’s curiosity might get the best of her and she would pick it up later and read it.
Chapter Six
During the next six months, Roland’s life settled into a comfortable routine in which each weekday morning Alf Goldstein picked him up from the house to take him to his office at Adler’s on Regent Street, from which he controlled the Eagles Group. At six every night Goldstein drove him home except for the few nights when Roland worked late. He made a point of keeping foreign trips to a minimum, and Roland was content to let his management team – mostly Michael Adler – handle overseas business. Roland was learning to delegate.
Most evenings he had dinner at home with Sharon and Katherine. Sharon had taken after her mother in one respect – the kitchen was her domain and no one else dared set foot in it. She even had a large sign hung on one wall: ‘Sharon’s kitchen . . . trespassers will be forced to wash dishes for a week!’ Although the meals were always served formally, Sharon insisted on preparing them herself.
Every Friday night, Roland, Sharon and Katherine went to South Kensington for dinner at Simon’s home. Despite the fact that Roland had neglected any and all religious tradition, and Katherine had essentially been raised Catholic, they both felt at ease taking part in a traditional Jewish Sabbath meal; Roland had once thought it was because of his own father’s Jewish roots that they both felt comfortable . . . Still, he welcomed the opportunity to become familiar with Jewish tradition, knowing that any children he had with Sharon would be raised in her faith. He would be doing his share for religious understanding and tolerance, he’d once joked to Simon – fathering children who were Presbyterian, Catholic and Jewish.
Weekends, though, were the time Roland enjoyed the most, when the whole family was together. The butler might have raised an eyebrow at the pandemonium which swept through the house with the arrival of Carol and Richard, but Roland never noticed. While Katherine was out riding, he would play in the garden or on the common with his two youngest children, merrily chasing a ball or rolling in the grass with them. And they would return to the house, red-faced and sweaty, demanding to know where tea was. Katherine tried to interest her young half-sister and half-brother in horses, wanting to share her love of animals, but soon found it wasn’t a trait that ran in the family. On one weekend that Roland especially remembered, Katherine had resolved to acquaint them with her favorite horse. Held securely by her older sister, Carol sat on the animal like someone settling into an electric chair, white and rigid with fear. And Richard, when his turn came, managed to break free of Katherine’s grasp even before she lifted him off the ground; he ran screaming in the opposite direction, only to slip and fall into a pile of horse manure. As Katherine cleaned him off at a nearby pond before they returned to the house, Roland sat on the grass, lovingly watching his children’s antics, thinking that there had never been a happier time in his life.
Early in 1965, Sharon learned she was pregnant. It would be his fourth child, but it would be the first time a birth had been planned, with a large, warm family ready to welcome the baby into its midst. Under Sharon’s watchful eye, builders converted one of the bedrooms into a nursery. She began exercising regularly and going to prenatal classes. She would be thirty-one when her first child was born, and she was determined to make sure nothing went wrong.
Roland and Sharon broke the news to her parents over Friday night dinner. Simon set down his knife and fork and stood up from his place at one end of the table. First, he kissed Sharon. Then, to Roland’s mild embarrassment, Simon kissed him as well – a tight bear hug and the Gallic kiss on both cheeks. When Simon stepped back, Roland could see tears in his eyes. ‘This is marvelous . . . marvelous . . .’ he kept repeating. ‘A grandchild. At last a grandchild.’
Roland understood the depth of Simon’s feeling. The marriage to Graham Sharp had produced only heartbreak, followed by Simon’s obvious misgivings about his daughter’s marriage to Roland. Now, the wheel had turned. Any doubts that Simon still had had been swept away by this news. He felt joy not only at the prospect of becoming a grandfather, but because his daughter’s second marriage was working out as well.
‘Is there anything we . . . Nadine and I . . . can do to help? Anything you need, just name it,’ Simon said, standing by his chair, the dinner now forgotten.
‘You can relax for a start,’ Roland answered with a smile. ‘You’re acting the way I’m supposed to act a few months down the road.’
Simon waved a hand at his son-in-law. ‘That can come later,’ he said, then looked down the length of the table at Katherine. ‘How about you? How do you feel
about having a new sister or brother?’
‘Katherine would rather have a horse any day,’ Sharon said before the girl could answer.
‘Oh, come on,’ Roland chided lightly. ‘Kathy does accept that people are also entitled to a place on earth.’ He recalled a conversation he’d had with her many years earlier, when she was ten or eleven; he couldn’t remember exactly. Horses, she had told him in her uniquely grown-up manner, were to be trusted far more than people. They didn’t kill each other for a start, and didn’t cause each other sadness. Roland had replied that he could name at least a dozen horses which had caused him untold misery – all because they’d finished out of the money. Before flouncing off in a tight-lipped rage, Katherine had curtly replied that God didn’t put horses on earth for men to bet on! Roland still smiled when he thought about it. Katherine’s view of horses and Christopher Mellish’s view didn’t match up at all. Roland doubted that Mellish had ever once stopped to consider a horse as something other than an object to place a bet on. The only beauty he knew . . . Roland caught himself just in time.
‘I’d love a new brother or sister,’ Katherine finally replied. ‘The house is too big, we need more people in it.’
‘Shall we turn one of the rooms into a stable?’ Sharon asked. ‘Then you can keep a horse there as well.’
‘That’s not what I meant!’ Katherine’s face turned scarlet as she realized how rude she had sounded. She mumbled an apology and lowered her head, staring at her plate.
After dinner, Simon and Roland sat in the drawing room, sipping brandy. Conversation drifted from the Eagles Group to Aronson Freres, then Simon set down his snifter. ‘Roland, I think there’s something else on your mind. What is it?’
Roland grinned. ‘Right as usual, you read me very well.’ He stood up and started to walk around the small room, stopping occasionally to look at one of the titles on the bookshelves. ‘We’ve got an opportunity to step into a new field, Simon, and I want your advice. And a favor.’
‘My advice? I’m flattered. Why?’
‘Because it’s a business you know a lot about.’
‘Banking?’
‘No. I’m not ready for that . . . yet. Publishing.’
‘Publishing? Newspapers?’ When Roland nodded, Simon started to laugh. ‘You of all people! Why would you even consider newspapers? You hate journalists; you’d like to see them all hanged, drawn and quartered.’
‘I’ll agree that image holds some appeal,’ Roland answered, smiling, ‘but I hate only the irresponsible ones. And once I expand into publishing I can do my part to put irresponsible journalists out of work.’ When he realized that Simon might feel he was only thinking in terms of revenge, as when the Adler deal had come up, Roland quickly disabused him of the notion. ‘Actually, it’s Michael’s idea, not mine. He’s been handling a lot more recently, and I can see the sense of his proposal. Ever hear of Burnham Press?’
‘Certainly. Local newspapers around the country. Six . . .?’
‘Seven. Plus a group of specialists’ trade magazines. They’ve run into some trouble, short of capital, and we’re negotiating for seventy-five percent of their stock.’
‘What would you do then?’
‘I’ve always been jealous of one of your successes, Simon – the Mercury. I’d like to own a morning paper.’
‘You want to try to open in London? Do you realize what that would entail, Roland? To make profits from newspapers in the provinces is one matter, but London is the biggest rat race of all. Sometimes I wonder why we even bother keeping the Mercury. I’ve often said it should be sold—’
‘To me?’ Roland asked hopefully.
‘No, not to you. You don’t really want the aggravation of owning a London newspaper, Roland. You know nothing about newspapers or publishing. Where would you even begin?’
‘The same place we began with the factory in 1948,’ Roland answered evenly. ‘By hiring management people who do know what they’re about. Remember when I told you then, about the bottom line? That it was the only thing I really understood? All right, I’ve improved since then, but I still believe my original approach can work again.’
‘Where would you find the management to run the newspapers and magazines as they already stand? Let alone the new venture you propose in London?’
‘As far as Michael can see, the management in Burnham Press is fairly adequate – they’re just short on capital for some needed improvements. But the London project, that’s the favor I need, Simon. I’d like your permission to approach Sally and offer her a job.’
‘Sally?’ Simon was dumbstruck. ‘Sally works for me. She’s worked for me for twenty years.’
‘Certainly she has, but would you ever give her the position I’m thinking of offering her: editorial director of the entire group, a seat on the board with the responsibility for planning the London venture?’
‘No. She’s happy as editor of the magazine—’
‘Is she, Simon? I wouldn’t bet on that. She has respect there, a well-paying, responsible position. But I have the feeling she wants to do a lot more. I’m asking you because you’re my friend—’
‘And your father-in-law,’ Simon pointed out, and both men laughed as they realized the absurdity of the remark.
‘Forget that. Because you’re my friend I’m asking your permission to approach Sally. Obviously if we didn’t have the relationship we’ve had I’d approach her on the sly, try to lure her away the way anyone would.’
‘Do you think your proposition would appeal to her?’
‘I’m certain it would.’
‘You haven’t mentioned anything to her yet?’
‘No. Out of respect to you.’
‘Why Sally, Roland? What’s so special about her?’
‘I know her, that’s all. I know what she can do, how she handles situations. She knows the newspaper business and she’s ambitious.’
Simon stroked his beard thoughtfully. ‘Roland, I want you to be honest with me. Was there once something between you and Sally?’
The question came out of the blue and startled Roland. He took his time answering, needing to compose himself. ‘A long time ago, Simon. When I got out of the army, when I first met you. Since then we’ve remained close friends, that’s all.’ Roland couldn’t help wondering why he would ask such an indiscreet question? Was he thinking not of losing Sally, but of Sharon? Roland fought to clear his mind, to understand the reason for the question. Was Simon still so concerned for his daughter – even after he could see how well the marriage was working – that he viewed every friendship Roland had as a possible threat to Sharon’s security? ‘Simon, it was Sally who helped introduce me to Catarina, helped us to elope. Does that satisfy you that whatever we once had fizzled out a lifetime ago?’
‘Yes, yes, of course it does,’ Simon agreed hurriedly. ‘Please forgive me for even mentioning it.’ He pointed to the telephone. ‘Call Sally now. Offer her the job. If she wants to leave the Mercury for your new venture, I won’t try to stop her.’
As Roland dialed Sally’s number, he wondered whether Christopher would be home. Probably not. Friday was one of the nights when he usually wandered off to the casinos, then to Charles Marsden’s apartment. If Sally worked for him – the thought suddenly came to Roland – how would he be able to keep such a secret when they would be so close? Assuming she didn’t know already . . .
‘Sally, it’s Roland. I’m at Simon’s—’
‘Do you need a ride home?’ she said.
‘No, Sharon’s driving. Not for much longer, though. One piece of news is that she’s expecting.’
‘Fantastic! Congratulations!’
‘Thanks. The other piece of news, which is the main reason I’m calling, is that the Eagles Group is negotiating for seventy-five percent of Burnham Press, and I’ve asked Simon for permission to approach you for the position of editorial director. Among your responsibilities’ – he paused for effect, anticipating her reaction – ‘will be overse
eing a new London morning newspaper we intend to launch.’
‘You – a press baron!’ Sally burst out laughing and Roland felt slightly foolish; everyone seemed to have this opinion about him and newspapers. ‘What did Simon say?’
‘After much hesitation, he agreed.’
‘Roland, before we discuss anything, there’s one thing I would like to know. How much will you be involved?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘How often would you be sticking your nose in? Because I wouldn’t even dream of working for a man who tries to influence me. Being involved in the stores – well, that’s one thing – retail is your field. But if you tried to exert pressure on a newspaper, it would be death.’
‘That’s the reason I want you, Sally. I make it a custom to hire people who know more than I do.’
‘Thanks for the compliment. Give me a week to think about it.’
‘Christopher there?’ Roland didn’t know why he asked the question. Curiosity, he supposed, to see if Sally would volunteer any information . . .
‘He went out about half an hour ago.’
‘Give him my regards.’
‘I’ll do that.’
Roland hung up and turned back to Simon. ‘She’ll think about it.’
‘What did she ask that got you so hot under the collar?’
‘Whether or not I’d be sticking my nose into the running of the newspaper.’
‘I hope you won’t, Roland. Journalists are quite unlike any other profession. They respond strangely to incursions into their odd little world,’ he paused, finished his brandy. ‘Let’s go back inside with the others before they wonder what’s happened to us.’
Later that night, when Sharon drove the family back to Stanmore, Katherine sat in the back of the car unusually quiet. At first, Roland took little notice, his mind too busy with the conversation with Sally. How did Simon really feel about having his people poached . . . even by his son-in-law? Then noticing how quiet Katherine was he wondered if it had anything to do with the way she’d snapped at Sharon. What could that have been about? He said nothing, but later when he thought Katherine was in bed, he knocked softly on her door and entered.
