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“Well, even if he wasn’t ten minutes ago, he certainly is now. The gentleman and I are recently acquainted, and he is warm now—
very
warm.”
“But delaying departure? Getting the ship to return to the dock?”
“When I explained just how much it would be to his advantage to accommodate us—and how much to hispersonal disadvantage not to—Mr. Elliott was most eager to be of assistance.” Pendergast glanced up at the ship, then smiled once again. “You know, Constance, under the circumstances I think I’m going to find this voyage tolerable—perhaps even agreeable.”
10
FOR ROGER MAYLES, CRUISE DIRECTOR OF THE BRITANNIA , ONE OF THE earliest and most important decisions of the voyage had been at which table to dine on First Night. It was always a prickly question, very prickly, made all the more so by the fact that this was First Night on the maiden voyage of the world’s largest ocean liner.
A difficult question indeed.
As cruise director, his job was not only to know the names and needs of all the passengers, but to mingle with them as well. At all times. If he disappeared during di
It wasn’t just a job.
But then, what do you do with a passenger list that is almost three thousand names long, spread over eight dining rooms and three seatings?
Mayles had fussed and fussed. First he had decided on the restaurant: it would be Oscar’s, the movie-themed dining room. It was a spectacular art deco room, one wall a single curtain of Venetian cut crystal, with a waterfall behind, the whole thing backlit. The whisper of water was designed to raise the ambient white noise, which had the curious effect of lowering the apparent volume of sound. Two other walls were of real gold leaf, and the final one was of glass, looking out into the darkness of the ocean. It wasn’t the biggest restaurant on the ship—that was the King’s Arms, with its three opulent levels—but it had the smartest decor.
Yes, Oscar’s it would be. Second seating, naturally. The first seaters were to be avoided at all costs; they were generally cretins who, no matter how rich they were, had never managed to shed the barbaric habit of eating before seven.
Then came the question of the table itself. It would, of course, be one of the “formal” tables—the large ones where guests could, on request, still observe the old-fashioned tradition of assigned seating, in which they would be mingled with strangers, as in the glory days of ocean liners. Formal dress, of course. To most, this meant black tie. But Mayles was very fussy about such things and he always dressed in a white di
Next, he’d had to choose the guests at his table. Roger Mayles was particular and he had many private, admittedly vicious prejudices to satisfy. His list of guests to avoid was a long one: topping it were CEOs, anyone involved in the stock markets, Texans, fat people, dentists, and surgeons. His preferred list included actresses, titled nobility, heiresses, television talk show hosts, airline stewards, mobsters, and what he called “mysteries”—people who defied placing—as long as they were intriguing, very rich, and X-class.
After hours of poring over the guest lists he had come up with what he considered to be a brilliant party for First Night. He would put together tables for himself every night of the voyage, of course, but this one was special. This would be a di
And so it was with great anticipation and not a little trepidation that he arrived at the gold-leafed entrance to Oscar’s, dressed in a thousand-dollar Hickey Freeman di
As the guests arrived he seated them with handshakes, warm words, and various gestures and flourishes. Last to arrive were the two “mysteries”—a gentleman named Aloysius Pendergast and his “ward,” a designation that in Mayles’s mind conjured up all sorts of deliciously salacious ideas. Pendergast’s file had intrigued him because it was so utterly devoid of information, and the fellow had managed to book himself into one of the aft duplex suites—the Tudor, at a cost of fifty-thousand pounds—at the last minute, even though the entire ship had been fully booked for months. On top of that, he had delayed the “sailaway” by nearly half an hour. How had he done it?
Most intriguing.
As the man approached, Mayles took a second, longer look. He liked what he saw. The man was refined, aristocratic, and strikingly handsome; he was dressed in a splendid cutaway with an orchid bouto
But even more striking than Pendergast was his so-called ward. She was a beauty, but not in any way common or modern—no, hers was a Pre-Raphaelite beauty, the spitting image of Proserpine in the famous painting by Rossetti, but with her straight hair cut in a flapperish bob. She wore a formal gown by Zac Posen that Mayles had admired in one of the galleries along St. James’s on Deck 6—the costliest one there. Interesting that she would purchase her First Night dress on board rather than select one from her own wardrobe.
He quickly recalculated the seating and placed Pendergast at his side, and Constance opposite. Mrs. Dahlberg went on the other side of Pendergast; Mayles had put her on the list because she had divorced two English lords in a row and ended up with an American meatpacking mogul, who then died a few months after the nuptials, leaving her a hundred million richer. Mayles’s febrile imagination had gone riot with that one. But as he contemplated her in person he was disappointed to see she did not look like the vulgar fortune-hunter he had imagined.
He sprinkled the others about—a dashing young English baronet and his French wife; a dealer of impressionist art; the lead singer for the Suburban Lawnmowers and her boyfriend; the author and bon vivant Victor Delacroix; and a few others who, Mayles hoped, would make for a brilliant and amusing table. He’d wanted to include Braddock Wiley, a movie star aboard for the mid-atlantic premiere of his new film, but his stature as an actor was waning and Mayles had ultimately decided he could invite him on the second night.
As he seated people, Mayles deftly introduced them to each other, to obviate the need for a round of vulgar introductions once they were seated. Soon everyone was in place and the first course arrived: crêpes Romanoff. They chatted about nothing for a moment as the waiters laid down the plates and poured the first wine of the evening.
Mayles broke the ice. “Do I detect a New Orleans accent, Mr. Pendergast?” He prided himself in his ability to tease out even the most reluctant conversationalist.
“How clever of you,” responded Pendergast. “And for my part, do I detect, behind your English accent, a touch of Far Rockaway, Queens?”
Mayles felt the smile freeze on his face. How in the world did the man know
that
?
“Don’t be concerned, Mr. Mayles—I’ve made a study of accents, among other things. In my line of work I find it useful.”