When Audrey turned eighteen in January 1948 her mother took her shopping in the grand Harrods store on Avenida Florida, accompanied by Aunt Edna and Isla and then for tea in the Alvear Palace Hotel. Aunt Edna, who like her sister Rose had never been to London, shuffled about the shop complaining that it was nothing like as glamorous as the original, which was much larger and as magnificent as Aladdin’s cave. But to Audrey and Isla it was a treat they always looked forward to, not only because of the clothes their mother bought them, but because it was an adventure to watch the elegant ladies in tidy hats and gloves totter up the carpeted departments on precariously high heels, browsing among the cosmetics and fashion imported from Europe. Isla watched with envy while her elder sister tried on grown-up dresses and silk blouses and sulked when she wasn’t allowed a pair of earrings until she was eighteen. To appease her, Aunt Edna bought her a Pringle twinset, which immediately managed to put the smile back onto her face because she knew her mother disliked it when Aunt Edna undermined her weak attempts to discipline.
The heat was insufferable as they marched up the dusty streets, ignoring the dirty little beggar boys who leapt out of the shadows like monkeys to ask for money or sweets. They passed a magazine stand where Eva Perón’s luminous face smiled out at them from the front page of every national newspaper. The dyed blonde hair pulled back into a severe bun, the cold brown eyes and the triumphant smile reflecting the ruthless ambition of a woman who would never be satisfied. Aunt Edna and Rose walked briskly on, keeping their opinions to themselves for fear of being overheard. There were too many stories of people being lynched by angry mobs of Peronists all because of a careless remark. The streets of Buenos Aires were not the place to speak ill of the First Lady. One no longer felt safe even within the walls of one’s own home.
Audrey adored the city. It gave her a taste of freedom to bathe for an afternoon in the sweet anonymity of this urban labyrinth. She loved the bustle of people, striding purposefully to their jobs or to meetings, or ambling nonchalantly up the avenues, gazing into shop windows or lingering on sunny corners watching the world dash by. The cars and the noise excited her, the frothy squares and grand ornamental buildings enchanted her and she yearned to be a part of it, to weave her way quietly into this other world like a thread of silk in a vast tapestry. She adored the romance of the little cafés and restaurants that tumbled out onto the pavements and served as tranquil watering holes before the frenetic hurry would begin all over again. The quaint shoe-shiners and flower sellers who enjoyed breaks together in the shade, discussing politics and trade, sipping mate through ornate silver straws. The air was thick with the smell of diesel from the buses and caramel from the pastry stands and punctuated with the animated voices of children that rose above the busy hum of activity. She didn’t miss a single detail as she followed her mother’s rapid footsteps up the pavements. Noticing the young couples wandering hand in hand beneath the palm trees in the Plaza San Martín her mind drifted once more to love. Her heart stirred with longing as the rich scents of gardenia and cut grass clung to her nostrils and transported her into the languid world of the novels she loved to read. She imagined that one day she might walk hand in hand like those lovers did and perhaps steal a kiss beside the fountain. But then they were in the tea room at the Alvear Palace Hotel and Rose was telling them about the two young men who had recently arrived from England to work in their father’s company.
‘Cecil and Louis Forrester,’ she said, clearly impressed for her mouth twitched into a small smile.
‘Brothers?’ Aunt Edna asked, unbuttoning her blouse an inch and fanning her damp flesh.
‘Yes, brothers,’ Rose replied. ‘Cecil is the elder, he’s thirty and Louis is twenty-two. Louis is a bit . . .’ she paused to find the right word, anxious not to appear malicious. ‘Eccentric,’ she said with emphasis then moved swiftly on to his brother. ‘Cecil’s so handsome and refined. A charming young man,’ she gushed.
‘Can I have dulce de leche pancakes, please?’ Isla interrupted, eyeing the trolley of cakes as it was wheeled past by a white-gloved waiter, clearly taken with the two young girls who shone prettily in the smoky tearoom.
‘Of course you can, Isla. Is that what you’d like too, Audrey?’ Audrey nodded.
‘Have they come alone?’ she asked her mother.
‘Yes, they have. Poor Cecil, he served in the war. Played an important part, I believe.’ Rose sighed heavily. She wanted to add that apparently Louis had refused to fight, stubbornly remaining in London playing melancholic tunes on the grand piano, even during the raids, but she held back. It was unfair to turn her daughters against him even before they had met him. ‘They’ve come out here,’ she continued to Aunt Edna, ‘to get away from Europe and all that depressing post-war gloom. Their father, who has done business with Henry in the past, suggested they come. We owe him a favour or two. He’s been very good to Henry. I’m so happy he can help them. They’re staying at the Club.’