The Fourth Estate (55 page)

When he appeared
a few minutes late for lunch, he was disconcerted to find that Mrs. Sherwood
had moved to the other side of the table, and was now sitting between the
general and Dr. Percival. She didn’t even look up when he took his seat. When
Claire arrived a few moments later, she had no choice but to take the place
next to Townsend, although she immediately began a conversation with Mr.
Osborne.

Townsend tried
to listen to what Mrs. Sherwood was saying to the general, in the hope that he
could find some excuse to join in their conversation, but all she was saying
was that this was her nineteenth world cruise, and that she knew the ship
almost as well as the captain.

Townsend was
beginning to fear that his plan wasn’t going at all well.

Should he approach
the subject directly? Kate had strongly advised against it. “We mustn’t assume
she’s a fool,” she had warned him when they parted at the airport. “Be patient,
and an opportunity will present itself.”

He turned
casually to his right when he heard Dr. Percival ask Claire if she had read
Requiem for a Nun.

“No,” she
replied, “I haven’t. Is it any good?”

“Oh, I have,”
said Mrs. Sherwood from the other side of the table, “and I can tell you it’s
far from his best.”

“I’m sorry to
hear that, Mrs. Sherwood,” said Townsend, a little too quickly.

“And why is
that, Mr. Townsend?” she asked, unable to hide her surprise that he even knew
who the author was.

“Because I have
the privilege of publishing Mr. Faulkner.”

“I had no idea
you were a publisher,” said Dr. Percival. “How exciting.

I’ll bet there
are a lot of people on this ship who could tell you a good story.”

“Possibly even
one or two at this table,” said Townsend, avoiding Mrs.

Sherwood’s
stare.

“Hospitals are
an endless source for stories,” continued Dr. Percival.

1 should know.”

“That’s true,”
said Townsend, now enjoying himself. “But having a good story isn’t enough. You
must then be able to commit it to paper. That’s what takes real talent.”

“Which company
do you work for?” asked Mrs. Sherwood, trying to sound casual.

Townsend had
cast the fly and she had leapt right out of the water.

“Schumann &
Co., in New York,” he replied, equally casually.

At this point
the general began to tell Townsend how many people had urged him to write his
memoirs. He then proceeded to give everyone at the table a flavor of how the
first chapter might turn out.

Townsend wasn’t
surprised to find that Mrs. Sherwood had replaced Claire at his side when he
appeared for dinner. Over the smoked salmon he spent a considerable time explaining
to Mrs. Percival how a book got onto the bestseller list.

“Can I interrupt
you, Mr, Townsend?” asked Mrs. Sherwood quietly, as the lamb was being served.

“With pleasure,
Mrs. Sherwood,” said Townsend, turning to face her.

“I’d be
interested to know which department you work in at Schumann’s.”

“I’m not in any
particular department,” he said.

“I’m not sure I
understand,” said Mrs. Sherwood ...

“Well, you see,
I own the company.”

“Does that mean
you can override an editor’s decision?” asked Mrs.

Sherwood.

“I can override
anyone’s decision,” said Townsend.

“It’s just
that...” She hesitated so as to be sure no one else was listening to their
conversation-not that it really mattered, because Townsend knew what she was going
to say. “It’s just that I sent a manuscript to Schumann’s some time ago. Three
months later all I got was a rejection slip, without even a letter of
explanation.”

“I’m sorry to
hear that,” said Townsend, pausing before he delivered his next well-prepared
line. “Of course, the truth is that many of the manuscripts we receive are
never read.”

“Why’s that?”
she asked incredulously.

“Well, any large
publishing house can expect to receive up to a hundred, possibly even two
hundred, manuscripts a week. No one could afford to employ the staff to read
them all. So you shouldn’t feel too depressed.”

“Then how does a
first-time novelist like myself ever get anyone to take an interest in their
work?” she whispered.

“My advice to
anyone facing that problem is to find yourself a good agent-someone who will
know exactly which house to approach, and perhaps even which editor might be
interested.”

Townsend
concentrated on his lamb as he waited for Mrs. Sherwood to summon up the
necessary courage. “Always let her lead,” Kate had warned, “then there will be
no reason for her to become suspicious.” He didn’t look up from his plate.

“I don’t
suppose,” she began diffidently, “that you would be kind enough to read my
novel and give me your professional opinion?”

“I’d be delighted,”
said Townsend. Mrs. Sherwood smiled. “Why don’t you send it over to my office
at Schumann’s once we’re back in New York. I’ll see that one of my senior
editors reads it and gives me a full written report.”

Mrs. Sherwood
pursed her lips. “But I have it on board with me,” she said. “You see, my
annual cruise always gives me a chance to do a little revision.”

Townsend longed
to tell her that thanks to her brotherin-law’s cook he already knew that. But
he satisfied himself with, “Fhen why don’t you drop it round to my cabin so I
can read the first couple of chapters, which will at least give me a flavor of
your style.”

“Would you
really, Mr. Townsend? How very kind of you. But then, my dear husband always
used to say that one mustn’t assume all Australians are convicts.”

Townsend laughed
as Claire leaned across the table. “Are you the Mr. Townsend who is mentioned
in the article in the Ocean Times this morning?” she asked.

Townsend looked
surprised. “I’ve no idea,” he said. “I haven’t seen it.”

“It’s about a
man called Richard Armstrong-” neither of them noticed Mrs Sherwood’s reaction
“-who’s also in publishing.”

“I do know a
Richard Armstrong,” admitted Townsend, so it’s quite possible.”

“Won an MC,”
said the general, butting in, “but that was the only good thing the article had
to say about him. Mind you, can’t believe everything you read in the papers.”

“I quite agree,”
said Townsend, as Mrs. Sherwood rose and left them without even saying good
night.

As soon as she
had gone, the general began regaling Dr. Percival and Mrs.

Osborne with the
second chapter of his autobiography. Claire rose and said, “Don’t let me stop
you, General, but I’m also off to bed.” Townsend didn’t even glance in her
direction. A few minutes later, as the old soldier was being evacuated from the
beach at Dunkirk, he also made his apologies, left the table and returned to
his cabin.

He had just
stepped out of the shower when there was a knock on the door.

He smiled, put
on one of the toweling dressing-gowns supplied by the ship, and walked slowly
across the room. At least if Mrs. Sherwood delivered her manuscript now, he
would have a good excuse to arrange a meeting with her the following morning.
He opened the cabin door.

“Good evening,
Mrs. Sherwood,” he was about to say, only to find Kate standing in front of
him, looking a little anxious. She hurried in and quickly closed the door.

“I thought we
agreed not to meet except in an emergency?” said Keith.

“This is an
emergency,” answered Kate, “but I couldn’t risk telling you at the dinner
table.”

“Is that why you
asked me about the article when you were meant to bring up the subject of what
was playing on Broadway,”

“Yes,” replied
Kate. “Don’t forget, I’ve had an extra couple of days to get to know her, and she’s
just phoned my cabin to ask me if I really believed that you were in
publishing.”

“And what did
you tell her?” askcd Keith, as there was another knock on the door. He put a
finger to his lips and pointed in the direction of the shower. He waited until
he had heard the curtain pulled across, and then opened the door ...

“Mrs. Sherwood,”
said Keith. “How nice to see you. Is everything all right?”

“Yes, thank you,
Mr. Townsend. I thought I’d drop this in for you tonight,” she said, handing
over a thick manuscript. “Just in case you had nothing else to do.”

“How very
thoughtful of you,” said Keith, taking the manuscript from her.

“Why don’t we
get together sometime after breakfast tomorrow? Then I can give you my first
impressions.”

“Oh, would you
really, Mr. Townsend? I long to know what you think of it.” She hesitated. 1
trust I didn’t disturb you.

“Disturb me?”
said Keith, puzzled.

“I thought I
heard voices as I was coming down the passageway.

“I expect it was
just me humming in the shower,” said Keith rather feebly.

“Ah, that would
explain it,” said Mrs. Sherwood. “Well, I do hope You’ll find time to read a
few pages of The Sena tor , s Mistress tonight.”

“I most
certainly will,” said Keith. “Good night, Mrs. Sherwood.”

“Oh, do call me
Margaret.”

“I’m Keith,” he
said with a smile.

“I know.
I’vejust read the article about you and Mr. Armstrong. Most interesting. Can he
really be that bad?” she asked.

Keith made no
comment as he closed the door. He turned round to find Kate stepping out of the
shower, wearing the other dressing-gown. As she walked toward him, the cord
fell to the ground, and the robe came slightly open.

“Oh, do call me
Claire,” she said as she slipped a hand around his waist.

He pulled her
toward him.

“Can You really
be that bad?” she laughed as he guided her across the room.

“Yes, I am,” he
said as they fell on the bed together.

“Keith,” she
whispered, “don’t you think you ought to start reading the manuscript?”

It was only a
matter of hours after Sharon had moved from the bedroom into the office that
Armstrong realized Sally hadn’t been exaggerating about her secretarial skills.
But he was too proud to call her and admit it.

By the end of
the second week his desk was piled high with unanswered letters or, worse,
replies he couldn’t consider putting his signature to.

After so many
years with Sally, he had forgotten that he rarely spent more than a few minutes
each day checking over her work before simply signing everything she put in
front of him. In fact the only document he had put his signature to that week
had been Sharon’s contract, which it was clear she had not drawn up herself.

On Tuesday of
the third week, Armstrong turned up at the House of Commons to have lunch with
the minister of health, only to discover that he wasn’t expected until the
following day. He arrived back at his office twenty minutes later in a furious
temper.

“But I told you
that you were having lunch with the chairman of NatWest today,” Sharon
insisted. “He’s just rung from the Savoy asking where you were.”

“Where you sent
me,” he barked. “At the House of Commons.”

“Am I expected
to do everything for you?”

“Sally somehow
managed it,” said Armstrong, barely able to control his anger.

“if I hear that
woman’s name again, I swear I’ll leave you.”

Armstrong didn’t
comment, but stormed back out of the office and ordered Benson to get him to
the Savoy as quickly as possible. When he arrived at the Grill, Mario told him
that his guest had just left. And when he got back to the office, he was
informed that Sharon had gone home, saying she had a slight migraine.

Armstrong sat
down at his desk and dialed Sally’s number but no one answered. He continued to
call her at least once a day, but all he got was a recorded message. At the end
of the following week he ordered Fred to pay her monthly check.

“But I’ve
already sent her a P45, as you instructed,” the chief accountant reminded him.

“Don’t argue
with me, Fred,” said Armstrong. “Just pay it.” In the fifth week temps began
coming and going on a daily basis, some lasting only a few hours. But it was
Sharon who opened the letter from Sally, to find a check torn in half and a
note attached that read: “I have already been amply paid for last month’s
work.”

When Keith woke
the following morning, he was surprised to find Kate already in his
dressing-gown, reading Mrs. Sherwood’s manuscript. She leaned across and gave
him a kiss before handing over the first seven chapters. He sat up, blinked a
few times, turned to the opening page and read the first sentence: “As she
stepped out of the swimming pool, the bulge in his trunks started to grow.” He
looked across at Kate, who said, “Keep reading. It gets steamier.”