The Fourth Estate (69 page)

“Still, as he
explained,” said Townsend, “you weren’t exactly left with a lot of choice.”

“No, what you
mean is that the board weren’t left with a lot of choice, because he told them
there wasn’t an alternative.”

“But the lease
on the present building was coming to an end, wasn’t it?” said Townsend.

“What he didn’t
tell you in his speech was that the owner would have been quite happy to renew
the lease for another ten years with no rent increase,” said Angela, picking up
her wine glass. “I really shouldn’t have any more, but after that rubbish they
serve at the gallery, this is a real treat.”

‘Then why didn’t
he?” asked Townsend.

“Why didn’t he
what?”

“Renew the
lease.”

“Because he
found another building that just happens to have a penthouse apartment thrown
in,” she said, putting down her wine glass and concentrating once again on her
fish.

“But he has
every right to live on the premises,” said Townsend. “He’s the director, after
all.”

“Frue, but that
doesn’t give him the right to have a separate lease on the apartment, so that
when he finally decides to retire they won’t be able to get rid of him without
paying vast compensation. He’s got it all worked out.” She was beginning to
SlUr her words.

“How do you know
all this7,”

“We once shared
a ]over,” she said rather sadly.

Townsend quickly
refilled her glass. “So where is this building?”

“Why are you so
keen to know all about the new building?” she said, sounding suspicious for the
first time.

“I’d like to
look YOU Lip when I’m next in New York,” he replied without missing a beat.

Angela put her
knife and fork down on the plate, pushed her chair back and said, “You don’t
have any brandy, do you?Just a small one, to warm me up before I face the blizzard
on my way home.”

“I’m sure I do,”
said Townsend. He walked over to the fridge, extracted four miniature brandies
of different origins and poured them all into a large goblet.

“Won’t you join
me?” she asked.

“No, thank you. I
haven’t quite finished my wine,” he said, picking up his first glass, which was
almost untouched. “And more important, I don’t have to face the blizzard. Tell
me, how did you become deputy director?”

“After five
deputies had resigned in four years, I think I must have been the only person
who applied.”

“I’m surprised
he bothers with a deputy.”

“He has to.” She
took a sip of brandy. “It’s in the statutes.”

“But you must be
well qualified to have been offered the job,” he said, quickly changing the
subject.

“I studied the
history of art at Yale, and did my PhD on the Renaissance 1527-1590 at the
Accademia in Venice.”

“After
Caravaggio, LUini and Michelangelo, that lot must be a bit of a coine-down,”
said Townsend.

1 wouldn’t mind
even that, but I’ve been deputy director for nearly two years and haven’t been
allowed to mount one show. If only he would give me the chance, I could put on
an exhibition the foundation could be proud of, at about a tenth of the cost of
this current show.” She took another sip of brandy.

“if you feel
that strongly, I’m surprised you stick around,” said Townsend.

1 won’t for much
longer,” she said. “if I can’t convince Armstrong to change the gallery’s
policy, I’m going to resign. But as Lloyd seems to be leading him around on a
leash, I doubt if I’ll still be around when they open the next exhibition.” She
paused, and took a sip of brandy. “I haven’t even told my mother that,” she
admitted. “But then, sometimes it’s easier to talk to strangers.” She took
another sip. “You’re not in the art world, are you?”

“No, as I said,
I’m in transport and coalmines.”

“So what do you
actually do? Drive or dig?” She stared across at him, drained her glass and
tried again. “What I mean is...”

“Yes?” said
Townsend.

‘To start
with... what do you transport, and to where?” She picked up her glass, paused
for a moment, then slowly slid off her chair onto the carpet, mumbling
something about fossil fuels in Renaissance Rome. Within a few seconds she was
curled up on the floor, purring like a contented cat.

Townsend picked
her up gently and carried her through to the bedroom. He pulled back the top
sheet, laid her down on the bed and covered her slight body with a blanket. He
had to admire her for lasting so longi he doubted if she weighed more than
eight stone.

He returned to
the sitting room, closing the bedroom door quietly behind him, and set about
looking for the statute book of the Netv York Star Once he had found the thin
red volume tucked in the bottom of his briefcase, he sat on the sofa and began
to read slowly through the company statutes. He had reached page forty-seven
before he nodded off.

Armstrong
couldn’t think of a good excuse for turning Summers down when he suggested they
should have dinner together after the exhibition. He was relieved that his
lawyer hadn’t gone home. “You’ll join us, won’t you, Russell?” he boomed at his
attorney, making it sound more like a command than an invitation.

Armstrong had
already expressed privately to Russell his thoughts on the exhibition, which he
had just managed to conceal from Summers. He had been trying to avoid a meeting
from the moment Summers announced he’d found the perfect site for the
foundation to move into. But Russell had warned him that Summers was becoming
impatient, and had even begun threatening, “Don’t forget, I still have an
alternative.”

Armstrong had to
admit that the restaurant Summers had chosen was quite exceptional, but over
the past month he had become accustomed to the man’s extravagant tastes. After
the main course had been cleared away, Summers reiterated how important it was
to sign the lease for the new building as quickly as possible, or the
foundation wouldn’t have a home. “I made it clear on the first day we met,
Dick, that my condition for pledging the trust’s shares was that in return you
would purchase a new gallery for the foundation.”

“And it is still
my intention to do so,” said Armstrong firmly.

“And before the
AGM.” The two men stared across the table at each other.

“I suggest you
have the lease drawn up immediately, so it’s ready for signing by Monday.”
Summers picked up a glass of brandy and drained it. “Because I know someone
else who’d be only too happy to sign it if you don’t.”

“No, no, I’ll
have it drawn up immediately,” said Armstrong.

“Good. Then I’ll
show you round the premises tomorrow morning.”

‘Tomorrow
morning?” said Armstrong. “I’m sure I’ll be able to fit that in.”

“Shall we say
nine o’clock, then?” said Summers, as a decaffeinated coffee was placed in
front of him.

Armstrong gulped
down his coffee. “Nine o’clock will be fine,” he said eventually, before
calling for the bill. He settled another of Summers’s extravagances, threw his
napkin on the table and rose from his place. The director of the foundation and
Russell followed suit, and accompanied him in silence to his waiting stretch
limousine.

“I’ll see you at
nine tomorrow morning,” Summers said, as Armstrong climbed into the back of the
car.

“You most
certainly will,” muttered Armstrong, not looking back.

On their way to
the Pierre, Armstrong told Russell that he wanted answers to three questions.
The lawyer took a small leather notepad from his inside pocket.

“First, who
controls the foundation? Second, how much of the Star’s profits does it eat up
each year? And third, is there any legal obligation on me to spend three
million on this new building he keeps going on about?”

Russell
scribbled away on his little notepad.

“And I want the
answers by tomorrow morning.”

The limousine
dropped Armstrong outside his hotel, and he nodded good night to Russell, then
got out of the car and took a stroll around the block. He picked up a copy of
the New York Star on the corner of Sixty-first and Madison, and smiled when he
saw a large photo of himself dominating the front page, with the headline “Chairman”
underneath. It didn’t please him that Townsend’s photo was also on the same
page – even if it was considerably smaller, and below the fold. The caption
read: “A $20 million profit?”

Armstrong tucked
the paper under his arm. When he reached the hotel, he stepped into a waiting
lift and said to the bellboy, “Who cares about $20 million, when you can be the
owner of the Star?”

“Excuse me,
sir?” said the puzzled bellboy.

“Which would you
rather have,” Armstrong asked.”The New York Star or $20 million?”

The bellboy
looked up at the giant of a man, who seemed perfectly sober, and said
hopefully, “$20 million, sir.”

When Townsend
woke the following morning he had a stiff neck. He stood up and stretched. Then
he noticed the New York Stars statutes lying at his feet. And then he
remembered.

He walked across
the room and cautiously opened the bedroom door. Angela was still fast asleep-
He closed the door quietly, returned to his chair and rang through to room
service. He ordered breakfast and five papers, and asked them to clear away the
dinner table.

When the bedroom
door opened the second time that morning, Angela stepped out gingerly to find
Townsend reading the Wall StreetJournal and sipping coffee. She asked the same
question as she had when they met in the gallery. “Who are you?” He gave her
the same reply. She smiled.

“Can I order you
some breakfast?”

“No thanks, but
you could pour me a large black coffee. I’ll be back in a moment.” The bedroom
door closed and didn’t open again for another twenty minutes. When Angela sat
down in the chair opposite Townsend, she looked very nervous. He poured her a
coffee, but she made no attempt at conversation until she had taken several
large gulps.

“Did I do
anything foolish last night?” she asked eventually.

“No, you
didn’t,” said Townsend with a smile.

“It’s just that
I’ve never...”

‘There’s nothing
to worry about,” he assured her. “You fell asleep and I put you to bed.” He
paused. “Fully dressed.”

‘That’s a
relief.” She looked at her watch. “Good heavens, is that really the time, or
did I put my watch on upside down?”

“It , s twenty
past eight,” said Townsend.

“I’ll have to
grab a cab immediately. I’ve got a site meeting in SoHo with the new chairman
at nine, and I must make a good impression. If he refuses to buy the new
building, it could be my one chance.”

“Don’t bother
with a cab,” said Townsend. “My driver will take you wherever you want to go.
You’ll find him parked out front in a white BMW.”

‘Thank you,” she
said. ‘That’s really generous of you.”

She quickly drained
her coffee. “it was a great dinner last night, and you were very thoughtful,”
she said as she rose from her chair. “But if I’m to be there ahead of Mr.
Armstrong, I really must leave now.”

“Of course.” Townsend
stood up and helped her on with her coat.

When they
reached the door she turned and faced him again. “if I didn’t do anything
foolish last night, did I say anything I might regret?”

“No, I don’t
think so. You just chatted about your work at the foundation,” he said as he
opened the door for her.

“it was kind of
you to listen. I do hope we meet again.”

I have a feeling
we will,” said Townsend.

She leaned
forward and gave him a kiss on the cheek. “By the way,” she said, “you never
did tell me your name.

“Keith
Townsend.”

“Oh shit,” she
said, as the door closed behind her.

When Armstrong
arrived outside 147 Lower Broadway that morning, he was greeted by the sight of
Lloyd Summers waiting on the top step standing next to a rather thin,
academic-looking woman, who was either very tired or simply bored.

“Good morning,
Mr. Armstrong,” said Summers as he stepped out of the car.

“Good morning,”
he replied, forcing a smile as he shook the director’s hand.

“This is Angela
Humphries, my deputy,” he explained. “You may have met her at the opening last
night.”

Armstrong could
recall her face, but didn’t remember meeting her. He nodded curtly.

“Angela’s
speciality is the Renaissance period,” said Sumrners, opening the door and
standing to one side.

“How
interesting,” said Armstrong, making no attempt to sound interested.

“Let me start by
showing you round,” said the director, as they entered a large empty room on
the ground floor. Armstrong put a hand in his pocket and flicked on a switch.