The Fourth Estate (68 page)

There was a
smattering of applause, hampered by the holding of wine glasses, and Armstrong
beamed once again. Townsend assumed that Summers had come to the end of his
speech and turned to leave, but he added, “Unhappily, this will be the last
exhibition to be held at this venue. As I’m sure you all know, our lease is
coming to an end in December.” A sigh went up around the room, but Summers
raised his hands and said, “Fear not, my friends. I do believe I have, after a
long search, found the perfect site to house the foundation. I hope that we
will all meet there for Our next exhibition.”

“Though only one
or two of us really know why that particular site was chosen,” someone murmured
sotto voce behind Townsend. He glanced round to see a slim woman who must have
been in her mid-thirties, with shortcropped auburn hair and wearing a white
blouse and a floral -patterned skirt. The little label on her blouse announced
that she was Ms. Angela Humphries, deputy director.

“And it would be
a wonderful start,” continued Summers, “if the first exhibition in our new
building were to be opened by the Star’s next chairman, who has so generously
pledged his continued support for the foundation.”

Armstrong beamed
and nodded.

“Not if he’s got
any sense, he won’t,” said the woman behind Townsend.

He took a pace
back so that he was standing next to Ms. Angela Humphries, who was sipping a
glass of Spanish champagne.

‘Thank you, my
dear friends,” said Summers. “Now, do please continue to enjoy the exhibition.”
There followed another round of applause, after which Armstrong stepped forward
and shook the director warmly by the hand. Summers began moving among the
guests, introducing Armstrong to those he considered important.

Townsend turned
to face Angela Humphries as she finished her drink. He quickly grabbed a bottle
of Spanish champagne from the table behind them and refilled her glass.

‘Thank you,” she
said, looking at him for the first time. “As you can see, I’m Angela Humphries.
Who are you?”

“I’m from out of
town.” He hesitated. lust visiting New York on a business trip.”

Angela took a
sip before asking, “What sort of business?”

“I’m in
transport, actually. Mainly planes and haulage. Though I do own a couple of
coalmines.”

“Most of these
would be better off down a coalmine,” said Angela, her free arm gesturing
toward the pictures.

“I couldn’t
agree more,” said Townsend.

‘Then what made
you come in the first place?”

“I was on my own
in New York and read about the exhibition in the Times,” he replied.

“So, what sort
of art do you like then?” she asked.

Townsend avoided
saying “Boyd, Nolan and Williams,” who filled the walls of his house at Darting
Point, and told her “Bonnard, Camoir and Vuillard,” who Kate had been
collecting for several years.

“Now they really
could paint,” Angela said. “If you admire them, I can think of several
exhibitions that would have been worth giving up an evening for.”

‘That’s fine if
you know where to look, but when you’re a stranger and on your own...”

She raised an
eyebrow. “Are you married?”

“No,” he
replied, hoping she believed him. “And you?”

“Divorced,” she said.
“I used to be married to an artist who was convinced he had a talent second
only to Bellini’s.”

“And how good
was he really?” asked Townsend.

“He was rejected
for this exhibition,” she replied, “which may give you a clue.”

Townsend
laughed. People had begun steadily drifting toward the exit, and Armstrong and
Summers were now only a few paces away. As Townsend poured Angela another glass
of champagne, Armstrong suddenly came face to face with him. -17he two men
stared at each other for a moment, before Armstrong grabbed Summers by the arm
and dragged him quickly back to the center of the room.

“You notice he
didn’t want to introduce me to the new chairman,” Angela said wistfully.

Townsend didn’t
bother to explain that he thought it was more likely that Armstrong didn’t want
him to meet the director.

“Nice to have
met you, Mr......

“Are you doing
anything for dinner?”

She hesitated
for a moment. “No,” she said. “I had nothing planned, but I do have an early
start tomorrow.”

“So do I,” said
Townsend. “Why don’t we have a quick bite to eat?”

“OK. Just give
me a minute to get my coat, and I’ll be with you.”

As she walked
off in the direction of the cloakroom, Townsend glanced around the room.
Armstrong, with Summers in tow, was now Surrounded by a crowd of admirers.
Townsend didn’t need to be any closer to know that he would be telling them all
about his exciting plans for the future of the foundation.

A moment later
Angela returned, wearing a heavy winter coat that stopped only inches from the
ground. “Where would you like to eat?” Townsend asked as they began to climb
the wide staircase that led from the basement gallery up to the street.

“All the halfway
decent restaurants will already be booked up by this time on a Thursday night,”
said Angela. “Where are you staying?”

‘The Carlyle.”

“I’ve never
eaten there. It might be fun,” she said, as he held open the door for her. When
they stepped out onto the sidewalk they were greeted by an icy New York gale,
and he almost had to hold her up.

The driverofMr.
Townsend’s waiting BMWwassurprised to see him flag down a taxi, and even more
surprised when he saw the girl he was with. Frankly, he wouldn’t have thought
she was Mr. Townsen(fs type. He turned on the ignition and trailed the cab back
to the Carlyle, then watched them get out on Madison and disappear through the
revolving door into the hotel.

Townsend guided
Angela straight to the dining room on the first floor, hoping that the maitre
d’ wouldn’t remember his name.

“Good evening,
sir,” he said. “Have you booked a table?”

“No,” Townsend
replied. “But I’m resident in the hotel.”

The head waiter
frowned. “I’m sorry, sir, but I won’t be able to fit you in for at least
another thirty minutes. You could of course take advantage of room service, if
you wish.”

“No, we’ll wait
at the bar,” said Townsend.

“I really do
have an early appointment tomorrow,” Angela said. “And I can’t afford to be
late for it.”

“Shall we go in
search of a restaurant?”

“I’m quite happy
to eat in your room, but I’ll have to be away by eleven.”

“Suits me,” said
Townsend. He turned back to the maitre d’and said, “We’ll have dinner in my
room.”

He gave a slight
bow. “I’ll have someone sent up immediately. What room number is it, sir?”

“712,” said Townsend.
He guided Angela back out of the restaurant. As they walked down the corridor
they passed a room in which Bobby Schultz was playing.

“Now he really
does have talent,” Angela said as they headed toward the elevator. Townsend
nodded and smiled. They joined a group of guests just before the doors closed,
and he pressed the button for the seventh floor. When they stepped out she gave
him a nervous smile. He wanted to tell her that it wasn’t her body he was
interested in.

Townsend slipped
his pass-key into the lock and pushed open the door to let Angela in. He was
relieved to see the complimentary bottle of champagne, which he hadn’t bothered
to open, was still in its place on the center table. She took off her coat and
placed it over the nearest chair as he removed the gold wrapping from the neck
of the bottle, then eased the cork out and filled two glasses up to the brim.

I mustn’t have
too much,” she said. I drank quite a lot at the gallery.”

Townsend raised
his glass just as there was a knock on the door. A waiter appeared holding a
menu, a pad and a pencil.

“Dover sole and
a green salad will suit mejust fine,” Angela said, without looking at the
proffered menu.

“On or off the
bone, madam?” asked the waiter.

“Off, please.”

“Why don’t YOU
make that tww” said Townsend. He then took his time selecting a couple of
bottles of French wine, ignoring his favorite Australian chardormay.

Once they were
both seated, Angela began to talk about other artists who were exhibiting in
New York, and her enthusiasm and knowledge of her subject almost made Townsend
forget why he had invited her to dinner in the first place. As they waited for
the meal to arrive, he slowly guided the conversation round to her work at the
gallery. He agreed with her judgment of the current exhibition, and asked why
she, as the deputy director, hadn’t done something about it.

“A grand title
that carries little or no influence,” she said with a sigh as Townsend refilled
her empty glass.

“So Summers
makes ail the decisions?”

“He certainly
does. I wouldn’t waste the foundation’s money on that pseudo- intellectual
rubbish. There’s so much real talent out there, if only someone would takethe
trouble to go and look for it.”

“The exhibition
was well hung,” said Townsend, trying to push her an extra yard.

“Well hung)” she
said in a tone of disbelief. “I’m not discussing the hanging – or the lighting,
or the framing, for that matter. I was referring to the pictures. In any case,
there’s only one thing in that gallery that ought to be hung.”

There was a knock
on the door. Townsend rose from his chair and stood aside to allow the waiter
to enter, pushing a laden trolley. He set up a table in the center of the room
and laid out dinner for two, explaining that the fish was in a warming drawer
below. Townsend signed the check and handed him a ten-dollar bill. “Shall I
come back and clear up later, sir?” the waiter asked politely. He received a
slight but firm shake of the head.

Angela was
already toying with her salad when Townsend took the seat opposite her. He
uncorked the chardonnay and filled both their glasses.

“So you feel
that Summers possibly spent more than was strictly necessary on the
exhibition?” he prompted.

“More than was
strictly necessary?” said Angela, as she tasted the white wine. “He fritters away
over a million dollars of the foundation’s money every year. We have nothing to
show for it other than a few parties, the sole purpose of which is to boost his
ego.”

“How does he
manage to get through a million a year?” asked Townsend, pretending to concentrate
on his salad.

“Well, take
tonight’s exhibition. That cost the foundation a quarter of a million for a
start. Then there’s his expense account, which runs second only to Ed Koch’s.”

“So how does he
get away with it?” asked Townsend, topping up her glass of wine. He hoped she
hadn’t noticed he’d hardly touched his.

“Because there’s
no one to check on what he’s up to,” said Angela. “The foundation is controlled
by his mother, who holds the purse strings-until the AGM, at least.”

“Mrs. Summers?”
prompted Townsend, determined to keep the flow going.

“No less,” said
Angela.

‘Then why
doesn’t she do something about it?”

“How can she2
The poor woman’s been bedridden for the past two years, and the one person who
visits herdaily, I might add-is none other than her devoted only son.

“I’ve got a
feeling that could change as soon as Armstrong takes over.”

“Why do you say
that? Do you know him?”

“No,” said
Townsend quickly, trying to recover from his mistake. “But everything I’ve read
about him would suggest that he doesn’t care much for hangers-on.”

“I only hope
that’s right,” said Angela, pouring herself another glass of wine, “because
that might give me a chance to show him what I could do for the foundation.”

“Perhaps that’s
why Summers never let Armstrong out of his sight this evening.”

“He didn’t even
introduce him to me,” said Angela, “as I’m sure you noticed. Lloyd isn’t going
to give up his lifestyle without a fight, that’s for sure.” She stuck her fork
into a slice of courgette. “And if he can get Armstrong to sign the lease on
the new premises before the AGM, there will be no reason for him to do so. This
wine really is exceptional,” she said, putting down her empty glass. Townsend
filled it again, and uncorked the second bottle.

“Are you trying
to get me drunk?” she asked, laughing.

“The thought
hadn’t even crossed my mind,” said Townsend. He rose from his place, removed
two plates from the warming drawer and set them on the table. ‘Tell me,” he
said, “are you looking forward to moving?”

“Moving?” she
said, as she put some Hollandaise sauce on the side of her plate.

‘To your new
premises,” said Townsend. “it sounds as if Lloyd has found the perfect
location.”

“Perfect?” she
repeated. “At $3 million it should be perfect. But perfect for whom?” she said,
picking up her knife and fork.