The Fourth Estate

“I see that you’ve learned a great deal from your father,” said Sir Somerset. “Like him, and like you, I don’t involve myself in the day-to-day running of the paper. It always ends in tears.”

Townsend nodded his agreement.

“Well, I don’t think there’s much more for us to discuss at this stage, so I suggest we adjourn to the dining room and have some lunch.” The old man put his arm round Townsend’s shoulder and said, “I only wish your father were here to join us.”

* * *

The smile never left Townsend’s face on the journey back to the airport. If she were on the return flight, that would be a bonus. His smile became even wider as he fastened his seatbelt and began to rehearse what he would say to her.

“I hope you had a worthwhile trip to Sydney, Mr. Townsend,” she said as she offered him an evening paper.

“It couldn’t have turned out better,” he replied. “Perhaps you’d like to join me for dinner tonight and help me celebrate?”

“That’s very kind of you, sir,” she said, emphasizing the word “sir,” “but I’m afraid it’s against company policy.”

“Is it against company policy to know your name?”

“No, sir,” she said. “It’s Susan.” She gave him that same smile, and moved on to the next row.

The first thing he did when he got back to his flat was to make himself a sardine sandwich. He had only taken one bite when the phone rang. It was Clive Jervis, the senior partner at Jervis, Smith & Thomas. Clive was still anxious about some of the finer details of the contract, including compensation agreements and stock write-offs.

No sooner had Townsend put the phone down than it rang again, and he took an even longer call from Trevor Meacham, his accountant, who still felt that £1.9 million was too high a price.

“I don’t have a lot of choice,” Townsend told him. “Wally Hacker has already offered the same amount.”

“Hacker is also capable of paying too much,” came back the reply. “I think we should still demand staged payments, based on this year’s circulation figures, and not aggregated over the past ten years.”

“Why?” asked Townsend.

“Because the Chronicle has been losing 2 to 3 percent of its readers year on year. Everything ought to be based on the latest figures available.”

“I agree with you on that, but I don’t want it to be the reason I lose this deal.”

“Neither do I,” said his accountant. “But I also don’t want you to end up bankrupt simply because you paid far too much for sentimental reasons. Every deal must stack up in its own right, and not be closed just to prove you’re as good as your father.”

Neither man spoke for several moments.

“You needn’t worry about that,” said Townsend eventually. “I already have plans to double the circulation of the Chronicle. In a year’s time £1.9 million will look cheap. And what’s more, my father would have backed me on this one.” He put the phone down before Trevor could say another word.

The final call came from Bruce Kelly just after eleven, by which time Townsend was in his dressing-gown, and the half-eaten sardine sandwich was stale.

“Sir Somerset is still nervous,” he warned him.

“Why?” asked Townsend. “I felt today’s meeting couldn’t have gone better.”

“The meeting wasn’t the problem. After you left, he had a call from Sir Colin Grant which lasted nearly an hour. And Duncan Alexander isn’t exactly your closest mate.”

Townsend thumped his fist on the table. “Damn the man,” he said. “Now listen carefully, Bruce, and I’ll tell you exactly what line you should take. Whenever Sir Colin’s name comes up, remind Sir Somerset that as soon as he became chairman of the Messenger, it began losing sales every week. As for Alexander, you can leave him to me.”

* * *

Townsend was disappointed to find that on his next flight up to Sydney, Susan was nowhere to be seen. When a steward served him with coffee, he asked if she was working on another flight.

“No, sir,” he replied. “Susan left the company at the end of last month.”

“Do you know where she’s working now?”

“I’ve no idea, sir,” he replied, before moving on to the next passenger.