The Fourth Estate

“I would have said tomorrow, but it depends on whether I’m going to be expected to walk home every time. If I am, I might have to suggest a local restaurant, or at least wear more sensible shoes.”

“Certainly not,” said Townsend. “I promise you tomorrow I’ll drive you home. But I have to be in Sydney to sign a contract earlier in the day, so I don’t expect to be back much before eight.”

“That’s perfect. It will give me enough time to go home and change.”

“Would L’Étoile suit you?”

“Only if you have something to celebrate.”

“There will be something to celebrate, that I promise you.”

“Then I’ll see you at L’Étoile at nine.” She leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. “You know, you’ll never get a taxi out here at this time of night, Keith,” she said, looking rather concerned. “I’m afraid you’re going to have a long walk back.”

“It will be worth it,” said Townsend, as Susan disappeared down the short drive to her front door.

A car drove up and came to a halt by his side. The driver jumped out and opened the door for him.

“Where to, boss?”

“Home, Sam,” he said to his driver. “But let’s go via the station, so I can pick up the early morning edition.”

* * *

Townsend took the first flight to Sydney the following morning. His lawyer, Clive Jervis, and his accountant, Trevor Meacham, were sitting on either side of him.

“I’m still not altogether happy with the rescission clause,” said Clive.

“And the payment schedule needs a little fine tuning, that’s for sure,” added Trevor.

“How long is it going to take to sort out these problems?” asked Townsend. “I have a dinner appointment in Adelaide tonight, and I must catch an afternoon flight.” Both men looked doubtful.

Their fears were to prove justified. The two companies’ lawyers spent the morning going over the fine print, and the two accountants took even longer checking the figures. Nobody stopped for lunch, and by three o’clock Townsend was checking his watch every few minutes. Despite his pacing up and down the room, delivering monosyllabic replies to lengthy questions, the final document wasn’t ready for signing until a few minutes after five.

Townsend breathed a sigh of relief when the lawyers finally rose from the boardroom table and began to stretch themselves. He checked his watch again, and was confident he could still catch a plane that would get him back to Adelaide in time. He thanked both his advisers for their efforts, and was shaking hands with their opposite numbers when Sir Somerset walked into the room, followed by his editor and chief executive.

“I’m told we have an agreement at last,” said the old man with a broad grin.

“I think so,” said Townsend, trying not to show how anxious he was to escape. If he called Moore’s to warn her he might be late, he knew they wouldn’t put him through.

“Well, let’s have a drink to celebrate before we put our signatures to the final document,” said Sir Somerset.

After the third whiskey, Townsend suggested that perhaps the time had come to sign the contract. Nick Watson agreed, and reminded Sir Somerset that he still had a paper to bring out that night. “Quite right,” said the proprietor, removing a fountain pen from his inside pocket. “And as I will still own the Chronicle for another six weeks, we can’t allow standards to drop. By the way, Keith, I do hope you’ll be able to join me for dinner?”

“I’m afraid I can’t tonight,” replied Townsend. “I already have a dinner appointment in Adelaide.”

Sir Somerset swung round to face him. “It had better be a beautiful woman,” he said, “because I’m damned if I’ll be stood up for another business deal.”

“I promise you she’s beautiful,” said Townsend, laughing. “And it’s only our second date.”

“In that case, I won’t hold you up,” said Sir Somerset, heading toward the boardroom table where two copies of the agreement had been laid out. He stopped for a moment, staring down at the contract, and seemed to hesitate. Both sides looked a little nervous, and one of Sir Somerset’s lawyers began to fidget.

The old man turned to Townsend and winked. “I must tell you that it was Duncan who finally convinced me I should go with you, and not Hacker,” he said. He bent down and put his signature to both contracts, then passed the pen over to Townsend, who scribbled his name by the side of Sir Somerset’s.

The two men shook hands rather formally. “Just time for another drink,” said Sir Somerset, and winked at Townsend. “You run along, Keith, and we’ll see how much of the profits we can consume in your absence. I must say, my boy, I couldn’t be more delighted that the Chronicle will be passing into the hands of Sir Graham Townsend’s son.”

Nick Watson stepped forward and put his arm round Townsend’s shoulder as he turned to leave. “I must say, as editor of the Chronicle, how much I’m looking forward to working with you. I hope we’ll be seeing you back in Sydney before too long.”

“I’m looking forward to working with you as well,” said Townsend, “and I’m sure we’ll bump into each other from time to time.” He turned to shake hands with Duncan Alexander. “Thank you,” he said. “We’re all square.” Duncan thrust out his hand, but Townsend was already rushing out of the door. He saw the lift doors close seconds before he could stab the down arrow on the wall. When he finally flagged a taxi, the driver refused to break the speed limit despite coaxing, bribing and finally shouting. As he was being driven in