The Fourth Estate

“Every day gives Townsend more time to find out what I’m up to,” he muttered irritably.

His mood had caused Sally to postpone their annual discussion about her pay rise, which always made him lose his temper. But she had already started to put off paying certain bills that were long overdue, and she knew she was going to have to face up to him soon, however foul his mood.

Armstrong put the phone down on his wife, and asked Sally to come back in. She had already sorted through the morning post, dealt with all the routine letters, drafted provisional replies to the remainder, and put them all in a folder for his consideration. The majority only required his signature. But before she had even closed the door, he began dictating furiously. As the words came tumbling out, she automatically corrected his grammar, and realized that in some cases she would later have to temper his words.

As soon as he had finished dictating, he stormed out of the office for a lunch appointment, without giving her the chance to say anything. She decided that she would have to raise the subject of her salary as soon as he returned. After all, why should her holiday be postponed simply because of her boss’s refusal to consider other people’s lives?

By the time Armstrong came back from lunch, Sally had typed up all his dictation and had the letters in a second folder on his desk awaiting signature. She couldn’t help noticing that, unusually, there was a smell of whiskey on his breath; but she realized she couldn’t put it off any longer.

The first question he asked as she stood in front of his desk was, “Who in hell’s name arranged for me to have lunch with the minister of telecommunications?”

“It was at your specific request,” said Sally.

“It most certainly was not,” said Dick. “On the contrary, I distinctly remember telling you that I never wanted to see the prat again.” His voice rose with every word. “He’s basically unemployable, like half this bloody government.”

Sally clenched her hand. “Dick, I feel I must…”

“What’s the latest on Margaret Sherwood?”

“There’s still no change,” said Sally. “She returns from her cruise at the end of the month, and I’ve arranged for you to see her in New York the following day. The flight is already booked, and I’ve reserved your usual suite at the Pierre, overlooking Central Park. I’m preparing a file, with reference to Alexander Sherwood’s latest piece of information. I understand he’s already let his sister-in-law know the price at which he’s sold you his shares, and has advised her to do the same as soon as she gets back.”

“Good. So do I have any other problems?”

“Yes. Me,” said Sally.

“You?” said Armstrong. “Why? What’s wrong with you?”

“My annual pay rise is nearly two months overdue, and I’m becoming…”

“I wasn’t thinking of giving you a rise this year.”

Sally was about to laugh when she caught the expression on her employer’s face. “Oh, come off it, Dick. You know I can’t live on what you pay me.”

“Why not? Others seem to manage well enough without complaining.”

“Be reasonable, Dick. Since Malcolm left me…”

“I suppose you’re going to claim it was my fault he left you?”

“Most probably.”

“What are you suggesting?”

“I’m not suggesting anything, but with the hours I put in…”

“Then perhaps the time has come for you to look for a job where the hours aren’t quite as demanding.”

Sally couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “After twenty-one years of working for you,” she said, “I’m not sure anyone else would be willing to take me on.”

“And just what do you mean by that?” shouted Armstrong.

Sally rocked back, wondering what had come over him. Was he drunk, and unaware of what he was saying? Or had he been drinking because he knew exactly what he wanted to say? She stared down at him. “What’s come over you, Dick? I’m only asking for an increase in line with inflation, not even a proper rise.”

“I’ll tell you what’s come over me,” he replied. “I’m sick and tired of the inefficiency in this place, plus the fact that you’ve got into the habit of fixing up private appointments during office hours.”

“It’s not the first of April, is it, Dick?” she asked, trying to lighten the mood.

“Don’t you get sarcastic with me, or you’ll find it’s more like the Ides of March. It’s exactly that sort of attitude that convinces me the time has come to bring in someone who will carry out this job without always complaining. Someone with fresh ideas. Someone who would bring some much-needed discipline into this office.” He slammed his clenched fist down on the folder of unsigned letters.