The Fourth Estate

Townsend regretted his decision to attend the exhibition moments after he arrived. He circled the room once, glanced at the selection of paintings chosen by the trustees and concluded that they were, without exception, what Kate would have described as “pretentious rubbish.” He decided to leave as quickly as possible. He had successfully negotiated a route to the door when Summers tapped a microphone and called for silence. The director then proceeded to “say a few words.” Townsend checked his watch. When he looked up he saw Armstrong, firmly clutching a catalog, standing next to Summers and beaming at the assembled guests.

Summers began by saying how sad he was that his mother was unable to be with them because of a prolonged illness, and delivered a lengthy disquisition extolling the virtues of the artists whose works he had selected. He declared twenty minutes later how delighted he was that the New York Star’s new chairman had been able to find the time to attend “one of our little soirées.”

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 short-cropped 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. “Just 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 Darling 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. The 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.…”