The Fourth Estate

“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 driver of Mr. Townsend’s waiting BMW was surprised 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. Townsend’s 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 maître 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 maître 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 me just fine,” Angela said, without looking at the proffered menu.

“On or off the bone, madam?” asked the waite

r.

“Off, please.”

“Why don’t you make that two?” said Townsend. He then took his time selecting a couple of bottles of French wine, ignoring his favorite Australian chardonnay.

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.