The Fourth Estate

“What he didn’t tell you in his speech was that the owner would have been quite happy to renew the lease for another ten years with no rent increase,” said Angela, picking up her wine glass. “I really shouldn’t have any more, but after that rubbish they serve at the gallery, this is a real treat.”

“Then why didn’t he?” asked Townsend.

“Why didn’t he what?”

“Renew the lease.”

“Because he found another building that just happens to have a penthouse apartment thrown in,” she said, putting down her wine glass and concentrating once again on her fish.

“But he has every right to live on the premises,” said Townsend. “He’s the director, after all.”

“True, but that doesn’t give him the right to have a separate lease on the apartment, so that when he finally decides to retire they won’t be able to get rid of him without paying vast compensation. He’s got it all worked out.” She was beginning to slur her words.

“How do you know all this?”

“We once shared a lover,” she said rather sadly.

Townsend quickly refilled her glass. “So where is this building?”

“Why are you so keen to know all about the new building?” she said, sounding suspicious for the first time.

“I’d like to look you up when I’m next in New York,” he replied without missing a beat.

Angela put her knife and fork down on the plate, pushed her chair back and said, “You don’t have any brandy, do you? Just a small one, to warm me up before I face the blizzard on my way home.”

“I’m sure I do,” said Townsend. He walked over to the fridge, extracted four miniature brandies of different origins and poured them all into a large goblet.

“Won’t you join me?” she asked.

“No, thank you. I haven’t quite finished my wine,” he said, picking up his first glass, which was almost untouched. “And more important, I don’t have to face the blizzard. Tell me, how did you become deputy director?”

“After five deputies had resigned in four years, I think I must have been the only person who applied.”

“I’m surprised he bothers with a deputy.”

“He has to.” She took a sip of brandy. “It’s in the statutes.”

“But you must be well qualified to have been offered the job,” he said, quickly changing the subject.

“I studied the history of art at Yale, and did my PhD on the Renaissance 1527–1590 at the Accademia in Venice.”

“After Caravaggio, Luini and Michelangelo, that lot must be a bit of a come-down,” said Townsend.

“I wouldn’t mind even that, but I’ve been deputy director for nearly two years and haven’t been allowed to mount one show. If only he would give me the chance, I could put on an ex

hibition the foundation could be proud of, at about a tenth of the cost of this current show.” She took another sip of brandy.

“If you feel that strongly, I’m surprised you stick around,” said Townsend.

“I won’t for much longer,” she said. “If I can’t convince Armstrong to change the gallery’s policy, I’m going to resign. But as Lloyd seems to be leading him around on a leash, I doubt if I’ll still be around when they open the next exhibition.” She paused, and took a sip of brandy. “I haven’t even told my mother that,” she admitted. “But then, sometimes it’s easier to talk to strangers.” She took another sip. “You’re not in the art world, are you?”

“No, as I said, I’m in transport and coalmines.”

“So what do you actually do? Drive or dig?” She stared across at him, drained her glass and tried again. “What I mean is…”

“Yes?” said Townsend.

“To start with … what do you transport, and to where?” She picked up her glass, paused for a moment, then slowly slid off her chair onto the carpet, mumbling something about fossil fuels in Renaissance Rome. Within a few seconds she was curled up on the floor, purring like a contented cat. Townsend picked her up gently and carried her through to the bedroom. He pulled back the top sheet, laid her down on the bed and covered her slight body with a blanket. He had to admire her for lasting so long; he doubted if she weighed more than eight stone.