The Fourth Estate

“A grand title that carries little or no influence,” she said with a sigh as Townsend refilled her empty glass.

“So Summers makes all the decisions?”

“He certainly does. I wouldn’t waste the foundation’s money on that pseudo-intellectual rubbish. There’s so much real talent out there, if only someone would take the trouble to go and look for it.”

“The exhibition was well hung,” said Townsend, trying to push her an extra yard.

“Well hung?” she said in a tone of disbelief. “I’m not discussing the hanging—or the lighting, or the framing, for that matter. I was referring to the pictures. In any case, there’s only one thing in that gallery that ought to be hung.”

There was a knock on the door. Townsend rose from his chair and stood aside to allow the waiter to enter, pushing a laden trolley. He set up a table in the center of the room and laid out dinner for two, explaining that the fish was in a warming drawer below. Townsend signed the check and handed him a ten-dollar bill. “Shall I come back and clear up later, sir?” the waiter asked politely. He received a slight but firm shake of the head.

Angela was already toying with her salad when Townsend took the seat opposite her. He uncorked the chardonnay and filled both their glasses. “So you feel that Summers possibly spent more than was strictly necessary on the exhibition?” he prompted.

“More than was strictly necessary?” said Angela, as she tasted the white wine. “He fritters away over a million dollars of the foundation’s money every year. We have nothing to show for it other than a few parties, the sole purpose of which is to boost his ego.”

“How does he manage to get through a million a year?” asked Townsend, pretending to concentrate on his salad.

“Well, take tonight’s exhibition. That cost the foundation a quarter of a million for a start. Then there’s his expense account, which runs second only to Ed Koch’s.”

“So how does he get away with it?” asked Townsend, topping up her glass of wine. He hoped she hadn’t noticed he’d hardly touched his.

“Because there’s no one to check on what he’s up to,” said Angela. “The foundation is controlled by his mother, who holds the purse strings—until the AGM, at least.”

“Mrs. Summers?” prompted Townsend, determined to keep the flow going.

“No less,” said Angela.

“Then why doesn’t she do something about it?”

“How can she? The poor woman’s been bedridden for the past two years, and the one person who visits her—daily, I might add—is none other than her devoted only son.”

“I’ve got a feeling that could change as soon as Armstrong takes over.”

“Why do you say that? Do you know him?”

“No,” said Townsend quickly, trying to recover from his mistake. “But everything I’ve read about him would suggest that he doesn’t care much for hangers-on.”

“I only hope that’s right,” said Angela, pouring herself another glass of wine, “because that might give me a chance to show him what I could do for the foundation.”

“Perhaps that’s why Summers never let Armstrong out of his sight this evening.”

“He didn’t even introduce him to me,” said Angela, “as I’m sure you noticed. Lloyd isn’t going to give up his lifestyle without a fight, that’s for sure.” She stuck her fork into a slice of courgette. “And if he can get Armstrong to sign the lease on the new premises before the AGM, there will be no reason for him to do so. This wine really is exceptional,” she said, putting down her empty glass. Townsend filled it again, and uncorked the second bottle.

“Are you trying to get me drunk?” she asked, laughing.

“The thought hadn’t even crossed my mind,” said Townsend. He rose from his place, removed two plates from the warming drawer and set them on the table. “Tell me,” he said, “are you looking forward to moving?”

“Moving?” she said, as she put some Hollandaise sauce on the side of her plate.

“To your new premises,” said Townsend. “It sounds as if Lloyd has found the perfect location.”

“Perfect?” she repeated. “At $3 million it should be perfect. But perfect for whom?” she said, picking up her knife and fork.

“Still, as he explained,” said Townsend, “you weren’t exactly left with a lot of choice.”

“No, what you mean is that the board weren’t left with a lot of choice, because he told them there wasn’t an alternative.”

“But the lease on the present building was coming to an end, wasn’t it?” said Townsend.