“Can’t do that,” said Townsend. “I have to catch the first flight to New York if I’m going to make this deal worthwhile. You’ll need to sort out the details with Ben Ampthill. He’s not the sort of man who’ll go back on his word.”
“But I’m still going to need your input.”
“You’ve just had it,” said Townsend. “So be sure you have the contract ready for signing the moment I get back.”
“How long will you be away?” asked Clive.
“Four days, five at the most.”
“Can you pick up what you need in five days?”
“If I can’t, I’ll have to take up coalmining.”
Once he had put the phone down, Townsend returned to the bedroom and picked up his suitcase. He decided not to wake Susan: flying off to New York at such short notice would take a lot of explaining. He scribbled her a note and left it on the hall table.
When he saw Sam standing at the end of the drive, Townsend couldn’t help thinking that he looked as if he hadn’t had much sleep either. At the airport, he told him that he’d be back some time on Friday.
“Don’t forget you’re getting married on Saturday, boss.”
“Even I couldn’t forget that,” said Townsend. “No need to worry, I’ll be back with at least twenty-four hours to spare.”
In the plane, he fell asleep moments after he had fastened his seatbelt. When he woke several hours later, he couldn’t remember where he was going or why. Then it all came back to him. He and his radio team had spent several days in New York during their preparations for the earlier network bid, and he had made three subsequent visits to the city that year, setting up deals with American networks and agencies that would have been immediately turned into a program schedule had he been awarded the new franchise. Now he intended to take advantage of all that hard work.
A Yellow Cab drove him from the airport to the Pierre. Despite all four windows being down, Townsend had removed his tie and undone his shirt collar long before he was dropped outside the hotel.
The concierge welcomed him as if he had made fifty trips to New York that year, and instructed a bellboy to show Mr. Townsend up to “his usual room.” Another shower, a further change of clothes, a late breakfast and several more phone calls were made before Townsend began shuttling round the city from agent to agent, network to network, studio to studio, in an attempt to close deals at breakfast, lunch, dinner and sometimes in the small hours of the morning.
Four days later he had purchased the Australian rights for most of the top American radio programs for the coming season, with options on them for a further four years. He signed the final agreement only a couple of hours before his flight was due to leave for Sydney. He packed a suitcase full of dirty clothes—he disapproved of paying unnecessary bills—and took a cab to the airport.
Once the plane had taken off he started drafting a 500-word article, revising paragraphs and changing phrases, until he was satisfied it was good enough for the front page. When they landed in Los Angeles, Townsend went in search of the nearest pay phone and called Bruce Kelly’s office. He was surprised that the editor wasn’t at his desk. Kelly’s deputy assured him that he still had enough time to make the final edition, and quickly transferred him to a copy typist. As Townsend dictated the article, he wondered how long it would be before Hacker and Kenwrigh
t were on the phone, begging him to make a deal now that he had broken their cozy cartel wide open.
He heard his name being called out over the loudspeaker, and had to run all the way back to the aircraft. They closed the door as soon as he had stepped on board. Once he had settled into his seat, his eyes didn’t open again until the plane touched down at Sydney the following morning.
When he reached the baggage collection area, he called Clive Jervis as he waited for his suitcases to come down the chute. He glanced at his watch when he heard Clive’s voice on the other end of the line. “I hope I didn’t get you out of bed,” he said.
“Not at all. I was just putting on my morning dress,” the lawyer replied.
Townsend would have asked whose wedding Clive was attending, but he was only interested in finding out if Ampthill had signed the contract.
“Let me tell you before you ask,” Clive began. “You are now the proud owner of the Wollongong Times, the Wollongong Grand Hotel, two coalmines and a radio station known as 2WW, which can be picked up as far south as Nowra and as far north as the southern outskirts of Sydney. I only hope you know what you’re up to, Keith, because I’m damned if I do.”
“Read the front page of this morning’s Chronicle,” said Townsend. “It might give you a clue.”
“I never read the papers on a Saturday morning,” said Clive. “I think I’m entitled to one day off a week.”
“But today’s Friday,” said Townsend.
“It may be Friday in New York,” replied Clive, “but I can assure you it’s Saturday here in Sydney. I’ll look forward to seeing you at the church in about an hour’s time.”
“Oh my God,” cried Townsend. He dropped the phone, ran out of the customs hall without his luggage and emerged onto the pavement to find Sam standing by the car, looking slightly agitated. Townsend leapt into the front seat. “I thought it was Friday,” he said.
“No, sir, I’m afraid it’s Saturday,” said Sam. “And you’re meant to be getting married in fifty-six minutes’ time.”
“But that doesn’t even leave me enough time to go home and change.”
“Don’t worry,” said Sam. “Heather’s put everything you’ll need on the back seat.”