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.…”
“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.
“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.
“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.
He returned to the sitting room, closing the bedroom door quietly behind him, and set about looking for the statute book of the New York Star. Once he had found the thin red volume tucked in the bottom of his briefcase, he sat on the sofa and began to read slowly through the company statutes. He had reached page forty-seven before he nodded off.
* * *
Armstrong couldn’t think of a good excuse for turning Summers down when he suggested they should have dinner together after the exhibition. He was relieved that his lawyer hadn’t gone home. “You’ll join us, won’t you, Russell?” he boomed at his attorney, making it sound more like a command than an invitation.
Armstrong had already expressed privately to Russell his thoughts on the exhibition, which he had just managed to conceal from Summers. He had been trying to avoid a meeting from the moment Summers announced he’d found the perfect site for the foundation to move into. But Russell had warned him that Summers was becoming impatient, and had even begun threatening, “Don’t forget, I still have an alternative.”
The Fourth Estate Page 48