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  “It certainly would,” said Townsend. “And if you have any other bright ideas, Mel, don’t hesitate to share them with me. You’ll find my door is always open.”

  It was a change for Townsend to see someone leaving his office with a smile on their face. He checked his watch as Bunty walked in.

  “Time for you to be leaving for your lunch with the circulation manager of the Messenger.”

  “I wonder if I can afford it,” said Townsend, checking his watch.

  “Oh yes,” she said. “Your father always thought the Caxton Grill very reasonable. It’s Pilligrini’s he considered extravagant, and he only ever took your mother there.”

  “It’s not the price of the meal I’m worried about, Bunty. It’s how much he’ll demand if he agrees to leave the Messenger and join us.”

  * * *

  Townsend waited for a week before he called for Frank Bailey and told him that the small ads would no longer be appearing on the back page.

  “But the small ads have been on the back page for over seventy years,” was the editor’s first reaction.

  “If that’s true, I can’t think of a better argument for moving them,” said Townsend.

  “But our readers don’t like change.”

  “And the Messenger’s do?” said Townsend. “That’s one of the many reasons they’re selling far more copies than we are.”

  “Are you willing to sacrifice our long tradition simply to gain a few more readers?”

  “I can see you’ve got the message at last,” said Townsend, not blinking.

  “But your mother assured me that…”

  “My mother is not in charge of the day-to-day running of this paper. She gave me that responsibility.” He didn’t add, but only for ninety days.

  The editor held his breath for a moment before he said calmly, “Are you hoping I’ll resign?”

  “Certainly not,” said Townsend firmly. “But I am hoping you’ll help me run a profitable newspaper.”

  He was surprised by the editor’s next question.

  “Can you hold the decision off for another two weeks?”

  “Why?” asked Townsend.

  “Because my sports editor isn’t expected back from holiday until the end of the month.”

  “A sports editor who takes three weeks off in the middle of the cricket season probably wouldn’t even notice if his desk had been replaced when he came back,” snapped Townsend.

  The sports editor handed in his resignation on the day he returned, which deprived Townsend of the pleasure of sacking him. Within hours he had appointed the twenty-five-year-old cricket correspondent to take his place.

  Frank Bailey came charging up to Townsend’s room a few moments after he heard the news. “It’s the editor’s job to make appointments,” he began, even before he had closed the door to Townsend’s office, “not…”

  “Not any longer it isn’t,” said Townsend.

  The two men stared at each other for some time before Frank tried again. “In any case, he’s far too young to take on such a responsibility.”

  “He’s three years older than I am,” said Townsend.

  Frank bit his lip. “May I remind you,” he said, “that when you visited my office for the first time only four weeks ago, you assured me, and I quote, that ‘I don’t intend to be the sort of publisher who interferes with editorial decisions’?”

  Townsend looked up from his desk and reddened slightly.

  “I’m sorry, Frank,” he said. “I lied.”

  * * *

  Long before the ninety days were up, the gap between the circulations of the Messenger and the Gazette had begun to narrow, and Lady Townsend quite forgot she had ever put a time limit on whether they should accept the Messenger’s offer of £150,000.

  After looking over several apartments, Townsend eventually found one in an ideal location, and signed the lease within hours. That evening he explained to his mother over the phone that in future, because of the pressure of work, he wouldn’t be able to visit her in Toorak every weekend. She didn’t seem at all surprised.

  When Townsend attended his third board meeting, he demanded that the directors make him chief executive, so no one would be left in any doubt that he was not there simply as the son of his father. By a narrow vote they turned him down. When he rang his mother that night and asked why she thought they had done so, she told him that the majority had considered that the title of publisher was quite enough for anyone who had only just celebrated his twenty-third birthday.

  The new circulation manager reported—six months after he had left the Messenger to join the Gazette—that the gap between the two papers had closed to 32,000. Townsend was delighted by the news, and at the next board meeting he told the directors that the time had come for them to make a takeover bid for the Messenger. One or two of the older members only just managed to stop themselves laughing, but then Townsend presented them with the figures, produced something he called trend graphs, and was able to show that the bank had agreed to back him.

  Once he had persuaded the majority of his colleagues to go along with the bid, Townsend dictated a letter to Sir Colin, making him an offer of £750,000 for the Messenger. Although he received no official acknowledgment of the bid, Townsend’s lawyers informed him that Sir Colin had called an emergency board meeting, which would take place the following afternoon.

  The lights on the executive floor of the Messenger burned late into the night. Townsend, who had been refused entry to the building, paced up and down the pavement outside, waiting to learn the board’s decision. After two hours he grabbed a hamburger from a café in the next street, and when he returned to his beat he found the lights on the top floor were still burning. Had a passing policeman spotted him, he might have been arrested for loitering with intent.

  The lights on the executive floor were finally switched off just after one, and the directors of the Messenger began to stream out of the building. Townsend looked hopefully at each one of them, but they walked straight past him without giving him so much as a glance.

  Townsend hung around until he was certain that there was no one other than the cleaners left in the building. He then walked slowly back to the Gazette and watched the first edition come off the stone. He knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep that night, so he joined the early-morning vans and helped to deliver the first editions around the city. It gave him the chance to make sure the Gazette was put above the Messenger in the racks.

  * * *

  Two days later Bunty placed a letter in the priority file:

  Dear Mr. Townsend,

  I have received your letter of the twenty-sixth inst.

  In order not to waste any more of your time, let me make it clear the Messenger is not for sale, and never will be.

  Yours faithfully,

  Colin Grant

  Townsend smiled and dropped the letter in the wastepaper basket.

  * * *

  Over the next few months Townsend pushed his staff night and day in a relentless drive to overtake his rival. He always made it clear to every one of his team that no one’s job was safe—and that included the editor’s. Resignations from those who were unable to keep up with the pace of the changes at the Gazette were outnumbered by those who left the Messenger to join him once they realized it was going to be “a battle to the death”—a phrase Townsend used whenever he addressed the monthly staff meeting.

  A year after Townsend had returned from England, the two papers’ circulations were running neck and neck, and he felt the time had come for him to make another call to the chairman of the Messenger.

  When Sir Colin came on the line, Townsend didn’t bother with the normal courtesies. His opening gambit was, “If £750,000 isn’t enough, Sir Colin, what do you consider the paper’s actually worth?”

  “Far more than you can afford, young man. In any case,” he added, “as I’ve already explained, the Messenger’s not for sale.”

  “Well, not for another six months,�