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“How long have you been with the company?” he asked as she extracted a shorthand pad and a pencil from her bag.

  She crossed her legs and said, “Only for a few months, Mr. Townsend. I joined the Chronicle as a trainee after leaving college. You’re my first big assignment.”

  Keith felt old for the first time in his life, although he had only recently celebrated his thirty-third birthday.

  “What’s the accent?” he asked. “I can’t quite place it.”

  “I was born in Budapest, but my parents fled from Hungary at the time of the revolution. The only ship we could get on was going to Australia.”

  “My grandfather also fled to Australia,” Keith said.

  “Because of a revolution?” she asked.

  “No. He was Scottish, and just wanted to get as far away from the English as possible.” Kate laughed. “You recently won a young writers’ award, didn’t you?” he asked, trying to recall the briefing note Heather had prepared for him.

  “Yes. Bruce presented the awards last year, which is how I ended up on the Chronicle.”

  “So what does your father do?”

  “Back in Hungary he was an architect, but over here he’s only been able to pick up odd laboring jobs. The government refuses to recognize his qualifications, and the unions haven’t been all that sympathetic.”

  “They don’t like me either,” said Keith. “And what about your mother?”

  “I’m sorry to appear rude, Mr. Townsend, but I think I’m meant to be interviewing you.”

  “Yes, of course,” said Keith, “do go ahead.” He stared at the girl, unaware of how nervous he was making her. He had never seen anyone more captivating. She had long, dark hair which fell onto her shoulders, and a perfectly oval face that hadn’t yet been savaged by the Australian sun. He suspected that the simple, well-tailored navy-blue suit she wore was more formal than she might normally have chosen. But that was probably because she was interviewing her boss. She crossed her legs again and her skirt rose slightly. He tried not to lower his eyes.

  “Shall I repeat the question, Mr. Townsend?”

  “Err … I’m so sorry.”

  Heather walked in, and was surprised to find them seated in the directors’ corner of the room.

  “There’s a call for you on line one from New York,” she said. “Mr. Lazar. He needs to have a word about a counterbid he’s just received from Channel 7 for one of next season’s sitcoms.”

  “Tell him I’ll call back later,” said Keith, without looking up. “By the way, Kate,” he said, leaning forward, “would you like a coffee?”

  “Yes, thank you Mr. Townsend.”

  “Black or white?”

  “White, but no sugar. Thank you,” she repeated, looking toward Heather.

  Heather turned and left the room without asking Keith if he wanted another coffee.

  “Sorry, what was the question?” Keith asked.

  “Did you write or publish anything when you were at school?”

  “Yes, I was editor of the school magazine in my last year,” he said. Kate began writing furiously. “As my father was before me.” By the time Heather reappeared with the coffee, he was still telling Kate about his triumph with the pavilion appeal.

  “And when you went to Oxford, why didn’t you edit the student newspaper, or take over Isis, the university magazine?”

  “In those days I was far more interested in politics—and in any case, I knew I’d be spending the rest of my life in the newspaper world.”

  “Is it true that when you returned to Australia, you were devastated to find that your mother had sold the Melbourne Courier?”

  “Yes, it is,” admitted Keith, as Heather walked back into the room. “And I’ll get it back one day,” he added under his breath.

  “A problem, Heather?” he asked, raising an eyebrow. She was standing only a foot away from him.

  “Yes. I’m sorry to interrupt you again, Mr. Townsend, but Sir Kenneth Stirling has been trying to get in touch with you all morning. He wants to discuss your proposed trip to the UK.”

  “Then I’ll have to call him back as well, won’t I?”

  “He did warn me that he’ll be out most of the afternoon.”

  “Then tell him I’ll call him at home this evening.”

  “I can see you’re busy,” said Kate. “I can wait or come back at some other time.”

  Keith shook his head, despite Heather remaining fixed on the spot for several seconds. He even began to wonder if Ken really was on the line.

  Kate tried once more. “There are several stories among the clippings about how you took control of the Adelaide Messenger, and your coup with the late Sir Colin Grant.”

  “Sir Colin was a close friend of my father,” said Keith, “and a merger was always going to be in the best interests of both papers.” Kate didn’t look convinced. “I’m sure you’ll have read in the clippings that Sir Colin was the first chairman of the merged group.”

  “But he only chaired one board meeting.”

  “I think you’ll find it was two.”

  “Didn’t Sir Somerset Kenwright suffer roughly the same fate when you took over the Chronicle?”

  “No, that’s not quite accurate. I can assure you that no one admired Sir Somerset more than I did.”

  “But Sir Somerset once described you,” said Kate, glancing down at her notes, “as ‘a man who is happy to lie in the gutter and watch while others climb mountains’.”

  “I think you’ll find that Sir Somerset, like Shakespeare, is often misquoted.”

  “It would be hard to prove either way,” said Kate, “as he’s also dead.”

  “True,” said Keith, a little defensively. “But the words of Sir Somerset that I will always recall are: ‘I couldn’t be more delighted that the Chronicle will be passing into the hands of Sir Graham Townsend’s son.’”

  “But didn’t Sir Somerset say that,” suggested Kate, once again referring to her notes, “six weeks before you actually took over?”

  “What difference does that make?” asked Keith, trying to fight back.

  “Simply that on the first day you arrived at the Chronicle as its proprietor, you sacked the editor and the chief executive. A week later they issued a joint statement, saying—and this time I quote verbatim…”

  “Your next appointment has arrived, Mr. Townsend,” said Heather, standing by the door as if she was about to show someone in.

  “Who is it?” asked Keith.

  “Andrew Blacker.”

  “Rearrange it.”

  “No, no, please,” said Kate. “I have more than enough.”

  “Rearrange it,” repeated Keith firmly.

  “As you wish,” said Heather, equally firmly. She walked back out, leaving the door wide open.

  “I’m sorry to have taken up so much of your time, Mr. Townsend,” said Kate. “I’ll try to speed things up,” she added, before returning to her long list of questions. “Can I now turn to the launching of the Continent?”

  “But I haven’t finished telling you about Sir Somerset Kenwright, and the state the Chronicle was in when I took it over.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Kate, “it’s just that I’m concerned about the calls you have to make, and I’m feeling a little guilty about Mr. Blacker.”

  There was a long silence before Keith admitted, “There is no Mr. Blacker.”

  “I’m not sure I understand,” said Kate.

  “He’s a code name. Heather uses them to let me know how long a meeting has overrun: New York is fifteen minutes, Mr. Andrew Blacker is thirty minutes. In a quarter of an hour she’ll reappear and tell me I have a conference call with London and Los Angeles. And if she’s really cross with me, she throws in Tokyo for good measure.”

  Kate began to laugh.

  “Let’s hope you last the full hour. You’ll never believe what she comes up with after an hour.”

  “To be honest, Mr. Townsend, I wasn’t expecting to be given more than fifteen minutes of