The Fourth Estate Read online

  At this point the general began to tell Townsend how many people had urged him to write his memoirs. He then proceeded to give everyone at the table a flavor of how the first chapter might turn out.

  Townsend wasn’t surprised to find that Mrs. Sherwood had replaced Claire at his side when he appeared for dinner. Over the smoked salmon he spent a considerable time explaining to Mrs. Percival how a book got onto the bestseller list.

  “Can I interrupt you, Mr. Townsend?” asked Mrs. Sherwood quietly, as the lamb was being served.

  “With pleasure, Mrs. Sherwood,” said Townsend, turning to face her.

  “I’d be interested to know which department you work in at Schumann’s.”

  “I’m not in any particular department,” he said.

  “I’m not sure I understand,” said Mrs. Sherwood.

  “Well, you see, I own the company.”

  “Does that mean you can override an editor’s decision?” asked Mrs. Sherwood.

  “I can override anyone’s decision,” said Townsend.

  “It’s just that…” She hesitated so as to be sure no one else was listening to their conversation—not that it really mattered, because Townsend knew what she was going to say. “It’s just that I sent a manuscript to Schumann’s some time ago. Three months later all I got was a rejection slip, without even a letter of explanation.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” said Townsend, pausing before he delivered his next well-prepared line. “Of course, the truth is that many of the manuscripts we receive are never read.”

  “Why’s that?” she asked incredulously.

  “Well, any large publishing house can expect to receive up to a hundred, possibly even two hundred, manuscripts a week. No one could afford to employ the staff to read them all. So you shouldn’t feel too depressed.”

  “Then how does a first-time novelist like myself ever get anyone to take an interest in their work?” she whispered.

  “My advice to anyone facing that problem is to find yourself a good agent—someone who will know exactly which house to approach, and perhaps even which editor might be interested.”

  Townsend concentrated on his lamb as he waited for Mrs. Sherwood to summon up the necessary courage. “Always let her lead,” Kate had warned, “then there will be no reason for her to become suspicious.” He didn’t look up from his plate.

  “I don’t suppose,” she began diffidently, “that you would be kind enough to read my novel and give me your professional opinion?”

  “I’d be delighted,” said Townsend. Mrs. Sherwood smiled. “Why don’t you send it over to my office at Schumann’s once we’re back in New York. I’ll see that one of my senior editors reads it and gives me a full written report.”

  Mrs. Sherwood pursed her lips. “But I have it on board with me,” she said. “You see, my annual cruise always gives me a chance to do a little revision.”

  Townsend longed to tell her that thanks to her brother-in-law’s cook he already knew that. But he satisfied himself with, “Then why don’t you drop it round to my cabin so I can read the first couple of chapters, which will at least give me a flavor of your style.”

  “Would you really, Mr. Townsend? How very kind of you. But then, my dear husband always used to say that one mustn’t assume all Australians are convicts.”

  Townsend laughed as Claire leaned across the table. “Are you the Mr. Townsend who is mentioned in the article in the Ocean Times this morning?” she asked.

  Townsend looked surprised. “I’ve no idea,” he said. “I haven’t seen it.”

  “It’s about a man called Richard Armstrong—” neither of them noticed Mrs. Sherwood’s reaction “—who’s also in publishing.”

  “I do know a Richard Armstrong,” admitted Townsend, “so it’s quite possible.”

  “Won an MC,” said the general, butting in, “but that was the only good thing the article had to say about him. Mind you, can’t believe everything you read in the papers.”

  “I quite agree,” said Townsend, as Mrs. Sherwood rose and left them without even saying good night.

  As soon as she had gone, the general began regaling Dr. Percival and Mrs. Osborne with the second chapter of his autobiography. Claire rose and said, “Don’t let me stop you, General, but I’m also off to bed.” Townsend didn’t even glance in her direction. A few minutes later, as the old soldier was being evacuated from the beach at Dunkirk, he also made his apologies, left the table and returned to his cabin.

  He had just stepped out of the shower when there was a knock on the door. He smiled, put on one of the toweling dressing-gowns supplied by the ship, and walked slowly across the room. At least if Mrs. Sherwood delivered her manuscript now, he would have a good excuse to arrange a meeting with her the following morning. He opened the cabin door.

  “Good evening, Mrs. Sherwood,” he was about to say, only to find Kate standing in front of him, looking a little anxious. She hurried in and quickly closed the door.

  “I thought we agreed not to meet except in an emergency?” said Keith.

  “This is an emergency,” answered Kate, “but I couldn’t risk telling you at the dinner table.”

  “Is that why you asked me about the article when you were meant to bring up the subject of what was playing on Broadway?”

  “Yes,” replied Kate. “Don’t forget, I’ve had an extra couple of days to get to know her, and she’s just phoned my cabin to ask me if I really believed that you were in publishing.”

  “And what did you tell her?” asked Keith, as there was another knock on the door. He put a finger to his lips and pointed in the direction of the shower. He waited until he had heard the curtain pulled across, and then opened the door.

  “Mrs. Sherwood,” said Keith. “How nice to see you. Is everything all right?”

  “Yes, thank you, Mr. Townsend. I thought I’d drop this in for you tonight,” she said, handing over a thick manuscript. “Just in case you had nothing else to do.”

  “How very thoughtful of you,” said Keith, taking the manuscript from her. “Why don’t we get together sometime after breakfast tomorrow? Then I can give you my first impressions.”

  “Oh, would you really, Mr. Townsend? I long to know what you think of it.” She hesitated. “I trust I didn’t disturb you.”

  “Disturb me?” said Keith, puzzled.

  “I thought I heard voices as I was coming down the passageway.”

  “I expect it was just me humming in the shower,” said Keith rather feebly.

  “Ah, that would explain it,” said Mrs. Sherwood. “Well, I do hope you’ll find time to read a few pages of The Senator’s Mistress tonight.”

  “I most certainly will,” said Keith. “Good night, Mrs. Sherwood.”

  “Oh, do call me Margaret.”

  “I’m Keith,” he said with a smile.

  “I know. I’ve just read the article about you and Mr. Armstrong. Most interesting. Can he really be that bad?” she asked.

  Keith made no comment as he closed the door. He turned round to find Kate stepping out of the shower, wearing the other dressing-gown. As she walked toward him, the cord fell to the ground, and the robe came slightly open. “Oh, do call me Claire,” she said as she slipped a hand around his waist. He pulled her toward him.

  “Can you really be that bad?” she laughed as he guided her across the room.

  “Yes, I am,” he said as they fell on the bed together.

  “Keith,” she whispered, “don’t you think you ought to start reading the manuscript?”

  * * *

  It was only a matter of hours after Sharon had moved from the bedroom into the office that Armstrong realized Sally hadn’t been exaggerating about her secretarial skills. But he was too proud to call her and admit it.

  By the end of the second week his desk was piled high with unanswered letters or, worse, replies he couldn’t consider putting his signature to. After so many years with Sally, he had forgotten that he rarely spent more than a