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  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