‘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 waiter.
‘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.