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
few minutes each day checking over her work before simply signing everything she put in front of him. In fact the only document he had put his signature to that week had been Sharon’s contract, which it was clear she had not drawn up herself.
On Tuesday of the third week, Armstrong turned up at the House of Commons to have lunch with the minister of health, only to discover that he wasn’t expected until the following day. He arrived back at his office twenty minutes later in a furious temper.
“But I told you that you were having lunch with the chairman of NatWest today,” Sharon insisted. “He’s just rung from the Savoy asking where you were.”
“Where you sent me,” he barked. “At the House of Commons.”
“Am I expected to do everything for you?”
“Sally somehow managed it,” said Armstrong, barely able to control his anger.
“If I hear that woman’s name again, I swear I’ll leave you.”
Armstrong didn’t comment, but stormed back out of the office and ordered Benson to get him to the Savoy as quickly as possible. When he arrived at the Grill, Mario told him that his guest had just left. And when he got back to the office, he was informed that Sharon had gone home, saying she had a slight migraine.
Armstrong sat down at his desk and dialed Sally’s number but no one answered. He continued to call her at least once a day, but all he got was a recorded message. At the end of the following week he ordered Fred to pay her monthly check.
“But I’ve already sent her a P45, as you instructed,” the chief accountant reminded him.
“Don’t argue with me, Fred,” said Armstrong. “Just pay it.”
In the fifth week temps began coming and going on a daily basis, some lasting only a few hours. But it was Sharon who opened the letter from Sally, to find a check torn in half and a note attached that read: “I have already been amply paid for last month’s work.”
* * *
When Keith woke the following morning, he was surprised to find Kate already in his dressing-gown, reading Mrs. Sherwood’s manuscript. She leaned across and gave him a kiss before handing over the first seven chapters. He sat up, blinked a few times, turned to the opening page and read the first sentence: “As she stepped out of the swimming pool, the bulge in his trunks started to grow.” He looked across at Kate, who said, “Keep reading. It gets steamier.”
Keith had finished about forty pages when Kate leapt out of bed and headed off toward the shower. “Don’t bother with much more,” she said. “I’ll tell you how it ends later.”
By the time she reappeared, Keith was halfway through the third chapter. He dropped the remaining pages on the floor. “What do you think?” he asked.
She walked across to the bed, pulled back the sheets and stared down at his naked body. “Judging from your reaction, either you still fancy me or I’d say we’ve got a bestseller on our hands.”
When Townsend went into breakfast about an hour later, only Kate and Mrs. Sherwood were at the table. They were deep in conversation. They stopped talking immediately he sat down. “I don’t suppose…” Mrs. Sherwood began.
“Suppose what?” asked Townsend innocently.
Kate had to turn away to avoid Mrs. Sherwood seeing the look on her face.
“That you might have dipped into my novel?”
“Dipped?” said Townsend. “I’ve read it from cover to cover. And one thing is clear, Mrs. Sherwood: no one at Schumann’s could possibly have looked at the manuscript, or they would have snapped it up immediately.”
“Oh, do you really think it’s that good?” said Mrs. Sherwood.
“I certainly do,” said Townsend. “And I can only hope, despite our unforgivably offhand response to your original submission, that you’ll still allow Schumann’s to make an offer.”
“Of course I will,” said Mrs. Sherwood enthusiastically.
“Good. However, may I suggest that this is not the place to discuss terms.”
“Of course. I quite understand, Keith,” she said. “Why don’t you join me in my cabin a little later?” She glanced at her watch. “Shall we say around 10:30?”
Townsend nodded. “That would suit me perfectly.” He rose as she folded her napkin and left the table.
“Did you learn anything new?” he asked Kate as soon as Mrs. Sherwood was out of earshot.
“Not a lot,” she said, nibbling on a piece of raisin toast. “But I don’t think she really believes you read the entire manuscript.”
“What makes you say that?” asked Townsend.
“Because she’s just told me that you had a woman in your cabin last night.”
“Did she indeed?” said Townsend. He paused. “And what else did she have to say?”
“She discussed the article in the Ocean Times in great detail, and asked me if…”
“Good morning, Townsend. Good morning, dear lady,” said the general as he took his seat. Kate gave him a broad smile and rose from her place.
“Good luck,” she said quietly.
“I’m glad to have this opportunity of a quiet word with you, Townsend. You see, the truth of the matter is that I have already written the first volume of my memoirs, and as I happen to have it with me on board, I wondered if you’d be kind enough to read it and give me your professional opinion.”
It took another twenty minutes for Townsend to escape a book he didn’t want to read, let alone publish. The general hadn’t left him much time to prepare for the meeting with Mrs. Sherwood. He returned to his cabin and went over Kate’s notes one final time before heading off for Mrs. Sherwood’s stateroom. He knocked on her door just after 10:30, and it was opened immediately.
“I like a man who’s punctual,” she said.
The Trafalgar Suite turned out to be on two levels, with its own balcony. Mrs. Sherwood ushered her guest toward a pair of comfortable chairs in the center of the drawing room. “Would you care for some coffee, Keith?” she asked as she sat down opposite him.
“No, thank you, Margaret,” he replied. “I’ve just had breakfast.”
“Of course,” she said. “Now, shall we get down to business?”
“Certainly. As I told you earlier this morning,” said Townsend, “Schumann’s would consider it a privilege to publish your novel.”
“Oh, how exciting,” said Mrs. Sherwood. “I do wish my dear husband were still alive. He always believed I would be published one day.”
“We would be willing to offer you an advance of $100,000,” continued Townsend, “and 10 percent of the cover price after the advance has been recouped. Paperback publication would follow twelve months after the hardcover, and there would be bonus payments for every week you’re on the New York Times best-seller list.”
“Oh! Do you really think my little effort might appear on the best-seller list?”
“I would be willing to bet on it,” said Townsend.
“Would you really?” said Mrs. Sherwood.
Townsend looked anxiously across at her, wondering if he had gone too far.
“I happily accept your terms, Mr. Townsend,” she said. “I do believe this calls for a celebration.” She poured him a glass of champagne from a half-empty bottle in the ice bucket beside her. “Now that we have come to an agreement on the book,” she said a few moments later, “perhaps you’d be kind enough to advise me on a little problem I’m currently facing.”
“I will if I possibly can,” said Townsend, staring up at a painting of a one-armed, one-eyed admiral who was lying on a quarterdeck, dying.
“I have been most distressed by an article in the Ocean Times that was brought to my attention by … Miss Williams,” said Mrs. Sherwood. “It concerns a Mr. Richard Armstrong.”
“I’m not sure I understand.”
“I’ll explain,” said Mrs. Sherwood, who proceeded to tell Townsend a story he knew rather better than she did. She ended by saying, “Claire felt that as you were in publishing, you might be able to recommend someone else who would want to buy my shares.”
> “How much are you hoping to be offered for them?” asked Townsend.
“Twenty million dollars. That is the sum I agreed with my brother Alexander, who has already disposed of his stock to this Richard Armstrong for that amount.”
“When is your meeting with Mr. Armstrong?” asked Townsend—another question he knew the answer to.
“He’s coming to see me at my apartment in New York on Monday at 11 A.M.”
Townsend continued to gaze up at the picture on the wall, pretending to give the problem considerable thought. “I feel sure that my company would be able to match his offer,” he said. “Especially as the amount has already been agreed on.” He hoped she couldn’t hear his heart pounding away.
Mrs. Sherwood lowered her eyes and glanced down at a Sotheby’s catalog that a friend had sent her from Geneva the previous week. “How fortunate that we met,” she said. “One couldn’t get away with this sort of coincidence in a novel.” She laughed, raised her glass and said, “Kismet.”
Townsend didn’t comment.
After she had put her glass down, she said, “I need to give the problem a little more thought overnight. I’ll let you know my final decision before we disembark.”
“Of course,” said Townsend, trying to hide his disappointment. He rose from his chair and the old lady accompanied him to the door.
“I must thank you, Keith, for all the trouble you’ve gone to.”
“My pleasure,” he said as she closed the door.
Townsend immediately returned to his cabin to find Kate waiting for him.
“How did it go?” were her first words.
“She hasn’t finally made up her mind, but I think she’s nearly hooked, thanks to your bringing the article to her attention.”
“And the shares?”
“As the price has already been settled, she doesn’t seem to care who buys them, as long as her book gets published.”
“But she wanted more time to think about it,” said Kate, who remained silent for a few moments before adding, “Why didn’t she question you more closely on why you would want to buy the shares?”
The Fourth Estate Page 39
