Chapter 30: Zoë and Rupert - The Golden Hours

Zoë, on her knees in front of the filing cabinet where she had searched out Massimo’s details months ago, felt no better at all about anything. Worse, even, because she’d had hopes, and hopes had been dashed. She had dealt well, she felt, with Rupert going away, so selfishly. But then he had come back, quiet, civil and distraught over something he refused to talk about. For God’s sake, you can’t be married to someone for twenty-two years without being able to tell when they’re upset! And he still didn’t understand about Massimo, why Archie had chucked him out. Massimo’s parents making a fuss didn’t help. And the bills. Usually they shared these burdens, but something had closed in him. There was no word of sympathy or comfort for her; of concern for her safety or feelings, or for Harriet’s or Clary’s. And then Archie and Clary decided – just like that! – to up and leave, taking Nanny, leaving Georgie bereft and lonely, removing their financial contribution to the household and effectively destroying the school. Or at least, dumping it on Rupert. And now Rupert seemed to think she would run it! Because he had to do all the teaching now. But she had never run it, and looking at the files, it became more and more clear to her that actually nobody had ever run it. Had they even kept accounts? Had they been paying tax? There wasn’t even anybody to ask. And Rupert wanted to book in more residential students, because of the extra bedrooms free now – dammit! Meanwhile Archie was off sorting out their new life in Ladbroke Grove and his new success – bloody Sonia Evans taking him up. Yes, of course she was jealous! Oh God, it was the sheer burden of it all! Why would her husband not attend to the reality of her? Why could they not just ditch the stupid school and this ridiculous house and move into town and live like normal people? A flat, she thought, longingly. Marmoleum in the bathroom; fitted carpets, central heating and some nice Danish furniture from Heal’s.

She had so hoped the period away would clear Rupert’s mind, bring him to some acceptance of the reality which now spread itself before her in fearful clarity. The school was chaotic. It barely broke even. He could have a more secure life and more time to paint if he were to take a job at one of the real art schools. He could easily get a post at the Slade or Chelsea or St Martins. But he wouldn’t think of it. Which meant, though he couldn’t or wouldn’t see it, that she was expected not just to deal with all the administration, but also to select a new batch of young men to feel scared of in her own home.

She had looked him in the eye over the breakfast table, and said, ‘Rupert, I’ve been thinking about it, and I’ve decided. We will only accept female residential students.’

She knew he wouldn’t like it, but the level of his antagonism still surprised her. His disbelief seemed to mock the very idea of her deciding anything. He clearly thought her ignorant, unrealistic, self-indulgent. He spoke to her in the kind of there-there voice you use to a two-year-old in a tantrum: Darling, we must rent out the rooms, I thought you were worried about the money. I will have so much more to do, teaching, till we can find another teacher, you can’t really expect Archie to come all the way back here every day (when she had never expected or suggested any such thing!), they’ve left and we must let them, darling, really, you need to pull your weight now, I mean, unless you have some other idea.

No. It would destroy what reputation I have to go back to teaching at a school which was not my own. Darling, please. I have a headache. Darling, but darling, but darling . . .

Until she swore at him, and then felt even worse.

They’d been sitting in this grumpy limbo for ages, and the worst thing was he didn’t seem to care. Or, possibly, notice.

But she couldn’t believe that was true.

In the middle of it all, Juliet had turned up, Louise having, as Juliet put it, ‘chucked her out’, thin as a rake, no notice given, carrying her bags, and wanting to move back in. ‘If Clary and Archie have left, you must have room for me,’ she said, heading upstairs and slamming the door of the good bedroom on the first floor into which Zoë had been thinking of moving, because how can you lie beside the man you love night after night when he has simply stopped understanding you? Juliet had stayed a week, and been quite unlike herself: sulking, skulking, snapping, napping, never saying when she’d be back or if she’d be in. ‘I’m a grown woman!’ she’d shout. Zoë bit her lip, and didn’t say, grown women are married. Grown women don’t behave like fourteen-year-olds. And she’d been giving Georgie cigarettes. Then Juliet left, apparently to go back to Louise’s. When Zoë rang Louise to find out what was going on, Louise had only wanted to talk to Rupert.

‘Louise, darling, you can talk to me,’ Zoë said. But no.

Rupert, meanwhile, had retreated to the studio. Louise’s repeated calls told Zoë that he wasn’t returning them.

For the autumn term, Zoë had taken on two residential students – both female – and eight dailies. It wasn’t enough; at the same time, it was too much. Night after night she burned chops, undercooked potatoes, forgot the salt, spilled the soup. Zoë felt failure wrap around her like a dirty wet cloth.

* * *

And, Rupert was thinking, of course Zoë is right about everything. Why was he still fighting her? Poor bloody woman – even when he caught himself thinking she’d be better off without him, he knew she didn’t think that. He knew it was depression talking, or grief, or, God, some kind of long-lasting shock, something stupid and unhelpful and unnecessary that he couldn’t get rid of. Was it ever going to change? Would he be able to get off this miserable carousel, where everything fed into the next destructive thing? It genuinely seemed best simply to keep to himself. At least for now. But then, how long is now?

He still hadn’t unpacked the paintings he’d done in France. She came up to the studio, wanting to encourage him and admire them. ‘It’s been months!’ she said. There was nothing about him which didn’t deserve censure.

‘I’m sorry, love,’ he said, over and over. To her face, to her back, out the window in the small hours as he looked out across the river, to Michèle in his mind, to Clary, to Juliet.

Thinking, all the time, Something has to shift.

* * *

‘And are you going to be joining us for Christmas, Rupert?’ Zoë asked, pertly.

* * *

This Christmas, for the first time, the Fakenham-as-Home-Place festive dream shivered and weakened. Polly had earlier mooted the idea, quietly, that she and Gerald and the children might spend Christmas in a hotel. In Venice. Of course, it came to nothing, it never could have come to anything – what about Hugh and Jemima? And Rachel? And Simon? And the servants, as they used to be called? And the dogs? But it loosened the foundation, and suddenly everything seemed in danger of falling apart. Clary decided the Lestranges wanted Christmas at home, their own home – she even found a huge old church candlestick in Portobello, and a huge candle to fit in it. Louise said Venice sounded marvellous. Zoë hoped that if Clary and Archie weren’t going to Fakenham, they would come back to Mortlake, and if not that, then surely they would invite her and Rupert to Ladbroke Grove. Rupert showed no interest at all. Villy told Rachel she was going to spend the holidays with Hermione. Rachel said nobody should worry about her. Simon, who had discovered a really nice pub in Norwich called The Jolly Butcher’s, said whatever everybody wanted was cool with him. Edward, somehow, seemed to be in Cannes with a Frenchwoman. Jemima said a quiet Christmas was always nice; Hugh wondered why everyone was making so much fuss; Teddy sent a card that didn’t arrive till after Christmas; Lydia said she really didn’t expect anybody to think about her – after all, when did they ever?; Wills didn’t know if he’d get leave; Roly was in Hong Kong; Juliet was remembering a green-stoned ring from a Christmas cracker, rolled across the table to her years ago, and said she’d just stay at Louise’s if that was all right. Nobody knew what Neville was doing. Harriet, who was hoping to study Politics, Philosophy and Economics, said as she had no influence she didn’t see why she was expected to have an opinion and had none of them read Schopenhauer? Georgie and Bertie said they just really would like to spend Christmas together. Andrew said Christmas was Christmas and as future head of the family he intended it should stay that way. The girl twins quietly made plans to have a picnic in the stables with Glory and Hallelujah. Nobody had seen Jemima’s boy twins all year, apart from Jemima, and though she longed for them to come to Fakenham she didn’t feel it was her place to invite them. Pen just wanted to be sure of Buttercup. Buttercup asked if she could bring somebody called Omolola Omole, who Clary assumed was an imaginary friend so she said yes, which could have led to an awkward situation had not Nanny reminded Buttercup that Lola’s parents would probably want her for Christmas. ‘But what about the shifts?’ Buttercup had wailed, frightened that her friend might be alone with boys who wouldn’t know how to cook a turkey. ‘Only Jesus is born at Christmas,’ Nanny said, ‘and nobody will need the trains because they’ll already be where they’re going.’

In the end, everybody went to Fakenham and it was all exactly the same as usual, except that Rupert spent most of his time in his room, and Juliet and Neville went on the longest walk anybody had ever done.