Chapter 21: Clary and Archie - The Golden Hours

When Rupert had said, ‘Sorry, old girl,’ Clary had shot Archie a look, and edged them out of the kitchen.

‘Christ,’ she murmured in the safety of the sitting room. ‘Things one doesn’t want to witness. Any of that whisky left?’

Later, Clary tidied the kitchen and did the washing-up. She was unhappy about it all, but she had ironclad herself in the lie that she didn’t mind at all about Rupert going away, and was just upset about the Massimo thing, on Zoë’s behalf. She made Archie go up first. ‘Need a moment,’ she said, and he kissed the top of her head.

He was asleep when she went up, lying splayed and beautiful, taking up most of the bed. He was getting better looking as he got older: something in his height and crookedness, the long coats he wore and his steady saturnine face, the cheekbones, the hooded eyes. He looked devilish but was an angel. Had she neglected him? Was she taking him for granted?

She manoeuvred herself in around him, lay back, and tapped at her scalp with her fingertips. Got up, found some aspirin in the bathroom, took them. Wanted to cry. Poor Zoë. Bloody Dad. And he’s off, off to France . . . It’s so physical, she thought. These feelings! She distracted herself with thoughts about how a writer can work that into a play. Physical acting, not just people swanning about saying things. Of course, for the screenplay it would be easier: all down to the actors, the close-ups. Who would play the couple? Anne Bancroft perhaps? And Gary Cooper! But can he actually act?

She dreamed a little; leaned and turned the light out.

Deep in the night, Archie flung his arm across and embraced her.

* * *

Archie had been nursing an idea. For a while the Massimo incident and Rupert’s trip to France conspired to limit its development. But it wouldn’t go away. Clary and he both had a way of seeing when the other was preoccupied – for example, he knew perfectly well that she wasn’t telling him something now. Having endless patience, he let it roll. But Clary was not patient, and he did want to mention his own idea before she noticed that he had one.

The night Rupert left, she had said it had been naughty of Archie to offer Rupert use of the house in France without talking to her first. And she’d said, ‘I know you think of everyone. I suppose you just can’t think of everyone all at the same time,’ which made his heart swell. They’d been half asleep in bed at the time. Pure happiness. She’d said something else, which he’d only half taken in, in his somnolent state. Remembering it in daylight, he wondered: ‘Archie . . . If I had a chance to go to Hollywood, would you stop me?’ As far as he could recall, he’d said something like, ‘I couldn’t stop you doing anything,’ and she’d said, ‘But would you want to?’ and he’d probably said he wanted her to do what she wanted to do, and she had pulled him close and kissed him.

So he needed to pick that up too. Lots to talk about. But first they were going to a play.

‘Well, at least it was short,’ he said, once they were out of earshot of the rather partisan audience, and she giggled. ‘Are we going to the party?’

‘You know we have to,’ she said. ‘We needn’t stay long.’

So they did, and that was where Mrs Evans made her first appearance. Clary was just giving Archie a little squeeze under his overcoat; she’d been talking about how handsome he was looking, which made him laugh, but was nice to hear, and was whispering, ‘I adore you,’ in his ear, on tiptoe to reach, when a woman approached him, ignoring Clary, arms wide and gaze steely. ‘Oh God, and so does she,’ Clary hissed, rolling her eyes. Women did get excited about Archie. He hated and denied it; Clary hated it and kind of loved it. She always said it wasn’t surprising, because most women had no experience of a man listening to them so they sometimes went out of their tiny minds at even a whiff of it. ‘Don’t be too understanding!’ she’d tell him as they entered a crowded room, and he’d make a face at her.

This Mrs Evans, who looked about his own age, was – as Clary put it later, while also admonishing herself for being a snob – ‘dripping with trappings’. He clocked the mink, the patent-leather handbag, the delicate little matching shoes under the lumpy ankles, the air of talc and Nuits de Paris. Her hair looked like a swallows’ nest: bulky and dusty. She took him by the arm, ignoring both his wife and his stick (he didn’t always need it but at crowded occasions it bought him a little space) and launched into a lecture on his own work, how good it was, and why, how it had developed over the years (here she was alarmingly accurate), which works of his she owned (some of his best, and some of the most expensive, not that any of them were expensive at all really) and how she had been planning to meet him, and did he really not have a gallery?

Clary stood to one side as this happened. Every now and then Mrs Evans flicked her a polite smile, the cursoriness of which he saw made Clary smile almost scornfully in return. Rendered helpless by his own good manners, and the flush of pleasure at the compliments, Archie could almost hear Clary thinking Aye, aye, in a sceptical tone.

‘You’re still teaching,’ Mrs Evans said, and Archie agreed.

‘Well, that will have to change.’ She gleamed, her smile both warm and off-putting, and, having secured Archie’s telephone number, Mrs Evans glided off, a mighty liner traversing the room. ‘I pity the iceberg,’ murmured Clary, and Archie snorted quietly. ‘Stop it,’ he said. ‘She has a very chic gallery in Mayfair.’

‘Aeow,’ said Clary in her fakest poshest voice. ‘How hendy.’

* * *

They were both surprised by the speed and passion of Mrs Evans’ campaign. ‘She’s not a liner, she’s a deadly missile!’ Clary said, as the phone rang yet again, and it was Mrs Evans for Archie, wanting to talk about when she was going to visit the school – which she did, leaving her perfume behind her in every room, and outraged that an artist of Archie’s calibre had such a pitiful set-up in which to work. Clary was already starting to hate her when she offered Archie use of a studio attached to her house in Holland Park. ‘It’s empty and wasted,’ Mrs Evans declared. ‘No rent, of course. It would be an honour to support your oeuvre. And when it’s time to exhibit perhaps I can have first pick. I’m so bored with all these young painters with no actual skill – you find the same dull old novelty and youthfulness everywhere at the moment. I’ve been looking for someone who is new but mature. It could be you, Archie, it really could.’

‘She calls you Archie,’ Clary said, ‘and me Mrs Lestrange. And you’re lapping it up! You’re meant to be clever and sardonic but you’re loving it.’

He felt a bit bad about that. He wanted Clary to enjoy this opportunity for him, and of course she did really. And she was missing Rupert, they both knew that. He recognised her sudden attacks of vulnerability.

After a breakfast lively with children and relatives and plans and complaints, he pulled her out onto the front steps overlooking the river, their unlikely spot for privacy. He sat her down, with their second cups of coffee, and told her that he was going to take up Mrs Evans’ offer of the studio. ‘I can’t just let it pass,’ he said. ‘How often do you get an offer like this?’

‘You can’t just do that,’ she said crossly. ‘You’ll never be home. What about when term starts? What about the fact that she fancies you rotten, and will be in your hair all day? What about my work? Nanny will have her two weeks in Ireland. What about Zoë? People can’t just head off without taking everything into account.’

He was about to give an immediate, off-the-cuff answer, then he stopped. Here was the moment.

‘Actually,’ he said. ‘Actually, there’s more. I’ve been thinking . . .’

‘Oh yes?’ she said.

‘I’ve been going round in my head,’ he said, ‘who to talk to about this first, but of course it’s you. Plus, Rupert being away, I can’t talk to him . . .’

She waited.

‘I don’t think the school is working for us any more,’ Archie said, and that was absolutely a surprise to her.

‘It’s not just the Massimo thing,’ he said, ‘or Rupe going away. It’s bigger. Darling, I must be realistic about my leg. And my age,’ he said. She moved to deny this, but he glanced up at her, and it was as if she suddenly saw that he was vulnerable too. It almost embarrassed him. ‘No, listen,’ he said. ‘Rupert buggering off reminds me that life is short. I don’t want to use up my ever-diminishing days teaching dolts like Massimo. I’m a painter, I want to paint. I love my wife and children; I want to live with them. Zoë has had it up to here – hasn’t she? It wasn’t really fair on them – or you – to have moved the studio into the drawing room like that. She and Rupe need a break, some space for them. Two families and a school in one building! I think I’m right.’

‘But how could you leave the school? We live here! I mean, should it close? Or would you just leave it all to Dad? I’m not sure that answers anything.’

‘I think we should move house,’ Archie said. ‘I really think it’s the only way.’

‘Actually move?’ she said.

‘Yes.’ Then, ‘I’ll get some more coffee.’ He went inside, to give her a moment to think. Nanny and Buttercup were in the kitchen, putting their boots on ready to go off down the towpath. Nanny had taken yesterday’s bread from the enamel bread bin; Buttercup was yelling, Ducks, ducks, ducks! Archie ruffled her hair and she climbed up to kiss him. The little hug that holds the world together, he thought.

He picked up the coffee pot from the stove and took it back out to where Clary was gazing out at the mud. He put the pot down at their feet.

‘Rupert and Zoë will have to decide for themselves what they want to do,’ he said, as he creaked down to sit beside her.

‘You look like an elegant camel,’ she said, smiling up at him.

‘But here’s a thing,’ he continued. ‘Hugh and Jemima’s tenants are leaving Ladbroke Grove. Hugh mentioned it. I think he’d rent it to us. Or maybe sell us a lease.’

Clary thought for a moment. ‘Oh!’ she said. ‘Back properly in London.’

‘In that lovely house, with the communal garden behind . . .’ he said.

‘How many bedrooms are there?’ she said. ‘It would be fine for the schools . . . closer to everything . . .’

‘. . . and dry,’ he said.

‘It’s an excellent idea,’ she said. ‘If it’s not letting Dad and Zoë down.’

‘I’m glad you think so,’ he said. ‘And I suspect they might be relieved.’

‘Zoë will be,’ Clary said.

‘We’d make it as easy and nice as we can for them,’ he said. ‘Shall we look into it?’

‘Yes!’ she said.

He was so relieved. But not finished.

‘And there’s something bothering you,’ he said. ‘Which you’re not telling me.’

Her face changed completely. Fell – and he could have kicked himself for being the cause. She didn’t answer.

‘Well, all right,’ he said. ‘When you’re ready. As long as you know I’m on your side.’

‘Not always,’ she couldn’t help whispering.

‘When was I not?’ he asked, shocked.

‘Three is Not Company?’ she said, very quickly.

‘Ah,’ he said. ‘But you know, I was on your side. I was protecting you.’

‘There was a difference of opinion about what I needed,’ she said.

‘And now?’

She was silent a moment.

‘Now,’ she said. She lifted her chin. ‘Well. I’ve had an offer. To write a screenplay.’

‘That’s wonderful!’ he said. Then, ‘Isn’t it?’

‘Of Three is Not Company,’ she said.

Ah.

‘Is that what you haven’t been telling me?’ he said.

‘Yes.’

He could see she was – what, frightened? No, it wasn’t that. The furrow on the brow, the eyes . . . It’s . . . Oh, she’s scared of causing me pain.

So it was his job not to be hurt. He sighed. Well, he knew how to do that. That adult thing.

‘In Hollywood,’ she said.

Ah, yes. Hollywood.

He did feel pained. He felt realisation rising – of what it might mean. She would read it in his face.

‘People can’t just head off without taking everything into account, did you say?’ he murmured.

‘I’ve been trying to take everything into account!’ she cried. ‘It’s exhausting and impossible. And that’s why I haven’t said anything. I can’t see a way for both of us to get what we want, especially given that I also want what you want, which is not to hurt or upset you. So, oh God, I suppose I just have to not do it.’

He was silent.

‘I mean, it’s not that important and if we’re going to be moving anyway . . . I mean, it wouldn’t have to be Hugh and Jemima’s, we could find somewhere else if it doesn’t suit them. It really isn’t a big deal.’ She was gabbling now. Trying to cover even having mentioned the film.

‘Darling,’ he said. ‘I can’t think about a lot of big things at the same time. Do we agree about the school? Then I can think about what you’ve just said.’

‘Yes,’ she said. He pushed his leg out. Pulled it in again.

‘And about moving?’

‘Yes!’

‘Then tell me about this screenplay offer,’ he said. ‘I have a horrible feeling if Rupe and I are going to be true to our art at the expense of other people, you have to be allowed to be too.’