don’t you think? Which is another reason she really ought to stay here for at least a while. She needs us to take care of her.’ It was an explanation and also a plea.
‘She needs you to take care of her, my love.’ Lawrence gave a half-smile.
‘All of us,’ Gwen said emphatically.
‘I don’t see what I have to contribute apart from general fondness. I don’t mind at all, Gwen, if you feel you can persuade her. It’s nice for Will to spend time with his godmother. And nice for you. Especially when I’m in Oxford and staying at the cottage so much. I expect family life will wear thin with her quite quickly, and she’ll be off back to the States again no matter what you do for her or say to her.’ He paused; his eyes grew serious, his mouth settled in a forceful line. ‘But will you be ready for your exhibition, my love? That’s what you need to be sure of. She’s going to be hanging about, needing sympathy, endless conversation. It might prove to be like having two children. You’ve only just managed to settle Will at school and get shot of childminders. How will you paint? How long have you got?’
‘The show’s not till after Christmas. I’ve been thinking about it ever since she got here – Hilary sleeping up in the studio right now. I’m close enough. It’s about four months away, and there are plenty of canvases that are nearly ready. But the real point is that the work’s going well and I don’t want to stop. There are new things happening.’ She tested the very tips of each thumb against their first two fingers, rubbing lightly, then pincering open and closed like a crab, as if her hands tingled with energy and with excitement. Her eyes gleamed, her strange opaque green eyes. They had the look of cabochon emeralds, milky, as if she were threatened by cataracts, and they were shaped like drops turned sideways, spreading from the narrow tips inside the bridge of her nose. The deep brown lids were slow to blink, like the lids of a bird of prey.
Lawrence smiled and gave a little snort of pleasure. ‘There, you see – you grow all the time; nothing can stop you. Not even the safety of your happy marriage. You pull the sunlight to yourself, the nutrients, the H2O. You don’t need to cast yourself out of the garden into a wilderness of error. Just keep painting. Can you? With Hilary up there?’
‘I can do – whatever I want. I’ve already told her I need to work. It’s not as if anyone has died – or – well … But she can deal with how we are. And she’s great with Will; she’ll help. She doesn’t have anything else to do.’
‘I’ve got to get the early bus to Oxford.’ Lawrence put down his book and reached for her, across her small back, around her smaller waist, a broad, familiar hand on her stomach, low down, the heel of his palm on her hip bone, his thumb edging into her belly button, pulling her towards him down into the depths of the mattress and the worn white sheets.
‘I’ve still got paint on my hands.’
‘I’ve been reading Petronius.’
Once again, they both laughed.
There was a knock at the bedroom door.
‘Will?’ they called together.
‘No. Sorry. Only Hilary.’ Her voice was husky. Husky with grief, but also because that was Hilary’s voice – big, rough, irresistible.
Gwen stood up and crossed noiselessly to the door, pulling her filmy white nightgown down around her knees.
‘I was thinking you might have a sleeping pill,’ came Hilary’s apology as the door swung open.
‘Poor Hil.’ Gwen reached up with her dirty, thin-fingered hand to the height of Hilary’s moon-white forehead, testing as if for a temperature. ‘I don’t know if we do, really. But let’s –’ She paused, feeling torn, stroked Hilary’s wobbly, near-black screws of hair back against her scalp and her ears, then, as the hair sprang free again, said, ‘C’mon. Lawrence has to get up early. Let’s go downstairs and look in the kitchen. Maybe we have some hippie tea. Or maybe – what about whiskey?’
The story of Hilary’s summer in London had rushed out chaotically at the big kitchen table in the basement when Hilary arrived from New York a few hours earlier. Now as Gwen turned on the lights at the bottom of the stairs and Hilary collapsed staring-eyed in a chair, it seemed to be still lying there in pieces which they could pick up and study. How did it all fit together? Did this piece interlock with that? Border or frame? Or endless, undifferentiated, disorienting sky?
The thing Hilary remembered most vividly from the last few months was eating lunch with Paul wherever they happened to be. It seemed as though they had eaten together every day that she had been in town. During the length of the mornings, working together, comparing this object with that one, discussing intrinsic qualities, history, whereabouts over the centuries and generations, the atmosphere between them would warm and thicken, a sense of anticipation would build up; they had to eat lunch, after all. It was unavoidable. He only suggested it once. After that, they repeated it by unspoken mutual agreement. They never made a reservation anywhere. Most of the cafés and sandwich shops they ate in were too simple for that, and making a reservation might have seemed to both of them to be too deliberate, like a date. It was as if, Hilary later reflected, they preferred to believe they ate together only because they had nothing better to do. And yet they seemed to go to lunch a little earlier each day, anxious to be sure there would be a table.
At the British Museum, for instance, they would desert the racks of antiquities and burst into the great, glass-ceilinged courtyard like travellers hurrying through a station for a train. Over their catalogues, over their notes, over their slides, they were reticent and businesslike; but in the bustle and clatter of that vast open space, they were relieved of self-consciousness and the excess of professional concentration that they practised in private. Among thick-shod tourists slung with umbrellas, cameras, guidebooks, parties of schoolchildren in windcheaters and knapsacks, squalling infants rolled along in their padded chair-worlds, they made a pair: experts from behind the scenes, carrying no luggage with them except what was inside their heads. The limestone facades, the wide, shallow stairs spiralling around the dome of Panizzi’s reading room, the summer sky dimmed by luminous clouds and marked out by steel struts in hundreds of triangular pieces like a pale grey parterre, offered a monumental stadium for their quiet focus upon one another.
Hilary afterwards thought that this particular setting, with its combination of neoclassical beauty and ultra-modern engineering – the worship of the old enshrined in the temple of the new – epitomised the kind of magic that bewitched her that summer. It seemed to sum up the whole effect on her of England: historical riches set off by soaring technical dazzle, a technical dazzle which she associated with America and which made her feel that she had been somehow misinformed. England – Europe – had gone on ahead into a future she didn’t recognise, couldn’t have predicted, and might not be able to keep up with. What rules were they playing by, she wondered, the members of this old culture, over which she had been taught, or had always assumed anyway, that the New World had some kind of natural, permanent, unbeatable advantage? How it all took her by surprise.
Hilary and Paul never spent much time studying a menu; it seemed to be of no interest to either what they ate. The first item listed would often be the one chosen by Paul, then Hilary might say, ‘I’ll have the same,’ handing the menu back unopened. Or, if it was a cafeteria, each might grab the first plate on the shelf. But after every lunch, they would sit over coffee upon coffee – cap-puccinos, double espressos, filters, cafetières, lattes – until they were shaking with it. Just to avoid leaving the table.
In the end it was all about being at the table, facing each other, with nothing in between them except what they might be about to eat or drink. In the Sotheby’s café in New Bond Street, where they
