The Men and the Girls Read Online Free PDF

Kate’s nature to dislike. In any case, there were the twins. Fair, square and cheerful, the twins had, without the least effort, collected a fan club which even included Joss Bain.
    â€˜Are you jealous?’ James had asked Kate, anxious for her. ‘Are you jealous of Julia?’
    â€˜I’m not jealous of her for having babies,’ Kate said. ‘But I’m jealous of her for having the twins. You’d have to be made of stone not to be.’
    As far as the twins were concerned, Hugh was made of putty, or butter. Julia was the one who administered discipline, vitamin supplements and early reading practice; Hugh administered play and adoration. If he was worried, or irritable or in need of distraction, he would either go and find the twins, or think about them. His office at the Studios was full of photographs of them; the whole staff sent them birthday cards and at Christmas they came to the first half-hour of the Studios’ party and were handed about like puppies. They were tremendously good-natured about this, as they were about everything, as long as they remained in sight of one another. Sometimes, simply thinking about them when he was in one room at Church Cottage, and they were only in another, could cause Hugh to want to weep.
    They were, of course, Hugh’s solution to the present evening. A glimpse of them under their blue-and-white striped duvets, turned towards one another across the space between their beds, would soothe and mollify him. At the thought, Hugh repented of his sulks. He put his plates and cutlery docilely into the dishwasher, replaced the butter in the fridge, ran hot soapy water into the Provençal pot, wiped away the dried trail of the red-wine snake and shut his cigarettes firmly into a drawer which he would not open again, he said sternly, until an emergency. Then he lowered the lights – all the lights at Church Cottage were harnessed to dimmer switches – and went upstairs. He would, he decided, wash his hands and brush his teeth before he went to look at his sons.
    His sons. They lay as he had pictured them, George’s cheek on a knitted pig, Edward’s deep in his pillow. Julia disapproved of pillows, but Hugh had fought for them, on the grounds of psychological comfort.
    â€˜They don’t need that. They aren’t like single people. They’re twins.’
    â€˜Even so,’ Hugh said, ‘they’re still individuals, they need their own territory, and personal comforts, whatever they are, are part of that territory.’
    He stooped over them. They were still young enough to smell of babyhood, rather than of the rankness of boy. Julia kept them perfectly, clean and trimmed in bright, soft clothes. They always looked brand-new from their gleaming fair heads to their polished leather boots; Julia would not allow them trainers, but bought French boots for them in scarlet and navy-blue.
    â€˜Oh twins,’ Hugh breathed, gazing down on them.
    George stirred. His eyes opened. He looked at his father. ‘No pig,’ said George and flung the knitted pig to the floor. He was asleep again immediately, shutting Hugh out. From downstairs – Julia always unplugged the upstairs one in the evening – the telephone rang.
    Hugh went down without enthusiasm. ‘Over fifty,’ he often said to Julia, ‘you learn to dread the brute.’ He didn’t go into the kitchen but into the sitting-room, the calm and elegant sitting-room, floored in pale sisal matting and hung with kelims.
    â€˜Yes?’ Hugh said. ‘Hugh Hunter.’
    â€˜Hugh. It’s Maurice.’
    Hugh felt in his trouser pocket for his cigarettes. They were in the kitchen drawer.
    â€˜Sorry to ring you so late, I wanted to tell you personally—’
    â€˜What?’
    â€˜The good news,’ Maurice Hirshfeld said loudly. ‘The good news.’
    Hugh swallowed. He tried not to think about his cigarettes. ‘Which