Bill Haydon was an artist. He was thoughtful and clever and eloquent. He considered anything he did an art. For everything from writing a letter to painting a beautiful landscape to making love to a girl, Bill Haydon considered himself an artist.
Jim Prideaux, on the other hand, was a man of action, not of thought. For every man Bill Haydon royally pissed off by sleeping with his girl, Jim stood behind him, fists clenched, brow furrowed.
You are my other half; between us we'd make one marvellous man, Bill had said, except that neither of us can sing.
"I can make you sing," joked Jim one night, when Bill read him aloud the letter he'd written to Fanshawe.
"You're quite welcome to try," laughed Bill, throwing his papers across the room.