affairs and beach stones

3rd October 1957

TWO DAYS SINCE he came, and already I am losing my mind with impatience. Today, Jackie suddenly asked, 'Who was that young man?'

It was early afternoon and she was handing me the minutes from my latest meeting with Houghton. She let the question drop without so much as a flicker. But she was wearing a look I hadn't seen on her before – one of genuine curiosity. Even with those diamanté frames obscuring her eyes, I saw it.

Avoiding the issue fuels the fire. So I replied: 'He was a subject.'

She had a hand on her hip as she waited for more.

'We're planning a portrait. A new project. Ordinary people of the town.'

She nodded. Then, after letting a moment pass: 'Is he ordinary, then?'

I knew she was prying. The other girls have been talking about him. About me. Of course they have. Throw her a titbit, I thought. Get rid of her.

'He's a policeman,' I said.

There was a pause as she digested this information. I half turned from her and picked up the telephone receiver in order to encourage her to leave. But she did not take the hint.

'He doesn't look like a policeman,' she said.

Pretending not to have heard this, I started dialling a number.

When she'd finally gone, I replaced the receiver and sat very still, letting my rushing heart calm. Nothing to worry

about, I told myself. Just natural curiosity. Of course the girls want to know who he is. A handsome young stranger. We don't get many of those in the museum. And anyway. Everything is above board. Professional. And Jackie is loyal. Jackie is discreet. Mysterious, but trustworthy.

But. Rush, thump went the blood in my chest. It does this often. I've been to the doctor's. Langland. He's known as being sympathetic. Sympathetic up to a point, that is. Very keen on psychoanalysis, I believe. I explained to him: it most often comes in the night, when I'm trying to sleep. Lying still in my bed, I swear I can see it, this lump of muscle jumping in my chest. Langland says it's perfectly normal. Or, if not normal, then usual. An ectopic heartbeat, he calls it. Surprisingly common, he says. Sometimes the beat is the wrong way round, and that makes you aware of your heart thumping. He demonstrated: 'Instead of going de-DUM,' (he slapped his hand on the desk) 'it goes DUM-de. Nothing to worry about.' 'Ah,' I said. 'You mean it's trochaic, rather than iambic.' He seemed to appreciate this. 'Exactly,' he beamed.

Now I have a name for it, it's a little easier to dismiss, but no less difficult to ignore. My trochaic heart.

I sat at my desk until it calmed. Then I walked out of the place. Out of my office, through the long gallery, down the stairs, past the money cat and on to the street.

Amazed that no one stopped me. Not one single person looked my way as I marched by. Outside, it was raining lightly, and the wind was up. Gusts of damp salty air came at me across the Steine. Clanging notes from the pier blew this way and that. Crossed into St James's Street. Although the sky held a brownish tinge, the air was fresh after the museum. Quickened my pace. I knew where I was going, but I did not know what I was going to do once there. No matter. I pressed onward, elated at having escaped my office with so little fuss. Relieved at the regular beating of my heart. De-dum. De-dum. De-dum. Nothing outlandish or hurried. No rush of movement from chest to head, no thump of blood in the ears. Just that steady beat, and my steady walk towards the police box.

The rain became heavier. I'd come out without coat or umbrella, and my knees were wet. My collar, too, was damp. But I welcomed the feel of the rain on my skin. With every step I was closer to him. I didn't have to explain myself or provide excuses. I just had to see him.

The last time I was like this was with Michael. So anxious to see him that anything seemed possible. Conventions, other people's opinions, the law, all appear laughable in the face of your desire, your drive to reach your love. It's a blissful state. It's fleeting, though, this feeling. Soon you realise that you're walking in the rain, getting soaked, when you should be at your desk. Women with children jostle you, casting their eyes suspiciously over a single man without coat or hat in a shopping street during the middle of the afternoon. Old couples scurrying to bus stops charge at you with umbrellas. And you think, even if he is there, what can I possibly say to him? Of course, in the moment itself, in the blissful moment when anything's possible, there's no need for words. You'll simply fall into one another's arms, him understanding everything – everything – at last. But when the feeling starts to wane, when another woman has just said excuse me but stepped on your foot anyway, when you've glimpsed your reflection in Sainsbury's shop window and seen a wild-eyed, rain-scattering man past his first flush of youth gaping back at you, then you realise there will have to be words.

And what would I have said to him? What possible excuse could I give for arriving at his police box at this hour, soaked to the skin? I just couldn't wait to see you? Or, I needed to make some urgent preliminary sketches? I suppose I could have played the temperamental artist card. But it's probably just as well to keep that one in reserve for more testing times.

So I turned back. Then changed direction again, and headed for home. Once there, I telephoned Jackie and told her I was unwell. Said I'd popped out for a newspaper (this is not unheard of during the museum's afternoon lull) and had been overcome by nausea. I'd spend the rest of the day in bed and would be back in the morning. Tell all callers I'd deal with

them Tomorrow. She didn't sound surprised. She asked no questions. Good, loyal Jackie, I thought. What was I worrying about before?

I drew the curtains. Put the heating on. It wasn't cold in the flat, but I felt in need of any warmth I could get. Stripped out of my wet clothes. Got into bed wearing the pyjamas I hate. Flannel, blue stripes. I put them on because it's better than being naked in bed. Being naked just reminds you you're alone. If you're naked, there's nothing to rub against but the sheets. At least flannel on your skin is a layer of protection.

Thought I might weep, but did not. Lay there with heavy limbs and a foggy brain. I didn't think of Michael. I didn't think of myself, scurrying along the street after nothing like a fool. I just shook until the shaking stopped, and then I slept. I slept through the rest of the afternoon and into the evening. Then I woke and wrote this.

Now I will sleep again.