affairs and beach stones

5th October 1957

TERRIBLE HANGOVER THIS morning. I rose very late and have been sitting about drinking coffee, eating toast and rereading Agatha Christie in the hope that it will lift. It hasn't yet.

Last night, after writing, decided to go to the Argyle. I didn't relish the idea of another long evening, waiting for Tuesday, that was part of it. But in truth I was feeling puffed up at my success. The boy is to come here, to my flat. He has agreed. He is coming alone, Tuesday evening. We have looked at Icarus together and he has given me his secret smile and he is coming.

So I felt the Argyle might be fun. It is no good going to these places when one feels depressed and lonely. They just compound the misery, especially when one ends up leaving alone. But when one is feeling optimistic ... well, then the Argyle is the place to be. It's a place of possibilities.

I hadn't been there for a very long time; since landing the curator's job a few years ago, I've needed to be very discreet. Not that I've ever been anything else, really. Certainly Michael and I went out very rarely. Wednesday night was our one whole night together, and I wasn't going to waste it by taking him out and sharing him with anyone else. I often visited him in the daytime but he always wanted me out of his room by eight o'clock, in case the landlady grew suspicious.

But even walking past the Argyle is risky. What if Jackie were to see me looking at that door? Or Houghton? Or any of the girls from the museum? Of course, if one does go to bars, one learns to take precautions – go after dark, go alone, don't catch anyone's eye whilst walking down the street, don't go into any establishment too near your own house. Which is why I enjoy my nights in London with Charlie. Much easier to be

anonymous on those streets. Brighton, for all its cosmopolitan airs, is a small town.

It was a dreary night, wet and mild, very few stars. I was glad of the rain – it gave me an excuse to shelter beneath my largest umbrella. Walked right along the seafront, past the Palace Pier, and crossed King's Road to avoid the town centre. My steps rapid, but not hurried. Turned into Middle Street, keeping my head down. Thankfully, it was almost half past nine and the streets were fairly calm. Everyone was busy drinking up.

I slipped through the black door (graced only by the small gold plaque: ARGYLE HOTEL), signed in under the name I always use for places like this, removed my coat, slotted my soaking umbrella into the stand and went into the bar.

Candlelight. Log fire punching out too much heat. Leather armchairs. 'Stormy Weather' coming from the Oriental boy on the piano. They say he played at the Raffles Hotel in Singapore. The smell of gin, Givenchy cologne, dust and roses. There are always fresh roses on the bar. Last night's were pale yellow, very delicate.

Immediately I recognised the old familiar feeling of being appraised by more than a dozen pairs of male eyes. A feeling exquisitely balanced between pleasure and pain. It's not that they all turned and stared – the Argyle would never be that blatant – but my presence was noted. I'd taken care over my appearance, shaping my moustache, running some oil through my hair and selecting my most well-cut jacket (the grey marl from Jermyn Street) before I ventured out, so I was prepared. I keep myself fit – callisthenics every morning. The army did that for me, at least. And I don't yet have a grey hair on my head. I've never been obsessed with these matters but I do keep them in check. I was ready. I was, I thought, looking quite elegant. I was – in my head this is already taking on a strange reality – an artist about to embark on a daring new portraiture project.

Approached the bar, deliberately not looking anyone in the eye. I must have a drink in my hand before I can do that. The Miss Browns were, as usual, on their high stools behind the bar. The younger one – who must be approaching sixty by now – counts the takings. The older one greets the gentlemen and pours the drinks. Wearing a high lace collar and smoking a long cigarillo, she said hello, remembering my name.