affairs and beach stones

8th October 1957

8th October 1957

THE DAY: TUESDAY. The time: seven-thirty in the evening.

I am standing at my window, waiting for him. Inside, the flat is tidied to within an inch of its life. Outside, the dark sea lies still.

DUM-de, goes my heart.

I have opened the drinks cabinet, displayed the latest copy of Art and Artists on the coffee table, made sure the bathroom is spotless. The daily, Mrs Gunn, is actually a weekly in my case, and I'm not sure she can see as well as she once did. I've dusted off my old easel and arranged it in the spare room, together with a palette, a few tubes of paint, some knives and brushes stuffed in a jam jar. The room still looks far too neat to be a studio – the vacuumed carpet, the crisply made bed – but I'm presuming this will be the first artist's space he's seen, and he won't have many expectations.

Haven't put my photographs of Michael away, despite considering doing so. Thought about playing some music, but decided that would be too much.

It's just this evening turned quite chilly, so the heating's on and I'm in my shirt sleeves. Keep touching my own neck, as if in preparation for where my policeman's hand might go. Or his lips.

But I mustn't think of that.

I go to the drinks cabinet and pour myself a large gin, then stand again at the window, listening to the ice release itself into the alcohol. Next door's cat slinks along my sill and stares hopefully at me. But I won't let her in. Not tonight.

As I wait, I'm reminded of Wednesdays. Of how my preparations for Michael's arrival – the cooking, the arranging of the flat, of myself – were, for a while at least, almost more magical than the meetings themselves. It was the promise of what was to come, I know that. Sometimes, after we'd gone to bed and he was sleeping, I'd get up in the night and look at the mess we'd made. The dirty plates. Empty wine glasses. Our clothes strewn on the floor. Cigarette ends in the ashtray. Records lying on the sideboard without their sleeves. And I'd itch to put it all back into place, ready for the evening to begin all over again. If I could put everything back, I reasoned, when Michael rose before dawn he would see that I was ready for him. Waiting for him. Expecting him. And he might choose to stay the next night, and the next, and the next, and the next.

The buzzer goes. I put my drink down, run a hand through my hair. Take a breath. Go downstairs to the front door.

He's not wearing his uniform, for which I'm grateful. It's risky enough, having a lone male call at my door after six o'clock in the evening. He's carrying a bag, though, which he waves at me. 'Uniform. Thought you'd want me to wear it. For the portrait.'

He colours a little and glances down at the footplate. I wave him in. He follows me up the stairs (thankfully empty) and into the flat, his boots creaking.

'Join me?' When I hold up my glass, my hand shakes.

He says he'll have a beer if there is one; he's off duty now until six Tomorrow morning. As I'm opening the only bottle of pale ale in the cabinet, I steal a glance at him. My policeman is standing on my rug, gloriously upright, the light from the chandelier catching his brunette curls, and he's looking around with his mouth slightly agape. His gaze pauses at the newly acquired oil I've proudly hung over the fireplace – a Philpot portrait of a boy with sturdily naked torso – before he walks to the window.

I hand him his glass. 'Splendid view, isn't it?' I say, idiotically. There's not much to see apart from our own

reflections. But he agrees and we both squint out at the black sky in silence. I can smell him now: something faintly carbolic that reminds me of school – undoubtedly the smell of the station – but also a hint of pine talc.