affairs and beach stones

4th November 1957

A GLITTER OF frost on the pavement this morning. We're in for a cold winter.

He has stayed away for almost three weeks. And each day, a little of the memory of our evening together hardens into something lost. I can still feel his lips, but I can't quite remember the exact shape of that knobble on the bridge of his nose.

At the museum, Jackie's been eyeing me from behind her glasses, and Houghton's been droning on about the need to keep the director, the trustees and the council happy by not doing anything too outlandish. Nothing more has been said about the portrait project. But, perhaps inspired by the feeling of being able to seduce a boy in his early twenties, I've been pressing on with my reforms. All I have to do now is find a school that's willing to send its young charges through our doors and leave them under my dubious influence.

Felt I must get up to London to see Charlie this evening. It was already quite late, but I'd have a couple of hours with him before the last train back. Wanted, very badly, to tell him about my policeman. To talk. To shout his name out. In his absence, the next best thing would be to bring him to life by describing him for Charlie. Also wanted, I must admit, to boast a bit. Ever since school, it's always been Charlie telling me about the thrilling line of some boy's shoulders, the sweet way in which Bob or George or Harry looks up to him and is fascinated by his conversation, as well as providing absolute satisfaction in bed. Now I had my own tale to tell.

Charlie wasn't surprised by my visit – I never announce I'm coming – but he did keep me hanging about on the front

steps for a minute. 'Listen,' he said. 'Got someone with me at the mo. Don't suppose you could come back Tomorrow?'

He hasn't changed, then. I told him that I, unlike him, had to work Tomorrow, so it was now or never. He opened the door, saying, 'You'd better come in and meet Jim, then.'

Charlie's recently had his Pimlico townhouse refurbished throughout – lots of mirrors and steel lamps, thin-looking furniture and modern tapestry hangings. It's clean and bright and very restful on the eye. The perfect setting, in fact, for Jim, who was sitting on Charlie's new sofa, smoking a Woodbine. Barefoot. And looking absolutely at his ease. 'Pleased to meet you,' he said, sticking out a smooth white hand, not getting to his feet.

We shook, him fixing me with eyes the colour of rust.

'Jim's working for me,' Charlie announced.

'Oh? Doing what?'

The two of them exchanged a smirk. 'Odd jobs,' said Charlie. 'So useful, having someone live-in. Drink?'

I asked for a gin and tonic, and to my surprise Jim jumped up. 'I'll have the usual, darling,' instructed Charlie, watching the boy as he made his exit. Jim was short but well- proportioned; long legs and a chunky little arse.

I looked at Charlie, who burst out laughing. 'Your face,' he chortled.

'Is he your ... valet?'
'He's whatever I want him to be.' 'Does he realise that?'

'Of course he does.' Charlie sat in a chair by the fire and ran his hands through his black hair. A few flecks of grey there now, I noticed, but still thick. He was forever telling me, at school, how his hair could blunt scissors. And I could well believe it. 'It's wonderful, actually. A mutually satisfactory arrangement.'

'How long's this ...'

'Been going on? Oh, about four months now. I keep expecting to get bored. Or for him to. But it just hasn't happened.'

Jim came back in with the drinks and we spent an agreeable hour, mostly filled with Charlie telling stories about people I haven't seen for a long time or have never met. I didn't mind. Although Jim's presence inhibited me from broaching the subject of my policeman, it was wonderful to watch the two of them, so easy in one another's company. Charlie occasionally touching Jim's neck, Jim catching his wrist as he did so. Looking at them, I allowed myself a little fantasy. I could live like this with my policeman. We could spend evenings chatting to friends, sharing a drink, behaving as though we were – well, married.

All the same, I was glad when Charlie saw me to the door alone.

'Wonderful to see you,' he said. 'You look better than ever.'

I smiled.

'What's his name, then?' asked Charlie.

I told him. 'He's a policeman,' I added.

'Bloody hell,' said Charlie. 'What happened to the old cautious Tomlinson?'

'I buried him,' I said.

Charlie drew the door to behind him and we went down the steps into the street. 'Louis,' he said, 'I don't want to come across all parental, but ...' He stopped. Hooked me gently around the neck and drew our faces close. 'A policeman?' he hissed.

I laughed. 'I know. But he's not your average bobby.' 'Obviously not.'

There was a short silence. Charlie let me go. Lit us both a cigarette. We leant together on his railings, exhaling smoke into the night. Just like the bike sheds at school, I thought.

'What's he like, then?'

'Early twenties. Bright. Athletic. Brunette.'

'Fuck me,' he said, grinning.

'This is it, Charlie.' I couldn't help myself. 'This is really it.'

Charlie frowned. 'Now I am going to be parental. Go easy. Be careful.'

A spark of anger flared in me. 'Why should I be?' I asked. 'You're not. Yours is living with you.'

Charlie flicked his cigarette into the gutter. 'Yes, but ... that's different.'

'Different how?'

'Louis. Jim's my employee. All the rules are understood, by us and by the rest of the world. He lives under my roof and I pay him for his ... services.'

'Are you saying it's just a financial arrangement? Nothing more?'

'Of course not. But to outside eyes it could be. And this way it's clearer, isn't it? Anything else is ... it's bloody impossible. You know that.'

After we'd said our goodbyes and he was walking back up the steps to the house, I called out, 'You wait. This time next year he'll be living with me.'

And at that moment, I really believed what I said.