My Policeman

For God’s sake. I lost him once already.’

‘Of course. It’s the great artwork. The one we’re all trying to imitate.’

I laughed. ‘For a policeman, you’re very romantic.’

‘For an artist, you’re very afraid,’ he said.

My answer to that was to kiss him hard on the mouth.

IT’S SUNDAY MORNING and I’ve packed a picnic for us. Listen to me. Us

I had a sudden itch to run after him, kiss his hand and tell him he was braver than any soldier, to wear that much make-up in an English seaside town, even if that town did happen to be Brighton.

In Venice we’d spend the morning in bed, have a long lunch on the hotel terrace, then walk through the city. Delicious freedom. No one glanced our way, even when I took Tom’s arm and guided him through the throngs of tourists on the Rialto Bridge. One afternoon we stepped out of the summer fug and into the sweet coolness of the church of Santa Maria dei Miracoli. What I’ve always loved about the little place is its paleness. With its pastel grey, pink and white marble walls and floor, the Miracoli could be made of sugar. We sat together in a front pew. Utterly alone. And we kissed. There in the presence of all the saints and angels, we kissed. I looked at the altar with its image of the miraculous Virgin – reputed to have brought a drowned man back to life – and I said, ‘We should live here.’ After just two days of the possibilities of Venice, I said, ‘We should live here.’ And Tom’s answer was, ‘We should fly to the moon.’ But he was smiling.

‘You’re not a coward. It’s brave of you to come here at all.’

But I doubt another man touched my policeman before I did. I doubt he’s cradled another man’s head in his hand. His actions have been bold – he’s surprised and delighted me in this. But does he feel as confident as he acts? How scared he really is I have no way of knowing. That laugh, those glittering eyes, are good protection, from the world and from himself.

It’s strange. At first I can only take quick peeks at him. I’m worried I might start laughing with joy. I might start laughing at his youth, at the way he shines, at the way his cheeks are flushed, at the way his eyes are bright with interest. The way his thighs rest together as he sits. The way he holds his exquisite shoulders so square. Or, in this state, I might even start to weep.

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.