affairs and beach stones

30th September 1957

VERY LATE, AND no sleep. Shadowy thoughts – bad thoughts – chasing me. Have thought about burning my last entry many times. Cannot. What else can make him real, except for my words on paper? When no one else can know, how can I convince myself of his actual presence, of my actual feelings?

It's a bad habit, this writing things down. Sometimes, I think, a poor substitute for real life. Every year I have a clear- out – burn the lot. Even Michael's letters I burnt. And now wish I hadn't.

Since meeting my policeman, I'm more determined than ever that nothing can take me back to that dark room. Five years since Michael was lost, and I will not allow myself the luxury of dwelling there.

My policeman is nothing like Michael. Which is one of the many things I love about him. The words that come to mind when I think of my policeman are light and delight.

I won't go back to that dark room. Work has helped. Steady, regular work. Painting is all very well if you can take the rejection, the weeks of waiting for the right idea to come along, the yards of awful shit you have to turn out before you reach anything decent. No. What's needed are regular hours. Small tasks. Small rewards.

Which is why, of course, my policeman is very dangerous, despite the light and the delight.

We used to dance, Michael and I. Every Wednesday night. I'd make everything right. Fire laid. Dinner made (he loved anything with cream and butter. All those French sauces – sole au vin blanc, poulet au gratin à la crème landaise – and, to finish, if I'd had time, Saint Émilion au chocolat). A bottle of

claret. The sheets fresh and clean, a towel laid out. A newly pressed suit. And music. All the sentimental magic that he loved. Caruso to start (I've always hated him, but for Michael I endured it). Then Sarah Vaughan singing 'The Nearness of You'. We'd cling to each other for hours, shuffle round on the rug like a couple of marrieds, his cheek burning against mine. Wednesdays were an indulgence, I know that. For him and for me. I made him his favourite butter-rich foods (which played havoc with my sHarryach), hummed along to 'Danny Boy', and, in return, he danced in my arms. Only when the records were all played, the candles burned down to pools of wax, would I slowly undress him, here in my sitting room, and we'd dance again, naked, in absolute silence, save for our quickening breaths.

But that was a long time ago. He's so young.

I know I'm not old. And God knows my policeman makes me feel like a boy again. Like a nine-year-old, peeking out of the railings in front of my parents' London house at the butcher's boy who delivered next door. It was his knees. Thick but exquisitely shaped, scabbed, thrillingly raw. Once he gave me a backie on his bicycle, all the way to the shops. I trembled as I held on to the seat, watching his little arse bounce up and down as he pedalled. I trembled, but felt stronger, more powerful than I had my whole life.

Listen to me. Butchers' boys.

I tell myself that my age is an advantage, in this case. I am experienced. Professional. What I must never be is avuncular. An old quean with a young tough hanging on his every pound note. Is that what's happening to me? Is that what I'm becoming?

Must sleep now.

7 A.M.