WRITING THIS FRIDAY evening. A most satisfying day.
After my little weakness, I resigned myself to the long wait for Tuesday. But then this. Half past four. Monstrously dull meeting with Houghton over, I walked through the main gallery, thinking vaguely about my tea and custard cream biscuit, more specifically about the fact that there were only three days until Tuesday.
And then: the unmistakable line of his shoulders. My policeman was standing, head on one side, looking at a rather mediocre Sisley we’ve currently got on temporary loan. No uniform (the same jacket as before). Magnificently alive, breathing, and actually here, in the museum. I’d pictured him so many times over the past days that I rubbed my eyes, as disbelieving girls do in films.
I approached. He turned and looked straight at me, then at the floor. A little coy. As if he’d been caught out. DUM-de, went my trochaic heart.
‘Beat finished for the day?’ I asked.
He nodded. ‘Thought I’d have another look. See what my mug’ll have to compete with.’
‘Do you want to come up? I was just about to have tea.’
Again he looked at the floor. ‘I don’t want to put you to no trouble.’
‘No trouble,’ I said, already leading the way to my office.
I showed him in, nodding at Jackie’s offer of tea as I did so, ignoring her look of interest. He sat in the armchair. I perched on the edge of the desk. ‘So. See anything interesting?’
He didn’t hesitate in his response. ‘Yeah. There’s one of a woman, no clothes, sitting on a rock, her legs like a goat’s …’
‘Satyrs. French School.’
‘That was pretty interesting.’
‘Why was that?’
He looked at the floor again. ‘Well. Women don’t have goat’s legs, do they?’
I smiled. ‘It’s a mythological thing … from the ancient Greeks. She’s a creature called a satyr, only half human …’
‘Yeah. But isn’t all that just an excuse?’
‘An excuse?’
‘Art. Is it just an excuse to look at – well, naked people? Naked women.’
He didn’t look down this time. He was staring at me so intently, his small eyes so clearly blue, that I was the one who had to look away.
‘Well.’ I straightened my cuffs. ‘Well, there’s certainly an obsession with the human form – with bodies – and yes, sometimes a celebration of the beauties of the flesh, I suppose you could say – male and female …’
I flicked a look at him, but Jackie chose this moment to come in with the tea trolley. She was wearing a daffodil-yellow frock, very tight about the waist. Matching yellow shoes. A string of yellow beads. The effect was almost blinding. I saw my policeman take in this golden vision with what I thought was some interest. But then he looked back at me and there was that small, rather secret grin.
Jackie, not seeing our exchange of glances, said, ‘Good to see you back again, Mr …’
He told her his name. She passed him his tea. ‘Having your portrait done?’
His cheeks flushed pink. ‘Yeah.’
A little pause as she kept hold of his saucer, looking as though she were preparing herself to fish further.
I stood and held the door open. ‘Thank you, Jackie.’
She pushed out her trolley with a tight smile.
‘Sorry about that.’
He nodded, sipped his tea. ‘You were saying?’
‘Was I?’
‘About naked bodies?’
‘Oh, yes.’ I settled on the corner of the desk again. ‘Yes. Look, if you’re really interested, I’ll show you some fascinating examples.’
‘Now?’
‘If you have time.’
‘All right,’ he said, helping himself to a second biscuit. He eats rapidly, even noisily. His mouth slightly open. Enjoying himself. I offered him the plate. ‘Take as many as you like,’ I said. ‘Then I’ll show you something.’
We had half an hour before closing time. I decided to cut to the chase: the bronze Icarus. We walked side by side in silence until I said, ‘I don’t mean to be rude, but it’s unusual, isn’t it, for a policeman to be interested in art? Do any of your colleagues feel the same way, do you think?’
He gave a sudden laugh. It was loud and uninhibited, and it echoed around the gallery. ‘God, no,’ he said.
‘That’s a shame.’
He shrugged. ‘Down the station, if you like art, you’re wet. Or worse.’
A look at each other. His eyes were smiling, I swear it.
‘Well – that’s the general perception, I suppose …’
‘I only know one other person who likes it.’
‘And who’s that?’
‘Girl I know. A friend. She’s a teacher, actually. Books are more her line, though. But we do have, you know, discussions …’
‘About art?’
‘About all sorts. I’m teaching her to swim.’ He gave another laugh, softer this time. ‘She’s no good, though. Never gets any better.’
I’ll bet she doesn’t, I thought.
I pressed on, guiding him into the sculpture gallery. Friend, he’d said. A small revelation. Nothing to get panicked by. As he’d talked about her, the colour in his face had remained constant. He hadn’t once avoided my gaze. Friend I can deal with. Friend. Girlfriend. Sweetheart. Fiancée. I can deal with all of those. I’ve had some experience. Michael had a girlfriend, after all. Dim little thing she was. Always feeding him sandwiches. Rather sweet, in her way.
Wife, even. I think I can deal with wife. Wives are at home, that’s the good thing about them. They’re at home, they’re silent, and they’re glad to see the back of him. Usually.
Lover, I cannot deal with. Lover is different.
‘This,’ I said, ‘is Icarus, by Alfred Gilbert. It’s a cast. On loan to us at the moment.’
There he was, his wings about him like a bullfighter’s cape, and no fig leaf. The most impressive thing about him, to me, is his belief in those wings. Useless, fragile, attached to his arms by a couple of cuffs, and yet he believes in them as a child might believe a cloak will make him invisible. He is youthfully muscular, standing with his hip to the side, his leg bent, his gleaming chest catching the spotlight above. The line from his throat to his groin delicately curved. He stands alone on his rock, looking coyly down. He is both serious and absurd, and he is beautiful.
My policeman and I stood before him, and I said, ‘You know the story?’
He gave me a sideways glance.
‘Greek mythology again, I’m afraid. Icarus and his father, Daedalus, escaped from prison using wings they’d made from feathers and wax. But despite his father’s advice, Icarus flew too close to the sun, his wings melted, and – well, you can guess the rest. It’s a story often told to schoolchildren to warn them against being overambitious. And to impress upon them the importance of listening to their fathers.’
He was bending over, breathing on the glass case. He moved around, taking in the boy from all angles, whilst I stood back and watched. We caught each other’s reflection in the glass, our faces merging and warping with Gilbert’s golden Icarus.
I wanted to say to him: I can’t swim. Teach me. Teach me to cut through the waves with you.
But I did not. Instead, as brightly as I could, I told him: ‘You should bring her here.’
‘Who?’
Exactly the response for which I’d hoped.
‘Your friend. The schoolteacher.’
‘Oh. Marion.’
‘Marion.’ Even the name’s schoolteacherly. It brings to mind thick stockings, even thicker spectacles. ‘Bring her.’
‘To see the museum?’
‘And to meet me.’
He straightened up. Put a hand to his neck, frowned. ‘Do you want her to be part of the project?’
I smiled. Already he was worried about being usurped. ‘Perhaps,’ I said. ‘But you’re our first subject. We’ll see how that goes, shall we? You are still coming?’
‘Tuesday.’
‘Tuesday.’ On impulse, I added: ‘Would you mind changing the venue? There’s not really space in my office. Or the necessary equipment.’ I pulled my card from my pocket and handed it to him. ‘We could meet here instead. It would have to be a bit later. Say seven thirty?’
He looked at the card. ‘Is this your studio?’
‘Yes. And it’s where I live.’
He turned the card over before tucking it into his jacket. He was smiling as he said, ‘All right,’ but I couldn’t tell if his smile was one of happiness at the thought of coming to my flat, amusement at my wiles to get him there, or mere embarrassment.
But. He has the card in his pocket. And Tuesday it is.