My Policeman by Bethan Roberts Page B

with a look. ‘So?’ I said. ‘What’s going on?’
    He sighed. ‘It’s all right. Really. Patrick’s in London, and he’s always said I could use the place whilst he’s away …’
    ‘Do you come here a lot?’
    ‘Of course,’ he said, taking a long drink from his glass. ‘Well. Sometimes.’
    There was a pause. I put my brandy down on your coffee table, next to a pile of art magazines.
    ‘Those keys – are they yours?’
    Tom nodded.
    ‘How often do you—’
    ‘Marion,’ he said, leaning across to kiss my hair. ‘I’m so glad you’re here. And it’s fine, believe me. Patrick would want us to come.’
    There was something odd, something un-Tom-like in his voice, a theatricality which, at the time, I put down to nerves. I glimpsed our reflections in the long window, and we looked almost like a cultured young couple, surrounded by tasteful artefacts and quality furniture, enjoying a drink together on a Saturday night. Trying to ignore the feeling that this was all happening in the wrong place, to the wrong people, I finished my drink quickly and said to Tom, ‘Show me some more of the flat.’
    He took me to the kitchen. You had a spice rack, I remember – it was the first time I’d seen one – and a double sink and drainer, and the walls were tiled light green. Tom couldn’t stop pointing things out for me. He opened the top door of the large fridge. ‘Freezer compartment,’ he said. ‘Wouldn’t you love one of these?’
    I said that I would.
    ‘He’s a great cook, you know.’
    I expressed surprise, and Tom opened all your cupboards, and showed me their contents, as evidence. There were copper pans, earthenware casseroles, a set of steel chopping knives, one with a curved blade that Tom announced was called a mezzaluna, bottles of olive oil and wine vinegar, a book by Elizabeth David on the shelf.
    ‘But you cook too,’ I said. ‘You were in the Catering Corps.’
    ‘Not like Patrick. Pie and mash is about all I do.’
    ‘I like pie and mash.’
    ‘Simple tastes,’ said Tom, grinning, ‘for a schoolteacher.’
    ‘That’s right,’ I said, opening the fridge. ‘A bag of fish and chips does me fine. What’s he got in here?’
    ‘He said he’d leave something. You hungry?’ Tom reached past me for a plate of cold breaded chicken. ‘Want some?’ He took a wing and sucked the meat from the bone. ‘It’s good,’ he said, holding the plate out to me, his lips glistening.
    ‘Should we?’ I asked. But my hand was already on a drumstick.
    Tom was right: it was good; the crumbs were light and crisp, the meat fabulously rich and greasy.
    ‘That’s it!’ Tom’s eyes were still wild. He took piece after piece, exclaiming all the while over the elegance of your kitchen, the tastiness of your chicken, the delicacy of your brandy. ‘Let’s have the lot,’ he said. And we stood there in your kitchen, devouring your food, drinking your alcohol, licking our oily fingers, giggling.
    Afterwards, Tom took my hand and led me to another room. I’d had a few drinks by then and, as I moved, I experienced the strange sensation of my surroundings not quite catching up with me. We didn’t go to your bedroom, Patrick (although I would love to tell you that we did). We went to the spare room. It was small and white, with a single bed, primroses on the coverlet, a plain mirror above the skinny fireplace, and a wardrobe whose hangers clanged together in the empty space as we walked across the floor. A plain, practical room.
    Still holding hands, we stood near the bed, neither one of us daring to look directly at it. Tom’s face had gone very pale and serious; his eyes were no longer wild. I thought of him on the beach, how big and healthy and joyful he was in the water. I remembered my vision of him as Neptune, and almost told him about it, but something in his eyes kept me silent.
    ‘Well,’ he said.
    ‘Well.’
    ‘Would you like another drink?’
    ‘No. Thank you.’
    I began to