My Policeman

by Bethan Roberts

Immediately I recognized the old familiar feeling of being appraised by more than a dozen pairs of male eyes. A feeling exquisitely balanced between pleasure and pain. It’s not that they all turned and stared—the Argyle would never be that blatant—but my presence was noted. I’d taken care over my appearance, shaping my mustache, running some oil through my hair and selecting my most well-cut jacket (the gray marl from Jermyn Street) before I ventured out, so I was prepared. I keep myself fit—calisthenics every morning. The army did that for me, at least. And I don’t yet have a gray hair on my head. I’ve never been obsessed with these matters, but I do keep them in check. I was ready. I was, I thought, looking quite elegant. I was—in my head this is already taking on a strange reality—an artist about to embark on a daring new portraiture project.