Then a tall man in a smart tweed overcoat, collar turned up, started up the steps. As he pushed past me, he muttered, “Fucking queer.” Not, God knows, the first time. Certainly not the last. But it shocked me. Shocked me and turned my yearning flesh utterly cold. Because I’d had too many martinis. Because the rain had stopped. Because my policeman was coming on Tuesday. Because I’d been foolish enough to imagine I could enjoy this boy and just, for once, bloody well get on with it.
