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“Saturday in June, you'd think this place'd be heaving,” Lestrade says.
They've practically got the beach to themselves. Obviously the Great British Public didn't get the memo about Margate being the trendy place to go these days.
“Maybe the weather forecast put them off,” Maurice says, looking at the dark clouds further out to sea.
Lestrade grins. “Bet you spent your holidays abroad, didn't you? Used to take more than a bit of weather to clear the beach.”
He'd seen it year after year in Weston-super-Mud. Kids in wet bathing suits spattered with sand, shivering and covered in goosepimples, huddling behind canvas wind-breaks. Mums and dads doggedly wielding umbrellas against the drizzle, waiting for it to be time to go back to the B and B...
“My prep school was by the sea,” Maurice says, dodging the holiday question. “I remember my mad R.E. teacher deciding the beach was the ideal place for a spot of sex education.”
“You what?” Lestrade doesn't like the sound of that one little tiny bit.
“Oh no,” Maurice says, laughing, “nothing like that. He gave us all a lecture about it. Complete with diagrams in the sand. I don't think any of us knew what he was on about at that age.”
“Prat,” Lestrade says, with feeling. “Could have put you off sex for life.”
Maurice grins at him. “Not bloody likely,” he says.
“Lucky for me,” Lestrade says, thinking he'd like to snog Maurice right now. But old habits die hard, and he's not sure Margate beach is the best place for it, even these days.
“Me too,” Maurice says, and looks at him so lovingly that it makes Lestrade catch his breath.
“Come on, you,” Lestrade says. “Let's go and see this exhibition of yours.”
He doesn't know much about this artist except that she's from here, apparently, and famous for having an unmade bed. Seems a bit of an odd thing to be known for, but Maurice thinks she's good, so here they are.
From the outside the gallery looks like a tin hut gone mad, but inside it all makes sense. Light and space and emptiness. He likes it, and he wasn't expecting to.
Maybe it's because the first thing he sees is that sculpture, with nothing but glass between it and the sea and the sky.
“Christ,” he says, “what's that doing here?”
White marble. Two lovers, naked, kissing as if nothing and no-one else exists in the world. Even he knows what this is: it's Rodin's The Kiss, and shouldn't it be in Paris or somewhere?
“It's not the original,” Maurice says, reading the gallery leaflet.
“Oh,” Lestrade says, disappointed. Should have known it was too good to be true.
“No, it's real all right,” Maurice says. It's nice, the way he understands things without being told. “Rodin made another one for a collector over here. Made it for him and his boyfriend.”
Seems an odd choice, though Lestrade supposes you couldn't exactly say Oh by the way, Monsieur Rodin, could you do us one with two blokes kissing instead?
“Apparently he asked Rodin to make the man's genitals more prominent,” Maurice says, grinning. “To do it the way the Greeks would have done them.”
“Oh right,” Lestrade says. “Always knew those Greeks were a randy bunch.”
Maurice gives him a look that says Look who's talking.
“Get upstairs, you shameless DI,” he says.
Bit forward, even for Maurice – oh. That's where the main exhibition is.
“You,” Lestrade says. “You did that on purpose.”
“Sorry,” Maurice says, sounding anything but. “I'll make it up to you later.”
“You'd better,” Lestrade threatens him, taking advantage of the blind spot at the half-landing for a crafty grope.
~*~*~*
“Are you quite sure about this?” Maurice asks.
“'Course,” Lestrade says. “Day out at the seaside, got to have proper chips. With salt and vinegar. Not sure about these fancy cardboard boxes though.”
Apparently they're more ecologically sound or something. Chips taste the same, though, which is the main thing.
Maurice looks a bit doubtful at first, but before long he's getting stuck in, licking his lips. There's just something about chips and sea air...
“Not sure what that thing with the mattress was meant to be,” Lestrade says.
Why would you cast part of a tree in bronze just to plonk it on a used mattress on the floor? He doesn't think he'll ever get the point of modern art.
“It's called Dead Sea,” Maurice says. Trust him to have read the catalogue. “I think it's something to do with the menopause.”
Sounds about as depressing as it looked. She must be the same sort of age as them, thinking about it.
He puts his arm round Maurice's shoulders and hugs him, a quick manly hug, the kind you can get away with in public. It's a lot less than he'd like to do.
“This town is not properly laid out,” Maurice says, obviously looking around for a convenient alleyway. “Christ, I want to kiss you.”
“Oh look,” Lestrade says, suppressing a groan. “More art.”
A disused power station, by the look of it. The exhibition's called Close To Darkness, and apparently it's supposed to be a collaborative exploration of duality and polarity – whatever that means. The woman explains about the darkened room and the cloud of sound; she says they'll get used to the dark after a few minutes, and then they'll be able to see the photographs.
“Would you like to go in?” she asks.
“Very much,” Maurice says.
There's a glint in his eye that makes Lestrade hope the bloody place doesn't have CCTV. And that the next lot of punters doesn't turn up too quickly.
“There's a light over the exit,” the woman says, “so you can find your way out again. Are you all right about being left in the dark?”
“Thank you,” Maurice says, “I'm sure we'll be fine.”
Maybe there's something to be said for modern art after all, Lestrade reflects, as the door to the outside world closes and Maurice takes him in his arms.