Chapter 23: Homes, Not Houses

I needed to talk to Lana, but how and when? There’d be other people with us at lunch on Wednesday, and I really wanted to speak to her alone.

Unguarded.

We’d be alone walking back from badminton, and we always talked a lot on those walks. Quite deep conversations, too. In fact, you could say that’s where our ‘unguarded’ pact started.

But I felt like this subject needed more time than we’d have on such a short walk.

But I realised over lunch that the perfect opportunity to ask her about Simon’s proposal already existed that weekend.

Our date. Although it wasn’t a date, it was just dinner.

At least, it started out as just dinner.

Imogen didn’t join me for lunch after our eleven o’clock lecture on Wednesday. Instead, she returned to the house to meet Vanessa ahead of their weekly ‘sporting activity’—window shopping along Westmouth High Street. Vanessa argued that because the street was over a mile long, if they walked into town, walked down one side of the street, popping in shops as the fancy took them, then back down the other side, also popping into some of the shops, then walked back home, they would cover well over four miles—maybe even as far as five miles—and that counted as ‘exercise’ in her book.

For some reason, both of them got upset with me when I pointed out that people doing ‘exercise’ don’t stop halfway through to have a full-fat, double-shot, caramel-vanilla latte with a cinnamon twist, marshmallows, and whipped cream on top.

I can’t think why.

So, lunch was just me, Lana, Lily and Marie, who had taken Lana and Lily’s open invitation to heart and vowed to turn up every day that she could. We were again early enough to grab our favourite table by the window overlooking the town.

“So...” Marie said, with a smile, “Have you decided where you’re going on your date on Saturday?”

I looked at her. My instinct was to blurt out, “It’s not a date,” but I bit my tongue. What if Lana thought it was a date? I didn’t want to hurt her feelings by denying it.

“It’s not a date,” said Lana casually. “It’s just a quiet dinner somewhere nice, so I can wear the dress Paul bought me. He hasn’t seen it yet.”

“Well, I have,” Lily said, “And it’s definitely a date dress.” She looked at Marie. “Don’t you agree?”

“Oh, it’s definitely a date dress.”

I glanced at Lana, who blushed.

Maybe she did think it was a date.

“Like Lana said, it’s just dinner,” I said, keeping my tone as level as I could. I looked first at Marie and then Lily. “Just a nice dinner, somewhere fancy.”

“With her in an amazing dress and you in one of your posh Italian suits. Sounds like a date to me,” said Lily with a grin.

“Fine,” I said, calmly and casually, as if it was no big deal. “Whatever. It’s a date if that’s what you want to call it.” I looked at Lana. “If that’s what you want it to be.”

She did that ‘looking in one eye then the other’ thing she so often did, but she didn’t answer.

“But have you decided where you’re going?” Marie said.

“What about Le Jardin Secret?” Lily said.

“The French place on the leisure park?” I said.

Lily nodded. “You could go to the cinema afterwards. You know, like a real date.” She grinned again.

“Oh, that dress is too nice for the cinema,” Marie said.

“How about Chez Philippe?” Lana said quietly. I looked at her, and she said, “It’s in the Winter Gardens. You know, the conference centre next to Symphony Hall.” She smiled slightly. “There’s ... The Symphony Orchestra have a Tchaikovsky concert that night. There are still tickets available.” She blushed. “I checked. I think my dress would be perfect for—”

“Get the tickets,” I said. “Then let me know how much they are, and I’ll refund you.”

“You don’t have—”

“I’ll refund you. Get the best seats you can. And book the restaurant too. Early enough that we don’t miss the start of the concert.”

She smiled and nodded. “Thank you.”

I smiled back. “The only concert I’ve ever been to was your string quartet, so I’m looking forward to it. Tchaikovsky is supposed to be quite good, isn’t he?”

“Quite good?” Lily said, sounding as if I’d just said that puppies are supposed to be quite cute. “He’s probably the best composer in history. ‘Swan Lake’ is just so...” She put her hand on her heart and sighed.

I looked at Lana again and raised an eyebrow.

“‘Best’ is subjective,” she said. “And personal. I mean, who’s the best painter? Monet? Da Vinci? Picasso? They’re all too different to really compare, but people will always prefer one over the others. Music is the same. But Tchaikovsky is certainly up there with the greats.

“I’m a cellist, so for me, it’ll always be Bach above everyone else. That day playing in the Thomaskirche was...” She closed her eyes. “I’ll remember that day for the rest of my life, I really will.”

She sighed, then opened her eyes and stared at me again.

“Playing Bach is like solving a perfect, beautiful mathematical equation. Once you get it right, everything just ... works. It all just fits together. It’s so satisfying. To play and to listen to. But Tchaikovsky is like...” She screwed up her face, then relaxed and smiled. “This is going to sound dramatic, but it’s like crying your heart out until the tears run dry and then filling up that same heart with unbridled joy until it overflows and pours down the sides.”

I smiled at her.

“It’s pure, raw emotion from the first note to the very last,” she said. “It consumes you. You’re never the same after the first time you listen to something like ‘Swan Lake.’ Both feelings are...” She closed her eyes again and sighed. “ ... incredible. But they are too different to decide which is best.”