Chapter 5: Sarah

“In the interests of full disclosure,” Holly says as we wander the art exhibition, ” and because I know most of the orchestra thinks I'm gay, I'm not. I'm bi.”

“You did say 'date-date'. You wouldn't say it if you didn't mean it,” I reply, because I know enough about Holly to know that.

“Sweet of you to say so. You'd be amazed how many people think differently."

I feel the corners of my mouth tug downwards in response. "That sucks."

"It really does," Holly sighs.

"People are a**holes." I can think of no other explanation.

"Yup." We go a few steps in silence, then Holly admits, "I may have just a bit of a competency kink. Ever so little.” He holds his hand up, forefinger and thumb spaced slightly apart. “This tiny. And you are hella competent with a violin, woman.”

“You're really good yourself, you know,” I tell him.

Holly snorts dismissively. “Oh sure, I hit two giant teakettles with a couple of fluffy baby's rattles.”

“Don't knock good percussion,” I pretend to scold, with a slow shake of my head. “It's all about concentration and focus. I know how boring your parts can be, but you never miss an entrance.”

“Who does that anyway?” Holly asks with a shake of his head. “It's not hard.”

“Holly, I've played Pachelbel's Canon. I was there when two of the cellists fell asleep because their part was so monotonous.” I hear someone just behind me stifle a snort of laughter, and remember that we are in a public place with others in earshot.

“Should we be looking at the art?” Holly suggests, amused.

“I think that's what people usually do at art exhibitions,” I answer, smiling back at him before turning to regard the closest painting. It's an abstract, which normally I don't like all that much, but this one somehow gives the feeling that it's about to resolve itself into a clear picture. A series of clear pictures, in fact. It's full of little corners, each one catching your attention in turn while you look at another one. I can easily imagine mischievous imps popping out of those corners the moment my eye travels on.

“This is an art school, are these all by the current students?” I ask. There's no programme or booklet, just a little card next to each framed piece with the name of the work, the artist and when it was created. The gallery is surprisingly small, which is probably why you have to have a pre-booked ticket. If people could just walk in, it could get too crowded. I think the building was originally a house, but now they have knocked most of the ground floor into a single room, just leaving a reception area immediately beyond the front door. All the classrooms and offices must be on the upper floors.

“It's the graduation show,” Holly explains. “They only take the best students, from all over the world. Their exhibitions have a really good reputation. This one will run right through to the end of the first semester of the new intake. So the new students can be inspired by the graduates." He waves his hands as he talks, giving a physical shape to his words.

“Do they sell the paintings?” I step in front of a small watercolour. It's minimalist in style, almost appearing unfinished, so that the figures in it are vanishing into the mist of the white background: a man, a dog, somehow giving the impression of contented old age even though they are mere coloured blobs of watery paint. 'Goodbye, old friends,' it's called and I find myself blinking back tears.

“Not from here,” Holly says, passing me a tissue. “There's a pub on the corner where some of the students put up pictures for sale. We could go look?” He has that hopeful look again. He's like a particularly elegant puppy.

“Sounds like a second date,” I say, and Holly's face lights up. “Now.” I reach out and tuck my hand into the crook of is elbow. “We have a lot more paintings to look at. Let's not get too distracted.”

***

We stroll back towards our respective homes along Embankment arm in arm, watching the boats along the river and the tourists watching the boats. We loop through the Victoria Embankment Gardens where there is a little cafe, and buy ice creams which we eat as we sit on a bench tucked between vibrant flower beds. The distant strains of a brass band drift across us us, and we each try to be the first to name the tunes they play, then start making suggestions about other music that they might try to play. I think the Muppet Show theme would sound great as a Big Band Sound, it's most of the way there already. Holly disagrees, but we both want to hear a brass version of Bohemian Rhapsody.

The ice creams are long gone and the sun is sinking in the sky by the time we we meander on. The band has stopped playing but a blackbird is still singing, audible even against the inevitable background of traffic noise. The lights of Festival Pier reflect off the Thames, dancing over the silver waters. The top arch of the London Eye is just visible, its swinging gondolas lit up against a blue sky just now shading into oranges and purples.

We stop beneath the equatorial sundial, its nested rings throwing long, hooped shadows around us. Holly turns me towards him with a gentle hand on my shoulder, his grey eyes steady on my face. His lips part slightly, and his hand drops to my waist, slipping around to the small of my back, softly drawing me closer. He takes his other arm from where it has been looped through mine, and cups my cheek. His palm is soft against my skin.

I lean into the tall, lean length of him, soaking up his warmth, sliding my arms about his shoulders. I tilt my head invitingly, letting my eyes flick to his lips and back to his cloud-grey eyes. He bends his neck, closing the final few inches, and finally our lips meet. Soft, slow, oh so careful. I can hear his appreciative hum, rumbling through his chest and into mine.

Eventually he straightens, his hands settling to lightly framing my shoulders. There is a soft, contented smile on his face. And I?

I feel nothing.