The Fury(50)

It’s okay, I whispered. Everything’s okay now. I’m here. You’re safe, I promise.



* * *



I arrived at Lana’s house, shivering with cold, just as it started to snow. No one was home but Lana. We sat by the fire, drinking whiskey, watching the snow fall outside. I told her about my—I don’t know what the right word is—epiphany, shall we call it?

It took me a while to explain it all to her. As I spoke, I struggled with the fear I wouldn’t be able to make myself understood. But I needn’t have worried. As Lana listened, and the snow fell, it was the first time I ever saw her cry.

We both cried that night. I told her all my secrets—almost all—and Lana told me hers. All the dark secrets we were both so ashamed of, all the horrors we believed had to be kept hidden—they all came tumbling out that night, with no shame, no judgment, no self-consciousness—just openness, just truth.

It felt like the first real conversation I’d ever had with another human being. I don’t know how to describe it—for the first time, I felt alive. Not performing at life, you understand, not pretending, not faking it, not almost living … but just living.

This was also the first time I glimpsed the other Lana—the secret person she kept hidden from the world, and whom I had not wanted to find. Now I discovered her, in all her naked vulnerability, as I heard the truth about her childhood: about that sad, lonely girl, and the terrible things that happened to her. I heard the truth about Otto and the frightening years of their marriage. It seemed he was just one in a long line of men to treat her badly.

I swore to myself that I would be different. I’d be the exception. I would protect Lana, cherish her, love her. I’d never betray her. I’d never let her down.

I reached out, across the couch, and squeezed her hand.

“I love you,” I said.

“I love you, too.”

Our words hung in the air like smoke.

I leaned forward, still holding on to her hand—as, ever so slowly, staring into her eyes, I inched closer, and closer … until our faces met.

My lips were against hers.

I kissed her, gently, on the lips.

It was the sweetest kiss I’d ever known. So innocent, so tender—so full of love.



* * *



Over the next few days, I spent a lot of time thinking about that kiss, and what it meant. It seemed like a final acknowledgment of the long-standing tension between us—the fulfillment of an ancient unspoken promise.

It was, as Mr. Valentine Levy might have put it, the conclusion of a deeply cherished goal on my part. And what was that goal?

To be loved, of course. I finally felt loved.

Lana and I were meant to be together. This was clear to me now. This was deeper than anything I ever imagined.

This was my destiny.





8





I’m going to tell you something I’ve never told anyone.

I was going to ask Lana to marry me.

I understood now, you see—that’s where we had been heading, all this time; drifting, slowly but surely, into romantic territory. Maybe not great flames of passion, which, by the way, blow cold as fast as they blow hot. I mean a slow, steady burning ember of true, deep affection and mutual respect. That’s what lasts. That’s love.

Lana and I were now spending almost every second of the day together. The next step, it seemed to me—the logical progression—was for me to move out of Barbara West’s house, and to move in with Lana. For us to get married and live happily ever after.

What’s wrong with that? If you had a child, you’d want that for him, wouldn’t you? To live in a world of beauty, prosperity; safety. To be happy, secure—and loved. Why is it wrong for me to want that for myself? I would have made a good husband.

Talking of husbands, I’ve seen plenty of photos of Otto—and he was no oil painting either, believe me.

Yes—I stand by my claim. Despite the discrepancy in our appearances and our bank balances, Lana and I made a great couple. Not sexy or glamorous, perhaps, like her and Jason. But less self-conscious, and more content.

Like two kids, happy as clams.



* * *



I decided to proceed formally—as you might in an old-fashioned movie. I felt some kind of romantic declaration would be appropriate: a confession of my feelings; the story of a friendship turned to love, that kind of thing. I practiced a little speech—concluding in a marriage proposal.

I even bought a ring—a cheap thing, admittedly; a plain silver band. It was the best I could afford. My intention was to replace it with something more valuable, one day, when my ship came in. But even though it was just a prop, as a symbol of my affection, that ring was as meaningful or significant as any island Otto might buy her.

One Friday evening, with the engagement ring in my pocket, I went to meet Lana at a gallery opening on the South Bank.

My plan was to sneak her onto the roof, under the stars, and propose above the Thames. What could be a more appropriate backdrop, given all our walks along the river?

But when I arrived at the gallery, Lana wasn’t there. Kate was, though, holding court at the bar.

“Hello,” she said, giving me a funny look. “I didn’t know you were coming. Where’s Lana?”