My Favourite Part

33: a light at the end of the tunnel

I'm not one of those people who's given much thought as to how I'll die. I don't see the use in thinking about it – it's depressing and distracting and way too Nietzschean for me to handle. That being said, if I don't die tonight, it'll be a pleasant surprise.

Eric's not back yet, and after changing into dress number two, making a meal of pillow chocolates and crystal-bottled water and wasting a good hour scrolling through socials, I thought I'd get a surprise ready for when he came back. Pip said it was a tradition of sorts to finish Eric's birthday with some fancy drink called Quinta do Noval Colheita port, and that I could ask Ana to fish it out of the cellar for me. In hindsight, that's definitely what I should have done. At the present moment, though, as I come to terms with the fact that I'm lost in a 17th century wine cave, hindsight's a little irritating.

"For fuck's sake, Evangeline," I mutter. I squint at the nearest bottle top to me, illuminated by the stuttering light – a faint yellow colour until it reflects off of the rows of dark bottles on the wall, turning the cave an apocalyptic shade of underground green.

I gasp when a sudden clink in the stark silence startles me, and I really, really wish that the thought on my mind right now wasn't if I got murdered down here, no one would hear me scream.

Okay, Nyetimber 1086 Rosé, the bottle top reads – N. Quinta-do-whatever I'm looking for shouldn't be too many more musty halls away.

The lettered shelves are all I have to rely on, and I follow them faithfully, with one hand skimming the bottle tops for bearings as I pass them, and the other gripping my cold, exposed shoulder. Wandering the dim passageways of a country house wine cave in a satin evening gown feels distinctly BLVGARI commercial, and if I wasn't so bloody lost, I'd totally be revelling in the damsel in picture perfect distress vibe of it all.

The cave twists and turns with its soaring ceilings and shapelessly wide walkways, and every pathway seems an endless array of bottles so dark they look like stony eyes, until the walkway narrows, the faltering green turns a steady, sultry amber and illuminates what looks like a dining room.

The room's furnished with a long table in the centre, flat-backed wooden chairs down the lengths of both sides, and two more, larger and darker, at the either end. In the corner stands a humble baby grand piano, and with a stool that puts its player's back to the merriment in the middle of the room, its lowliness draws me in.

Before I know it, I'm sat on the solitary stool, letting my hands wander on the sturdy keys, and I laugh lightly when I hear the melody my hands can't help but play.

Its tune is coy, because its words and heart are bold. It's my audition song, Places We Won't Walk.

It's the sort of song you can't help but cry to when you play, when you hear, and that's why I chose it, really. That's why I played it where I did. On that dark stage somewhere in Dublin, beady-eyes, preparedly incredulous, looking from a name, a number on a sheet, Trinity College applicant #4,568, to a timid frame before them.

My heart had been heavier than I'd been prepared for that day. Walking the university halls, I saw my dreams, along the stony stairwells, tucked in the pews and age-old shelves. They were the dreams I hardly recognised; the ones that didn't have Eric in them because he didn't know they existed at all. The section of my soul that wanted to study English Literature in London was louder around him, and ironically, its confidence came from my terror. Terror at the tug in my chest that didn't want to go away. Terror at the truth, hundreds of miles away from home: I wanted to study Music. I wanted to study Philosophy. I wanted to go to Dublin.

With the weight of so much truth on my heart, I was surprised it was only one tear that slid and sidled down the side of my nose as I played that day. The sound of the song echoed in the music hall, and I hoped they couldn't hear the tremble in my voice as I began to sing, afraid of how badly I wanted this, of my own desire. I couldn't shake the feeling that my wants would destroy what was, my beautiful Thursdays and perfect gentleman. And so, what I couldn't tell Eric – the passion for music I couldn't share – I'd told the near-empty hall that day.