Or is that bullshit? Did Lana secretly suspect something? Why else race to the theater like that? I’ll tell you one thing: after decades of being styled and photographed, modeling one piece or another, Lana had developed a photographic memory regarding clothing and items of jewelry. I find it hard to believe that she would think the earring familiar, yet be strangely unable to recall where she had seen it—or on whom. Perhaps I’m wrong. But I don’t suppose we’ll ever know for sure.

  By the time Lana arrived at the Old Vic, she had calmed herself down; convinced it was all in her mind, she was just being paranoid.

  Lana knocked at the stage-door window, presenting the old man in the booth with her famous smile.

  His face lit up as he recognized her. “Afternoon. Looking for Miss Crosby, are you?”

  “That’s right.”

  “She’s in rehearsal at the moment. I’ll buzz you in.” He lowered his voice, confidentially. “Even though you’re not on the list.”

  Lana smiled again. “Thank you. I’ll wait in her dressing room, if that’s all right?”

  “Very good, miss.” He pressed a button.

  With a loud buzz the stage door unlocked. Lana hesitated for a second. Then she opened the door and went inside.

  7

  Lana made her way along the stuffy, narrow corridor until she reached the star’s dressing room.

  She knocked on the door. No reply. So she cautiously opened it. The room was empty. She went inside, shutting the door behind her.

  It was not a large room. It had a tatty couch against one wall, a narrow shower room—essentially a cubicle—and a large, well-lit dressing table. Typical of Kate, it was a mess, with half-unpacked bags and clothes everywhere.

  Lana took a breath. Then she began—at last—to be honest with herself. By that I mean she quickly and methodically started looking through Kate’s belongings. Even as she did this, Lana remained mentally disassociated from her actions. She stayed calm and detached, as if her hands were operating beyond her control, her fingers rifling through the bags and boxes of their own accord. Nothing to do with her.

  In any case, the search yielded nothing.

  What a relief, she thought. Thank Christ for that.

  Of course she found nothing: there was nothing to be found. Everything was okay. This was all in her head.

  Then she noticed the large black makeup bag, sitting on the dressing table. She froze. How had she not seen it? It was right there.

  Lana reached out, with trembling fingers. She unzipped the bag—opening it up …

  And there, inside the bag … was a half-crescent moon earring, glinting at her.

  Lana pulled out the other earring from her pocket. She compared both earrings, but there was no need. They were obviously identical.

  The dressing room door suddenly opened behind her.

  “Lana?”

  Lana dropped one earring back in the makeup bag. Her hand closed around the other earring. She quickly turned around.

  Kate walked in, smiling. “Hello, love. Oh, shit—we haven’t made plans, have we? I can’t get away for hours yet. Today’s a fucking disaster. I could happily murder Gordon.”

  “No, Kate, no plans. I was just passing the theater. I thought I’d say hi.”

  “Are you okay?” Kate peered at her, concerned. “Lana—you don’t look well. Do you want some water? Here, sit down—”

  “No, thanks. You know, I don’t feel great. Too much walking, I—I should go.”

  “Are you sure? Shall I get you a cab?”

  “I can manage.”

  “Will you be okay?”

  “I’m fine. I’ll call you later.”

  Before Kate could object, Lana hurried out of the dressing room.

  She left the theater. She didn’t stop until she was on the street. Her heart was thudding in her chest. She felt like her head might explode. She was finding it hard to breathe. She felt panicked; she had to get home.

  Lana saw a passing taxi and hailed it. As she waved down the cab, she realized she still had the earring in her fist.

  She opened her hand and looked at it.

  The earring had dug so deep into her palm, it had drawn blood.

  8

  As she returned to Mayfair, Lana was in shock.

  The physical ache in her palm, where the earring had dug into her hand, was her only sensation. She focused on it, feeling it pulse and throb.

  When she got home, she knew, she would have to face her husband. She had no idea what to say or how to say it. So, for the moment, she would say nothing. Jason was bound to see how upset she was, but she’d do her best to hide it.

  It was typical of Jason, however, when he did finally return that evening, that he didn’t notice anything was wrong. He was preoccupied by his own problems—on a tense business call as he walked into the kitchen; then sending emails on his phone, while Lana prepared two steaks for their dinner.

  It was interesting, Lana thought, how heightened her senses were. Everything felt so vivid—the smell of the steaks, the sizzling, the sensation of the knife in her hand as she chopped a salad—as if her brain had slowed itself right down to the present second. Right now was all she could deal with. She didn’t dare think of the future. If she did, she would crumple onto the kitchen floor.

  Lana managed to keep going, and the evening passed, much like any other. A couple of hours after dinner, they went upstairs. Lana watched Jason undress and get into bed. He soon fell asleep.

  But Lana was wide-awake. She got out of bed. She stood above Jason, watching him.

  She didn’t know what to do. She had to confront him. But how? What could she possibly say? That she suspected him of having an affair with her best friend? Based on what? An earring? It was ridiculous. Jason would probably laugh—and offer a perfectly innocent explanation.

  If this were a movie, she thought—like one of those candyfloss romantic comedies she used to make—it would turn out that Kate met Jason secretly to help him select a birthday present for Lana—or perhaps an anniversary gift?—and somehow, in a moment of heightened physical comedy, Kate’s earring got attached to the lapel of his jacket.

  There you go, perfectly innocuous.

  But Lana didn’t buy it. As she watched Jason sleep, she began to admit the truth to herself. The truth was she had known, for some time, that there was something—some kind of feeling—between Kate and Jason. Perhaps it had always been there, right from the start. From the very beginning?

  Kate met Jason first, you see. They even went out a few times. The night Lana met Jason, he was there as Kate’s date.

  You can imagine what happened—the instant Jason saw Lana, like so many others before him, he fell; and from then, only had eyes for her. Kate graciously stepped aside. It was all resolved quite amicably. Kate gave Lana her blessing and assured her she had no hard feelings; that there had been nothing serious between them.

  Even so, Lana had felt guilty about it. Perhaps this guilt is what blinded her. Perhaps that was why she kept ignoring her nagging suspicion that, for all her protestations, Kate’s eyes always lingered on Jason when he was in the room; and she would pay him odd, unexpected compliments; or flirt with him after a couple of drinks and try to make him laugh. It was all there, everything Lana needed to know, right there in front of her.

  She had shut her eyes to it.

  But, now, her eyes were open.

  Lana quickly got dressed and hurried out of the bedroom. She felt her way along the darkened passage and climbed up the steps to the roof terrace, where she kept a secret pack of cigarettes and a lighter, protected from the weather in a tin box. She rarely resorted to smoking these days. But now, she needed a cigarette.

  Lana stood on the roof and opened the box. She took out the packet of cigarettes. Her hands trembled as she lit one. She inhaled deeply, trying to calm herself.

  As Lana smoked, she looked over the rooftops at the lights of London, and the stars sparkling above.

  Then—peering over the edge—she stared at the pavement below. She flicked the cigarette butt over the edge. The red ember disappeared into darkness.

  Lana felt a sudden desire to follow it.

  It would be so easy, she thought—just a couple of steps, and she’d be over the edge—her body falling, slamming against the pavement. Then it would be over.

  What a relief that would be. She wouldn’t have to face any of the horrors that lay ahead—the pain, the betrayal, the humiliation. She didn’t want to feel any of it.

  Lana took a small step forward toward the edge. Then another …

  She stood right at the edge of the roof. One more step—and it will be over—yes, yes, do it.… She lifted her foot—

  Then her phone vibrated in her pocket.

  A small distraction, but enough to wake her from her trance. Lana pulled back from the edge, catching her breath.

  She took out her phone and glanced at it. It was a text message. Guess who from?

  Yours truly, naturally.

  Fancy a drink?

  Lana hesitated. Then—at last—she did the very thing she should have done first.

  She came to see me.

  9

  This is where my story begins.

  If I were the hero of this tale, instead of Lana, I would start the narrative right here—with Lana banging on my door at eleven thirty at night.

  This was my inciting incident, as it’s known in dramatic technique. Every character has one—it can be as unusual or violent as a tornado, whirling you into a different world, or as commonplace as a friend turning up unexpectedly one night.

  I often apply theatrical structure to my own life, you know. I find it extremely helpful. You’d be surprised how often the same rules apply.

  I learned how to structure a story through a fiery apprenticeship: years of compulsively writing crap play after crap play; spewing them out, one after the other, a production line of unperformable dramas, each worse than the last—stilted construction, endless inane dialogue, sheet after sheet of pointless, passive characters doing nothing—until I slowly and painfully learned my craft.

  Considering I lived with a world-famous writer, you might think Barbara West would have been the obvious person to mentor me. Do you suppose she gave me any helpful hints or slivers of encouragement? No, never. Her default position, it must be said, was to be unkind. She only ever made one comment on my writing, incidentally—after reading a short play I’d written: “Yuck, your dialogue stinks.” She handed it back to me. “Real people don’t talk like that.”

  I never showed her anything again.

  Ironically, the best teacher I ever had was a book I found on Barbara West’s shelf. An elderly, obscure-looking volume, published in the early 1940s. The Techniques of Playwriting, by Mr. Valentine Levy.

  I read it one spring morning, sitting at the kitchen table. As I read it, I had a lightbulb moment—finally, things made sense. Finally, someone explained storytelling in words I could understand.

  Both theater and reality, said Mr. Levy, came down to just three words—motivation; intention; and goal.

  Every character has a goal—wanting to be rich, say. This is fulfilled by an intention designed to achieve it—like working hard, marrying the boss’s daughter, or robbing a bank. So far, so simple. The final component is the most important and, without it, characters remain two-dimensional.

  We need to ask why.

  Why isn’t a question we tend to ask often. It’s not an easy question to answer—it requires self-awareness and honesty. But if we ever want to understand ourselves or other people—real or fictional—we must explore our motivation with all the diligence of a Valentine Levy.

  Why do we want something? What is our motive?

  According to Mr. Levy, there is only one answer:

  “Our motivation is to remove pain.”

  There you have it. So simple, yet so profound.

  Our motivation is always pain.

  It’s obvious, really. All of us are trying to escape the pain and be happy. And all the actions we take to achieve this goal—our intentions—that’s the stuff of story.

  That’s storytelling. That’s how it works.

  So if we consider that moment Lana turned up at my flat, you can see how my motivation was pain. Lana was in so much pain that night—it caused me distress just to witness it. And my misguided attempt to alleviate her suffering—and my own—was my intention. And my goal? To help Lana, of course. Did I succeed? Well, that’s where theater diverges from reality, sadly.

  In real life, things don’t work out quite as you planned.

  * * *

  Lana was a mess when she got to my place. She was barely holding it together; and it didn’t take much—just a couple of drinks—to unlock the floodgates, and then she completely fell apart.

  I’d never seen anything like this before. I’d never once seen Lana lose control. I won’t say it wasn’t frightening; but then, uncontained emotion is always distressing to be around, isn’t it? Particularly when it’s from someone you love.

  We went into my living room—a small room, crammed mainly with books; a large bookcase covering the entirety of one wall. We sat on the two armchairs by the window. We started off with martinis, but soon Lana was knocking back straight vodka from a glass.

  Her story was confused and incoherent—coming out in pieces, in disjointed bits, occasionally unintelligible through her tears. When she had got it all out, she demanded my opinion—whether I believed it was possible that Kate and Jason were having an affair.

  I hesitated, reluctant to reply. My hesitation spoke more eloquently than any words.

  “I don’t know.” I avoided Lana’s eyes.

  Lana gave me a look of dismay. “Jesus, Elliot. You’re such a bad actor. You knew?” She sank back in the armchair, drained by this confirmation of her worst fears. “How long have you known? Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Because I don’t know for sure. It’s just a feeling.… And, Lana—it’s not my place to say anything.”

  “Why not? You’re my friend, aren’t you? My only friend.” She wiped the tears from her eyes. “You don’t think Kate planted it, do you? The earring? So I’d find it?”

  “What? Are you joking? Of course not.”

  “Why not? It’s just the kind of thing she would do.”

  “I don’t think she has the brains, quite frankly. I don’t think either of them is particularly bright. Or kind.”

  Lana shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  “I do.” Warming to my theme, I opened another bottle of vodka, refilling our glasses. “‘Love is not love which alters when it alteration finds.’ Love isn’t affairs and lying and sneaking around.”

  Lana didn’t reply. I tried again, because it was important.

  “Listen to me. Love is mutual respect, and constancy—and friendship. Like you and me.” I took her hand and held it. “These two nitwits are too shallow and selfish to know what love is. Whatever they have, or think they have, it will not last. That’s not love. It will crack under the slightest pressure. It will fall apart.”

  Lana didn’t say anything. She stared into space, desolate. I felt like I couldn’t reach her. Seeing her like this was unbearable. I suddenly felt angry.

  “How about I take a baseball bat and beat the crap out of him for you?” I was only half joking.

  Lana managed the ghost of a smile. “Yes, please.”

  “Tell me what you want—anything—and I will do it.”

  Lana looked up and stared at me with bloodshot eyes. “I want my life back.”

  “Okay. Then you must confront them. I will help you. But you must do this. For the sake of your sanity. Not to mention your self-respect.”

  “Confront them? How do I do that?”

  “Invite them to the island.”

  “What?” Lana looked surprised. “To Greece? Why?”

  “They won’t be able to run away on Aura. They’ll be trapped. Where better for a conversation? A confrontation?”

  Lana thought about this for a second. She nodded. “Okay. I’ll do it.”

  “You’ll confront them?”

  “Yes.”

  “On the island?”

  Lana nodded. “Yes.” Then she gave me a sudden, frightened look. “But, Elliot—after I confront them—what then?”

  “Well”—I gave her a small smile—“that’s up to you, isn’t it?”

  10

  The following day, I was in Lana’s kitchen, drinking champagne.

  Lana was on the phone to Kate. I was watching closely.

  “Will you come? To the island—for Easter?”

  I was impressed. Lana was giving a flawless performance, achieved with minimal rehearsal, with no hint of the upset of the night before. She looked and sounded fresh, light, and carefree.

  “It’ll be just us. You, me, Jason, Leo. And Agathi, of course … I’m not sure if I’ll ask Elliot—he’s been annoying me lately.”

  She winked at me as she said this. I stuck out my tongue at her.

  Lana laughed, then returned her attention to Kate. “Well, what do you say?”

  We both held our breath.

  Lana breathed out and smiled. “Great. Great. Okay. Bye.” She ended the call. “She’s coming.”

  “Well done.” I applauded.

  Lana took a slight bow. “Thank you.”

  I raised my glass. “The curtain rises. And so it begins.”

  11

  Over the next few days, life continued to hold a theatrical flavor for Lana.

  It felt as if she were taking part in an extended improvisation—remaining “in character” from morning until night, pretending to be someone else.

  Except the person she was pretending to be was herself.

  “Deep breath, shoulders down, big smile”—that was the mantra Otto taught her to recite to herself before an audition. It served Lana well now.