She was acting as if she were still the same person she had been a few days ago. Acting as if she weren’t heartbroken—as if she weren’t desperate, and full of pain.

  I often think life is just a performance. None of this is real. It’s a pretense at reality, that’s all. Only when someone, or something, we love dies, do we wake up from the play—and see how artificial it all is—this constructed reality we inhabit.

  We suddenly realize that life is in no way lasting, or permanent; no future exists—and nothing we do matters. And in desolation, we howl and scream and rail at the heavens, until, at some point, we do the inevitable: we eat, dress, and brush our teeth. We continue with the marionette-like motions of life, however unhinged it feels to do so. Then, ever so slowly, the illusion takes over again—until we forget that we are actors in a play.

  Until the next tragedy strikes—to wake us up.

  And having just been woken, Lana felt hyperconscious of how performative all her relationships were—how brittle and false her every smile; and how badly she was acting. Thankfully, no one seemed to notice.

  What hurt the most was how easy it was to deceive Jason. She felt sure he’d sense her pain—how something as simple as brushing past him, talking to him, was incredibly difficult for her. Looking into his eyes was terrifying. Surely, all her feelings were right there, in plain sight, for him to see?

  But he didn’t see. Has he always been like this? Lana wondered. So uncaring? He must think I’m a fool. He must have no conscience at all.…

  Yet—and surely Lana had to acknowledge this possibility—perhaps there was nothing on Jason’s conscience because he was innocent?

  I didn’t know this for sure—but I suspected that, as she packed their belongings for the trip to the island, Lana started thinking of those hours at my place as a bad dream. The hysteria, the tears, the vows of vengeance—none of it was real, just vodka-induced psychosis.

  This was real, right now, the clothes in her hand, clothes she’d selected and bought for the man she loved. Could Lana feel herself slipping, sliding back—back into ignorance?

  Denial is the word I’d use.

  Lana must have known this, I thought, which was why she avoided me for the next few days. She ignored my calls and remained monosyllabic in her texts. I understood. Don’t forget, we were so close, Lana and I—I could practically read her mind.

  Of course she resented telling me about the affair; telling me made it real. And now, having unloaded all of her suspicion and misery onto me, Lana intended to leave it there, in my apartment.

  She wanted to forget all about it.

  What a good thing, then, I was there to remind her.

  12

  From the moment I landed on Aura, I sensed that Lana was avoiding me.

  She was friendly, of course, but a certain distance was in her manner. A coolness. Invisible to the others; but I felt it.

  I went up to my room and unpacked. I was very fond of that room. It had faded green wallpaper, pine furniture, a four-poster bed. It smelled of old wood, stone, and fresh linen. Over the years, I made it my own, intentionally leaving parts of myself behind—favorite books of mine on the shelves, my aftershave, suntan lotion, swimming goggles and trunks, all waiting faithfully for me.

  As I unpacked, I wondered what my next move should be. I decided the best way to deal with the situation was to confront Lana and remind her why we were here. I rehearsed a little speech, designed to bring her out of denial and back to reality.

  I tried to talk to her all evening but couldn't get her alone. I felt convinced she was trying to avoid me. I watched her carefully over dinner. I studied her, trying to read her mind.

  I marveled it was the same woman who—just three days ago—had been hysterical on my couch. Now she was expertly wielding a knife, not to thrust into her worthless husband’s heart, but to serve him another slice of steak. And with such a convincing smile on her face, so sincere, such a relaxed and happy expression, that even I was almost taken in.

  Lana’s capacity for denial was simply breathtaking, I thought. In all likelihood, unless I intervened, she would sail through the entire weekend as if nothing had happened.

  Kate, on the other hand, seemed to be doing everything she could to be provocative. She was being even less discreet than usual.

  The business with the crystal, for instance.

  After dinner, we were sitting outside by the firepit, and Kate leaped up with a sudden request. “Agathi’s crystal. Where is it?”

  Lana hesitated. “I’m sure Agathi’s asleep by now. Can it wait?”

  “No. It’s incredibly urgent. I’ll sneak in and get it from her room. I won’t wake her.”

  “Darling, you won’t find it. It’s probably at the back of a drawer somewhere.”

  This was a lie. Lana knew perfectly well that the crystal was never far from Agathi’s person; always on the bedside table next to her as she slept.

  “Agathi’s still awake.” Leo nodded at the house. “Her light’s on.”

  Kate bounded into the house, a little unsteady on her feet but clearly quite determined. She returned a few minutes later—holding up the crystal triumphantly.

  “Got it.”

  Kate sat by the firepit, the flames lighting up her face. She dangled the crystal over her left palm. It sparkled in the firelight. Her lips moved as she whispered a silent question.

  I guessed what Kate was asking. No doubt some variant of Will he leave her for me? or Should I end it with him?

  Unbelievable, isn’t it? Such callousness—flaunting her affair with Jason in Lana’s face like that. How stupid of her to feel so secure, so above suspicion.

  Or am I being unfair? Was Kate just too drunk to filter her thoughts—unaware what she was saying, how close she was coming to revealing her secret?

  Or was this display for Jason’s benefit—as a veiled threat? A warning to him that she was at the end of her rope? If so, she was wasting her breath. Jason wasn’t affected in the slightest. He seemed more concerned about Leo beating him at backgammon.

  Kate watched as the crystal began to twitch in the air. It swung back and forth, back and forth, back and forth—like a metronome, in a sharp, straight line.

  The answer to her question was a firm no.

  Kate’s face clouded over. She looked pained. Then she grabbed the crystal with her fist and stopped its swinging. She thrust it at Leo. “Here—you have a go.”

  Leo looked up from the backgammon set, shaking his head. “No. I’m totally over it. I figured out how it works.”

  “Did you? How is that?”

  “It’s you. You don’t even know you’re doing it. Your hand makes it move the way you want.”

  “No, love.” Kate sighed. “You’re wrong. Or I would have got a different answer.”

  * * *

  What was the question Kate asked the crystal?

  I have often wondered, over the years. I have wondered to what extent it affected the next twenty-four hours. And all the wicked things Kate did.

  Was everything that happened at the crystal’s command? Did Kate simply surrender to its decision—wherever it led?

  Even if she did, you know, I don’t believe Kate had any idea where it would end. How could she?

  It went so much further than any of us could ever possibly have imagined.

  13

  I didn’t get a chance to talk to Lana alone until the following morning.

  We had just arrived at the little beach with the picnic hamper. We arranged the towels and blankets on the sand. I waited until Leo was a little way off, then I made my move.

  “Lana,” I said in a low voice. “Can we have a chat?”

  “Later.” She brushed me off. “I’m going for a swim.”

  I watched her make her way to the water’s edge. I frowned. I had no choice but to follow.

  The water was flat like glass; Lana swam all the way to the raft. I swam after her.

  When I reached the raft, I climbed up the ladder and onto the platform—and flung myself on my back, gasping for air.

  Lana was fitter than me, scarcely out of breath. She sat there, hugging her knees, staring at the horizon in the distance.

  “You’re avoiding me,” I said, when I finally caught my breath.

  “Am I?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  Lana didn’t reply for a second. She shrugged. “Can’t you guess?”

  “Not unless you tell me. I’m not psychic.”

  I had decided the best way to handle Lana now was to play dumb. So I gave her an innocent look and waited.

  Finally, she spoke. “That night at your apartment…”

  “Yes.”

  “We said a lot.”

  “I know we did.” I shrugged. “Now you’re avoiding me. What am I supposed to make of that?”

  “I need to know something.” Lana studied me for a second. “Why are you doing this?”

  “Doing what? Trying to help you?” I met her gaze directly. “I’m your friend, Lana. I love you.”

  Lana looked at me for a moment, like she didn’t believe me.

  I felt a flicker of irritation. Isn’t that crazy? In all these years, never one cross word or a disagreement—a mutually adoring friendship, free of all conflict—until I got involved in her marriage problems.

  No good deed goes unpunished, I thought. Who said that? They were right.

  I was in a tricky position, I knew. I mustn’t press her too hard. I risked losing her. But I couldn’t stop myself.

  “I’m sorry. I cannot stand by and watch you be abused. It’s not okay, letting them treat you like this.”

  No reply.

  “Lana.” I frowned. “Answer me, for Christ’s sake.”

  But Lana didn’t answer me. She just stood up—and dived off the raft. She disappeared in the water.

  * * *

  After the picnic, we walked back to the house.

  But Lana didn’t go inside.

  She lingered on the veranda, acting as if the climb up the steps had tired her, and she was catching her breath. I knew better. She was watching Kate, on the lower level.

  Kate was wandering away from the summerhouse, in the direction of the olive grove—toward the ruin.

  I knew what was in Lana’s mind. I pretended to yawn. “I’m going to have a shower. See you in a bit.”

  Lana didn’t reply. I wandered inside into the living room—then stopped just inside the door. I hovered there a moment. Then I went back outside. And Lana had gone. Just as I expected, she was descending the steps to the lower level.

  I followed—keeping my distance, so she wouldn’t see. I needn’t have worried; Lana didn’t look back once. Nor did Kate, as she made her way through the trees, blissfully unaware she was being followed by not one, but two people.

  At the clearing, Lana hid behind a tree. I stood a little farther back, at a safe distance. We both watched the scene unfold at the ruin.

  Jason and Kate spoke for a while. Then Jason put down his gun and approached Kate. They started kissing.

  How strange it must have been for Lana to watch them kissing. I imagined all her defenses collapsing at that moment—her denial, delusion, her projection of her anger onto me—crumbling into dust. How can you deny what’s right in front of you?

  Lana’s legs suddenly gave way. She sank to the ground. She fell onto her hands and knees, in the dirt. It looked like she was kneeling in prayer, but she was crying.

  It was a pitiful sight. My heart went out to her.

  But it would be dishonest not to admit that part of me was relieved. For if Lana needed more proof than an earring, then fate had just supplied it.

  Jason sensed Lana’s eyes on him. He looked up. But he was blinded by the sunlight and didn’t see her there.

  Lana turned and lurched away from the ruin. She went back through the olive grove, toward the house. She was walking fast. I followed.

  I had an uneasy feeling about what she might do next.

  14

  Lana circled around behind the house. She went in the back door.

  She hurried along the passage—and entered Jason’s gun room. He had taken a couple of guns out with him—but a couple were still there, on the rack.

  Lana reached out and took hold of a handgun.

  She left the room and marched along the corridor, into the living room. She went out through the French windows, onto the veranda. She stood by the low wall, overlooking the lower level.

  Below her, Jason was walking back toward the house, clutching a couple of dead wood pigeons. Lana slowly raised the gun—and aimed it straight at him.

  Did she intend to kill Jason? Or just scare him?

  I don’t know how conscious Lana was of what she was doing. She was so beaten up mentally, so destabilized. Perhaps an old, primitive instinct for survival had taken hold—a need to feel a weapon in her hands? If there had been an axe nearby, like Clytemnestra she might have seized that. As it was, she held a gun.

  Go on, I thought, do it. Squeeze the trigger. Fire—

  But just then, Leo appeared on the lower level, walking to the pool. Lana immediately lowered the gun, hiding it behind her back.

  Leo looked up and saw his mother. He waved. Lana forced a smile and waved back.

  Woken from her trance, Lana turned and hurried back into the house. She went along the passage. But she didn’t return the gun. She kept walking, past the gun room, and took the handgun upstairs.

  * * *

  In her bedroom, Lana sat at her dressing table. She stared at herself in the mirror—with the gun in her hand. She felt rather frightened by what she saw.

  Then, hearing the door open, she thrust the gun into the drawer. She glanced in the mirror and saw Agathi walk in, smiling.

  “Hi. Is there anything you need?”

  “No.” Lana shook her head.

  “Any thoughts about dinner?”

  “No. Maybe we’ll go out. I can’t think now.… I’m going to have a bath.”

  “I’ll run it for you.”

  “I can manage.”

  Agathi nodded. She watched Lana for a moment. It was unlike Agathi to offer an unsolicited opinion. But she was about to make an exception.

  “Lana. Are you—okay? You’re not, are you?”

  Lana didn’t reply.

  “We can leave right now—if you want.” Agathi gave Lana an encouraging smile. “Let me take you home.”

  “Home?” Lana looked confused. “Where’s that?”

  “London, of course.”

  Lana shook her head. “London isn’t home.”

  “Then where?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know where to go. I don’t know what to do.”

  She got up. She walked into the bathroom. She turned on the taps and ran her bath.

  When she returned to the bedroom, a few minutes later, Agathi was no longer there. But she had left something behind.

  The crystal pendant was there, on the dressing table, glinting in the sunlight.

  Lana picked it up. She looked at it. She didn’t believe in magic; but she didn’t know what to believe in anymore. She dangled the pendant over her palm.

  She stared at it, her lips moving—as she murmured a silent question.

  Almost at once, the crystal began to twitch, jolt, dance in the air.

  A tiny circular movement—that grew and grew, above her outstretched palm—wider, and higher … a circle, spinning in the air.

  * * *

  Outside the house, on the ground, a solitary leaf moved.

  The leaf was lifted up into the air by an unseen force—spinning it in a circle. The circle grew bigger and wider, higher and higher … as the winds appeared …

  And the fury began.

  15

  The fury was an apt name, I thought, given Kate’s mood.

  She had been spoiling for a fight all through dinner at Yialos. Now that we were back at the house, she seemed intent on finding one.

  I thought it best to keep out of her way. So I remained outside, by the French windows, smoking the joint. From that safe vantage point, I watched the drama unfold in the living room.

  Kate was pouring herself another large whiskey. Jason went over to her. He stood there awkwardly and spoke in a low voice.

  “You’ve had enough to drink.”

  “This one is for you.” Kate thrust the tumblerful of whiskey at him. “Take it.”

  He shook his head. “No. I don’t want it.”

  “Why not? Go on, drink it.”

  “No.”

  “I think,” Lana said firmly, “we should all go to bed.” She stared at Kate for a moment; a warning look, if ever I saw one. And for a second, it looked like Kate might back down.

  But no. Kate accepted the challenge. She tore off her red shawl, twirling it in the air like a red flag in a bullfight—and threw it onto the back of the couch.

  Then she brought the glass of whiskey to her lips and drank it all in one go.

  Lana was poker-faced but I could tell she was furious. “Jason, can we go upstairs? I’m feeling tired.”

  Kate reached out and grabbed hold of Jason’s arm. “No, Jason. Stay right there.”

  “Kate—”

  “I mean it,” Kate said. “Don’t go. You’ll regret it, if you go.”

  “I’ll take that risk.”

  He removed Kate’s hand from his arm—a bad move, I thought. I knew it would enrage her. I was right.

  “Fuck you.”

  Jason looked startled. He wasn’t expecting that level of anger. My heart went out to him, almost.

  I understood now. Kate’s anger had betrayed her: this whole charade was for Jason’s benefit, not mine or Lana’s. It was Jason Kate was mad at.

  Lana understood this, too. She had the unnerving instinct of a great actor. She knew this was her cue.

  As always, she underplayed her delivery: “Jason. Make a decision, please.”

  “What?”

  “You must choose.” Lana nodded at Kate, not taking her eyes off Jason. “Me or her.”