She cast a spell on the kid in that moment. He never recovered.

  He kept going back to the cinema. Just to see her, to gaze at her. He saw every film she made—and God knows, she churned them out in those early days. Their variable quality was of little interest to him. He happily watched them all, again and again.

  The kid was at his lowest ebb when he encountered Lana. He was close to despair. And she gave him beauty. She gave him joy. It wasn’t much, perhaps. But it was enough to sustain him; to keep him alive.

  He would sit alone, in the middle of the movie theater, in the fifteenth row, and gaze at Lana in the dark.

  No one could see it, but there was a smile on his face.

  3

  Nothing lasts forever. Not even an unhappy childhood.

  The years passed; and the kid grew older. As he grew, a flood of hormones signaled growth spurts in all kinds of peculiar places.

  The need to shave was something he agonized over for months. He’d stare despondently at his ever-increasing beard in the mirror; dimly aware that learning to shave was some kind of ancient masculine rite of passage—a bonding moment between father and son, initiating the boy into manhood. The thought of sharing that rite with his own father made him feel physically sick.

  The kid decided to circumnavigate embarrassment by sneaking off to the corner shop and buying razors and shaving foam—which he kept hidden like porn, in his bedside drawer.

  He permitted himself one question to his father. He felt it was innocuous enough.

  “How do you not cut yourself?” he said, casually. “When you’re shaving, I mean—do you make sure the razor’s not too sharp?”

  His father threw him a look of contempt. “It’s a blunt razor that cuts you, idiot, not a sharp one.”

  That ended their conversation. So, with no other recourse in that pre-internet age, the kid smuggled the foam and razors into the bathroom. Through trial and bloody error, he taught himself how to be a man.

  He left home soon after that. He ran away, a few days after his seventeenth birthday.

  He went to London, like Dick Whittington, in search of fame and fortune.

  The kid wanted to be an actor. He assumed all he had to do was appear at one of the cattle-call auditions advertised in the back pages of The Stage, and he would be discovered and catapulted to stardom. It didn’t work out quite like that.

  Easy to see why, looking back. Never mind that he wasn’t a very good actor—too self-conscious and too unnatural—he wasn’t handsome enough to stand out in the crowd. He had a ragamuffin look, more unkempt with each passing day.

  Not that he could see this at the time. If he had, he might have swallowed his pride, gone home with his tail between his legs—and come to much less grief.

  As it was, the kid reassured himself success was just around the corner. He just had to tough it out for a while longer, that’s all.

  Unfortunately he soon ran out of what little money he had. He was now penniless and kicked out of the youth hostel in King’s Cross where he’d been staying.

  That’s when things got really bad, really fast.

  You wouldn’t think it, now it’s gentrified and cleaned up—all gleaming steel and exposed brick—but back then, my God, King’s Cross was rough. A shadowy place, full of danger—a Dickensian underworld, populated by drug dealers, prostitutes, and homeless kids.

  It makes me shudder now, to think of him there, alone, so spectacularly ill-equipped to survive. He was now destitute, and sleeping on benches in parks—until his luck changed, during a rainstorm, when he found refuge in Euston Cemetery.

  He climbed over the wall into the graveyard, looking for shelter. He discovered, along one side of the church, a subterranean bunker—a dug-out concrete space—big enough for two or three people to lie down comfortably. Well, as comfortable as you can get in an empty crypt—for that’s what it was. But it provided a level of protection. For the kid, this was a minor miracle.

  He was a little unhinged, by this point. He was hungry, scared, paranoid—and increasingly cut off from the world. He felt dirty, like he stank—he probably did—and he didn’t like getting too close to people.

  But he was desperate—and so he did some things for money that he—

  No, I can’t bring myself to write about that.

  I’m sorry—I don’t mean to be coy. I’m sure you have a few things you’d rather not tell me about. We all have a skeleton or two in our closet—so to speak. Let this be mine.

  The first time he did it, he felt entirely disassociated and blanked it out, as if it were happening to someone else.

  The second time it was much worse; so he shut his eyes and thought of the madwoman who lived on the church steps, shouting at passersby to fling themselves into the arms of Jesus. He imagined throwing himself into Jesus’s arms, and being saved. But somehow salvation felt a long way off.

  Afterward, feeling overwhelmed and afraid, the kid sat up all night until dawn; clutching a cup of coffee in Euston Station. Trying not to think, trying not to feel.

  He sat there through the early-morning rush hour—a depressed waif, ignored by the sea of commuters. He counted the minutes until the pubs opened, and he could get a drink.

  Finally, the dingy pub across the road opened its doors, offering sanctuary for the lost and disheartened.

  The kid went inside and sat at the bar. He paid cash for a vodka—it was the first time he had ever tasted vodka, come to think of it. He knocked it back, wincing as it burned in his throat.

  Then he heard a husky voice at the end of the bar:

  “What’s a pretty thing like you doing in a shithole like this?”

  This was—on reflection—the first, and last, compliment she ever paid him.

  The kid looked up, and there was Barbara West. A lined older woman, dyed-red hair, an excess of mascara. She had the darkest, most piercing eyes he had ever seen; penetrating, brilliant, and scary.

  Barbara laughed—a distinctive laugh, a throaty cackle. She laughed easily, he discovered, mostly at her own jokes. The kid would grow to hate her laugh. But that day, he merely felt indifferent. He shrugged—and tapped his empty glass in answer to her question.

  “What’s it look like?”

  Barbara took the hint, nodding at the barman. “Give him another, Mike. Me, too, while you’re at it. Doubles.”

  Barbara had gone to the pub that morning direct from signing books in the Waterstones bookshop next door—because she was an alcoholic. Character is fate; and without Barbara’s need for a gin and tonic at 11:00 A.M., she and the kid would never have met. They were from two different worlds, those two. And were destined, in the end, only to cause each other harm.

  They had a couple more drinks. Barbara kept her eyes on him the whole time, sizing him up. She liked what she saw. After one more drink for the road, she called a cab. She took the kid home with her.

  It was only meant to be for one night. But one night led to another, and another—and he never left.

  Yes, Barbara West used him, taking advantage of this desperate child in his hour of need. She was indeed a predator; even if, unlike her alcoholism, this was not immediately apparent. She was one of the darkest human beings I ever encountered. I dread to think what she would have done with her life if she hadn’t had a knack for writing novels.

  But let’s not underestimate the kid, here. He understood perfectly well what he was getting into. He knew what Barbara wanted, and he was happy to supply it. If anything, he got the better deal. In return for his services, he received not only a roof over his head—but an education, which he needed just as urgently.

  In that house in Holland Park, he had access to a private library. A world full of books. “Can I read one?” he said, staring at them in awe.

  Barbara seemed surprised at his request. Perhaps she doubted he could read. “Take your pick.” She shrugged.

  He randomly chose one book from the shelf: Hard Times.

  “Oh yuck, Dickens.” Barbara pulled a face. “So sentimental. Still, I suppose you’ve got to start somewhere.”

  But the kid didn’t find Dickens sentimental. He found him wonderfully entertaining. And funny, and profound. So he read David Copperfield next; and his enjoyment grew, along with his appetite. Not just for Dickens, but for whatever he could find on Barbara’s shelves—devouring all the great authors he could lay his hands on.

  Every day spent in that house was an education—not just from her books, but from Barbara herself; and from the circle she moved in—the literary salon she ran from her living room.

  As time went on, and the kid was exposed to more and more of her life, he kept his eyes and ears open. He tried to absorb as much as he could from her guests’ conversations; what all these sophisticated people said, and how they said it. He would memorize phrases and opinions and gestures, practicing them when he was alone, in front of a mirror; trying them on, like uncomfortable clothes he was determined to squeeze into.

  Don’t forget the kid was an aspiring actor. And, frankly, this was his only role, which he tirelessly and meticulously rehearsed over the years—until he honed it to perfection.

  Then, one day, staring at himself in the mirror, he could see no trace of the kid.

  Someone else was staring back at him.

  But who was this new person? The first thing he had to do was find a name for him. He stole one from a play on Barbara’s shelf, from Private Lives by Noël Coward.

  Barbara thought this was hilarious, of course. But despite mocking him, she went along with it. She preferred this new name, she said, as it was less hideous than his real one. But between you and me, I think the idea just appealed to her sense of the perverse.

  That evening, over a bottle of champagne, he was christened Elliot Chase.

  I was born.

  And then, with perfect timing—Lana appeared.

  4

  I have forgotten many things in my inebriated life. Numberless names and faces, places I’ve been, whole cities, have fallen into a void in my mind. But something that I will never forget until I die—forever emblazoned on my mind, engraved upon my heart—is the moment I first met Lana Farrar.

  Barbara West and I had gone to see Kate in a play. It was a new translation of Hedda Gabler at the National. It was the first night, and though the production was a pretentious stinker, in my humble opinion, it was received with wild acclaim and heralded as a triumph.

  There was a first-night party afterward—which Barbara begrudgingly agreed to attend. Any unwillingness on her part was pure bullshit, believe me. If there was free booze and free food on offer, Barbara was always the first in line. Especially at a party of luvvie theatricals, who would queue up to tell her how much her writing meant to them, and generally kiss her arse. She loved all that, as you can imagine.

  Anyway, I was standing next to her, bored to death, concealing a yawn, idly casting my gaze over a motley crew of actors and wannabe actors, producers, journalists, and so on.

  Then, I noticed, across the room, a large group of people, admirers and hangers-on, gathering around someone—a woman, judging by the glimpse I caught through the jostling crowd. I craned my neck to see who it was, but her face kept being obscured by the shifting bodies surrounding her. Finally, someone moved, a gap was created—and I caught a momentary flash of her face.

  I couldn’t believe my eyes. Was it really her? Surely not.

  I craned my neck to get a better look, but I didn’t need one. It was her.

  Feeling excited, I turned and nudged Barbara. She was midlecture to an unhappy-looking playwright, about why he wasn’t more commercially successful.

  “Barbara?”

  Barbara waved away my interruption. “I’m talking, Elliot.”

  “Over there. Look. It’s Lana Farrar.”

  She grunted. “So?”

  “So, you know her, don’t you?”

  “We’ve met once or twice.”

  “Introduce me to her.”

  “Certainly not.”

  “Go on. Please.” I looked at Barbara, hopefully.

  She smiled. Nothing gratified Barbara more than refusing a heartfelt request. “I don’t think so, duck.”

  “Why not?”

  “Yours not to reason why. Go and get me another drink.”

  “Get your own fucking drink.”

  In a rare act of rebellion, I left her. I knew she’d be furious and make me pay for it later, but I didn’t care.

  I walked across the room, straight up to Lana.

  Time seemed to slow down as I approached her. I felt as if I were departing reality, entering a heightened state. I must have pushed my way through the crowd; I don’t remember. I was oblivious to everyone but her.

  I found myself there, in the inner circle, standing to one side of her. I stared at her, starstruck, while she listened politely to some man talking. But she couldn’t fail to notice me standing there. She glanced at me.

  “I love you,” I said.

  These were the first words I ever said to Lana Farrar.

  The people around her were all startled. They burst out laughing.

  Thankfully, Lana also laughed. “I love you, too.”

  And that’s how it began. We kept talking all night—meaning I successfully fended off interruptions from would-be competitors. I made her laugh, making fun of the overwrought production we had just been forced to endure. I let it slip that Kate was a mutual friend; a discovery that made Lana visibly relax in my company.

  Even so, I had my work cut out for me. I had to convince Lana I wasn’t some weirdo, or obsessive fan, or potential stalker. I had to persuade her I was an equal, at least in intellect—if not in fame, or fortune. I badly wanted to impress her. I needed her to like me. Why? I don’t think I knew myself, to be honest. Dimly, subconsciously, I wanted to keep hold of her. Even then, it seems, I couldn’t bear to let her go.

  Lana was cautious, at first, but receptive to my conversation. Now, I’m not quick-witted at the best of times—I can supply you with a witty riposte, but only if you give me three days to write it. However, that night, miraculously, the stars all aligned in my favor. For once, my shyness didn’t get the better of me.

  On the contrary, I was confident, lucid, lubricated with just the right amount of wine, and found myself talking intelligently, entertainingly, even wittily, on a variety of subjects—I talked knowledgeably about the theater, for instance, about plays that were currently on, what was coming, and recommended a couple of lesser-known productions to Lana that I said were worth seeing. And I suggested some exhibitions and galleries that she hadn’t heard of. In other words, I gave a completely convincing performance of the person I had always wanted to be: a confident, sophisticated, razor-sharp man-about-town. That’s the man I saw reflected in Lana’s eyes. In her eyes, that night, I shone.

  Barbara West eventually gave in and joined us, all smiles, greeting Lana as an old friend. Lana was perfectly civil to Barbara, but I got the sense that Lana didn’t like her, which was entirely in Lana’s favor.

  When Barbara went to the bathroom, leaving us alone, Lana took the opportunity to inquire about our relationship. “Are you a couple?”

  I must confess to being a little evasive. I said I was Barbara’s “partner” and left it at that.

  I understood why Lana was asking.

  She was single when we met, you see—Jason had yet to come on the scene. I suspected Lana was making sure she was “safe” with me; determining that I was someone else’s property—and therefore less likely to pounce, or make any sudden moves. I imagine she got a lot of that.

  By the end of the night, we agreed to meet again on Sunday, for a walk along the river. I asked for Lana’s number, when Barbara wasn’t looking.

  To my utter joy, she gave it to me.

  * * *

  As Barbara and I left the party that night, I couldn’t stop smiling. I felt as if I were walking on air.

  Barbara, on the other hand, was in a foul mood. “What a shitty production. I give it three weeks, before they put it out of its misery.”

  “Oh, I don’t know.” I glanced at the poster of Kate as Hedda Gabler, holding up a pistol. I smiled. “I had a pretty good time.”

  Barbara shot me a poisonous look. “Yes, I know you did. I saw.”

  She didn’t comment further—for the moment.

  Barbara waited a long time to make me pay for my insolent behavior that evening. But she made me pay in the end, as you will see.

  Oh, yes. She made me pay dearly.

  5

  It’s hard for me to write about my friendship with Lana.

  There is too much to say. How can I possibly describe, in a series of well-chosen vignettes, the slow and complicated process of the growing bond of trust and affection between us?

  Perhaps I should select a single moment from our years together, as you might pick a random card from a deck in a magic trick, to conjure up the merest feeling of what it was like. Why not?

  In which case, I choose our very first walk together—a Sunday afternoon, in late May. It explains everything; about what came later, I mean. And how two people, who were so close in every regard, could, in the end, misunderstand each other so completely.

  * * *

  We met up on the South Bank, for a walk along the Thames. I turned up with a red rose that I had bought from the stall outside the station.

  I could tell at once, from Lana’s expression when I presented the rose to her, that this was a mistake.

  “I hope this doesn’t mean we’re starting off on the wrong foot,” she said.

  “Which foot is that?” I said, stupidly. “Left or right?”

  Lana smiled, and let it go at that. But that wasn’t the end of it.