We walked for a while. Then we sat outside a pub, on a bench along the river. We each had a glass of wine.

  We sat there in silence for a moment. Lana played with the rose in her fingers. Finally, she spoke.

  “Does Barbara know you’re here?”

  “Barbara?” I shook my head. “I assure you, she takes very little interest in my comings and goings. Why?”

  Lana shrugged. “I was just curious.”

  “Were you afraid she might come, too?” I laughed. “Do you think Barbara’s spying on us now from behind those bushes? With a pair of binoculars and a gun? I wouldn’t put it past her.”

  Lana laughed. Her laugh, so familiar to me from her films, made me grin.

  “Don’t worry,” I said. “You have me all to yourself.”

  That was clumsy. I cringe now, remembering it.

  Lana smiled but didn’t reply. She toyed with the rose for a moment. Then she held it up and tilted her head, to look at the rose and me at the same time.

  “And this? What does this mean?”

  “Nothing. It’s just a rose.”

  “Does Barbara know you bought me a rose?”

  I laughed. “Of course not. It doesn’t mean anything. It’s just a flower. I’m sorry it made you uncomfortable.”

  “It’s not that.” She looked away for a moment. “It doesn’t matter. Shall we go?”

  We finished our wine and left the pub.

  We continued strolling along the Thames. As we walked, Lana glanced at me, then said, quietly, “I can’t give you what you want, you know. I can’t give you what you’re looking for.”

  I smiled, even though I was nervous. “What I’m looking for? You mean friendship? I’m not looking for anything.”

  Lana half smiled. “Yes, you are, Elliot. You’re looking for love. Anyone can see that.”

  I could feel my cheeks reddening. I looked away, in embarrassment.

  Lana tactfully moved the conversation on. We neared the end of our walk.

  And that was that—with the lightest of touches, Lana had firmly and politely let me know that she did not think of me as a potential lover. She had dispatched me to the realm of friendship.

  Or so I thought at the time. Looking back now, I’m not so sure. So much of how I interpreted that moment was colored by my past, and who I thought I was; and the distorted lens through which I viewed the world. I felt so convinced of my undesirability—if that’s even a word. It’s how I’d felt, ever since I was a kid. Ugly, unattractive. Unwanted.

  But what if for one second I had put down my self-obsessed emotional baggage that I insisted on carrying about with me?

  What if I had actually listened to what Lana was saying?

  Well—then I might have discovered that her words had little to do with me, and everything to do with her.

  With the benefit of hindsight, I can hear what Lana was saying. She was saying she was sad, she was lost; and she was lonely—or she would never have been sitting there with me, a relative stranger, on a Sunday afternoon. When she accused me of wanting love, what she really meant was that I wanted to be saved. I can’t save you, Elliot, Lana was saying. Not when I need saving myself.

  If I had realized this at the time—if I hadn’t been so blind, so fearful, if I’d had more courage—well, I might have acted very differently in that moment.

  And then, perhaps, this story would have had a happier ending.

  6

  From then on, I began to accompany Lana on her walks around London.

  We’d walk for hours and spent many happy afternoons crossing bridges, trudging along canals, roaming through parks—discovering old and peculiar pubs tucked in, around, and sometimes even under the city.

  I often think about those walks. About all the things we talked about—and the things we didn’t. All the things that were skirted over, ignored, dismissed. The things I failed to notice.

  I said to you earlier that Lana always saw the best in you, making you rise to the challenge and try to be that person: embody the best possible version of yourself. Well, it was true of her, too. Lana was trying to be the person I wanted her to be, I can see that now. Both of us performing for each other. It makes me so sad to write that. Sometimes I look back and wonder if that’s all it ever was—a performance?

  But, no, that’s not fair. It was real enough, deep down. In her own way, Lana was as much a fugitive from her past as I was—or, to put it less poetically, just as fucked-up. Isn’t that what brought us together in the first place? What connected us? The fact we were both so lost?

  I couldn’t see any of this back then. My omniscience is entirely retrospective. I sit here now, knowing what I know, and peer into the past, trying to see the end in the beginning, and piece together all the hidden clues and signs I missed then; when I was young, and in love, and starstruck.

  The truth is, I didn’t want to see the sad, wounded woman walking by my side. The damaged, frightened person. I was far more invested in her performance, and the mask she wore. I’d squint a little, as I gazed at Lana, so I wouldn’t see the cracks in it.

  Sometimes, as we walked, I’d ask Lana about her old movies. She was so quick to dismiss them, I’ll admit it rather hurt my feelings—all these films I cherished and had seen so many times.

  “You made a lot of people happy. Including me. You should be proud of that.”

  Lana shrugged. “I don’t know about that.”

  “I do. I was a fan.”

  That’s as far as I went. I didn’t want to make her uncomfortable. I didn’t want to reveal the extent of my—my what? Let’s be kind; let’s not call it obsession. Let’s call it love—for that’s what it was.

  And so, we became friends. But were we ever just friends, really?

  I’m not so sure.

  Even a man as—I’m struggling for inoffensive adjectives here—unthreatening, unmanly, as timid as myself, is not immune to beauty. To desire. Wasn’t there an unacknowledged tension between us, even then? It was so subtle, a gossamer-thin frisson; a whisper of sexuality. But it was there, hanging like a spider’s web in the air around us.

  * * *

  The closer Lana and I became, the less time we spent outside. We spent most of our time at her house—that huge six-story mansion in Mayfair.

  God, I miss that house. Just the smell of it—the fragrance upon entering the doorway. I used to pause in the vast hallway, shut my eyes—and breathe it, drink it in. Smell is so evocative, isn’t it? It’s similar to taste: both senses are time machines, transporting you—beyond your control, against your will, even—to somewhere in your past.

  Nowadays, if I sniff a bit of polished wood or cold stone, I’m right back there, in that house, with its scent of chilly Venetian marble, polished dark oak, lilies, lilac, sandalwood incense—and feel such a burst of contentment; a warm glow in my heart. If I could bottle that smell and sell it, I’d make a bloody fortune.

  I became a permanent fixture there. I felt like part of the family. It was an unfamiliar feeling, but wonderful. The sound of Leo practicing his acoustic guitar in his bedroom; the enticing smells emanating from the kitchen, where Agathi performed her magic; and—in the living room—Lana and me: talking, or playing cards or backgammon.

  How mundane, I hear you say. How trivial. Perhaps—I don’t deny it. Domesticity is a peculiarly British trait. Never let it be said that an Englishman’s home is not his castle. All I wanted was to be safe within those walls, with Lana—drawbridge firmly up.

  I had longed for love, whatever that means, all my life. I longed for another human being to see me, accept me—care for me. But when I was a young man, I was so invested in this fake person I wanted to be, this false self. I simply wasn’t capable of engaging in a relationship with another human being—I never let anyone get close enough. I was always acting, and any affection I received felt curiously unsatisfying. It was for a performance, not for me.

  These are the mad hoops damaged people jump through: so desperate to receive love—but when it is given to us, it can’t be felt. This is because we don’t need love for an artificial creation, a mask. What we need, what we desperately long for, is love for the only thing we will never show anyone: the ugly, scared kid inside.

  But with Lana, it was different. I showed the kid to her.

  Or at least, I let her glimpse him.

  7

  My therapist used to sometimes quote that famous line from The Wizard of Oz.

  You know the bit. It’s where the Scarecrow, confronted by the dark and frightening Haunted Forest, says:

  “Of course, I don’t know—but I think it’ll get darker before it gets lighter.”

  Mariana meant this metaphorically, referring to the process of therapy. She was right: things do get darker before they get lighter; before the therapeutic dawn.

  Funnily enough—as an aside—I have a pet theory that everyone in life corresponds to one of the characters in The Wizard of Oz. There’s Dorothy Gale, a lost child, looking for a place to belong; an insecure, neurotic Scarecrow, seeking intellectual validation; a bullying Lion, really a coward, more afraid than everyone else. And the Tin Man, minus a heart.

  For years, I thought I was a Tin Man. I believed I was missing something vital inside: a heart; or the ability to love. Love was out there, somewhere, beyond me, in the dark. I spent my life groping for it—until I met Lana. She showed me I already had a heart. I just didn’t know how to use it.

  But then, if I wasn’t the Tin Man … who was I?

  To my dismay, I realized I must be the Wizard of Oz himself. I was an illusion—a conjuring trick, operated by a frightened man, cowering behind a curtain.

  Who are you? I wonder. Ask yourself this honestly; and you might be surprised at the answer. But will you be honest?

  That’s the real question, I think.

  * * *

  “A frightened child is hiding inside your mind, still unsafe; still unheard and unloved.”

  The night I heard Mariana utter those words, my life changed forever.

  For years, I had pretended my childhood didn’t happen. I had erased it from my memory—or thought I had—and I lost sight of the kid. Until that foggy January evening in London, when Mariana found him for me again.

  After that therapy session, I went for a long walk. It was bitterly cold. The sky was white, and the clouds heavy. It looked like it might snow. I walked all the way from Primrose Hill to Lana’s house in Mayfair.

  I needed to burn off nervous energy. I needed to think—about me; and the kid, trapped in my head.

  I pictured him, small and afraid, shivering; languishing undeveloped, undernourished—chained up in the dungeon of my mind. As I walked, all kinds of memories started coming back to me. All these injustices; the cruelties I had deliberately forgotten—all the things he endured.

  I made a promise to the kid, there and then. A pledge, a commitment—call it what you will. From now on, I would listen to him, I would look after him. He wasn’t ugly, or stupid, or worthless. Or unloved. He was loved, for Christ’s sake—I loved him.

  From now on, I would be the parent he needed—too late, I know, but better late than never. And this time, I’d bring him up properly.

  As I walked, I glanced down—and there he was, the little boy, walking by my side. He was struggling to keep up, so I slowed down.

  I reached out and held his hand.

  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?”

  “I was about to ask you the same question.”

  “She’s late, as usual.” Kate gestured at the tall man standing next to her. “Meet my new fella. Isn’t he devilishly handsome? Jason, this is Elliot.”

  Just then, Lana arrived. She came over and was introduced to Jason. And then—well, you know the rest.

  Lana acted completely out of character that night. She was all over Jason, flirting shamelessly with him. She threw herself at him. And she was being so weird with me, so cold, and dismissive. She rebuffed all my attempts to talk to her—as if I didn’t exist.

  I left the gallery feeling confused and dejected. The cold hard ring was in my pocket, and I turned it over and over in my fingers. I found myself giving in to a familiar feeling of despair, a feeling of inevitability.

  I could hear the kid sobbing in my head: Of course, of course she didn’t want you. She’s embarrassed by you. You’re not good enough for her, can’t you see that? She regretted kissing you. And tonight was her way of putting you in your place.

  Fair enough, I thought. Perhaps it was true. Perhaps I never stood a chance with Lana. Unlike Jason, I was no practiced seducer. Except of old women, apparently.

  My jailer was waiting for me when I got back to the house. She had been writing all evening and was now relaxing with a large Scotch in the living room.