Or else—I wonder why Kate isn’t dating anyone, it has been a while, hasn’t it?

  And, one afternoon, I told Lana off for not inviting me for lunch at Claridge’s—then, when it was obvious that Lana had no idea what I meant, I looked flustered, brushing it off, saying Gordon saw Kate and Jason eating there—and I assumed Lana was with them—but Gordon must have been wrong.

  Lana just gazed at me with those clear blue eyes, unfazed, free of all suspicion, and smiled. “It couldn’t possibly be Jason. He hates Claridge’s.”

  In a play, all my little hints would have stayed with Lana, creating a general subliminal patina of suspicion, impossible for her to ignore. But what works onstage doesn’t, apparently, work in real life.

  Even so, I persevered. I am nothing if not persistent—if occasionally absurd. For instance, I bought a bottle of Kate’s perfume—a distinctive floral scent, with hints of jasmine and rose. If that didn’t make Lana think of Kate, nothing would. I kept the bottle in my pocket, and whenever I was in the house, I would pretend I was going to the bathroom—and sprint along the corridor to their laundry room, to liberally spray Jason’s shirts with the perfume.

  How much direct contact Lana ever had with Jason’s laundry was open to question. But even if Agathi smelled it and made the connection, I thought, that might help.

  I stole a few long hairs from Kate’s coat, when we were both at Lana’s for dinner; then attached them carefully to Jason’s jacket. I toyed with the idea of leaving condoms in Jason’s wash bag, but decided against it, as it felt too obvious.

  It was hard to get the balance right—too subtle a hint and it went undetected; too much and I’d give the game away.

  The earring proved just right.

  And so simple to engineer. I had no idea it would work so well or provoke the reaction it did. All I did was suggest Lana and I pay a surprise visit to Kate’s house; and I stole an earring from Kate’s bedroom—which I then pinned to Jason’s suit lapel, back at Lana’s house. Lana did the rest herself, with a little help from Agathi—and Sid, the dry cleaner.

  That Lana reacted so violently to the earring suggests she already secretly suspected the affair. Don’t you think?

  She just didn’t want to admit it to herself.

  Well, now she had no choice.

  13

  This brings us neatly back to that night in my flat. The night Lana came over, distraught, having found the earring.

  She sat across from me in the armchair; red-eyed, tearstained, vodka soaked. She told me about her suspicions that Jason and Kate were sleeping together. I confirmed her fears, saying I suspected it, too.

  I was feeling triumphant. My plan had worked. It was hard to conceal my excitement. It took an effort not to smile. But my elation was short-lived.

  When I tactfully suggested that Lana would now be leaving Jason, she looked mystified.

  “Leaving him? Who said anything about leaving him?”

  Now it was my turn to look mystified. “I don’t see what other option you have.”

  “It’s not so simple, Elliot.”

  “Why not?”

  Lana looked at me, eyes full of baffled tears, as if the answer were blindingly obvious.

  “I love him,” she said.

  I couldn’t believe it. Staring at her, I realized to my increasing horror that all my efforts had been in vain. Lana wasn’t going to leave him.

  I love him.

  I had a sick feeling in my stomach, as if I were going to throw up. I had been wasting my time. Lana’s words crushed all my hopes. She wasn’t going to leave him.

  I love him.

  I clenched my hand into a fist. I’d never felt so angry before. I wanted to hit her. I wanted to punch her. I felt like screaming.

  But I didn’t. I sat there, looking sympathetic, and we continued talking. The only outward sign of my distress was the clenched fist by my side. The whole time we talked, my mind was racing.

  I understood my mistake now. Unlike her husband, Lana clearly meant her vows. Until death do us part. Lana might well cut Kate out of her life, but she wasn’t about to relinquish Jason. She would forgive him. It would take more than the revelation of an affair to end their marriage.

  If I wanted to get rid of Jason, I had to go much further. I had to destroy him.

  Finally, Lana drank herself into oblivion and passed out on my couch. I went to the kitchen, to make a cup of tea—and to think. While I waited for the kettle to boil, I daydreamed about sneaking up behind Jason, armed with one of his own guns, pointing it at him—and blowing his brains out. I felt a sudden rush of excitement as I imagined this; a weird, perverse feeling of pride; the way you feel standing up to a bully—which is exactly what Jason was.

  Unfortunately, it was just a fantasy. I’d never go through with it. I knew I’d never get away with it. I had to think of something cleverer than that. But what?

  Our motivation is to remove pain, Mr. Valentine Levy said.

  He was right. I had to take action—otherwise I’d never be free of this pain. I was in such pain: believe me, I felt so close to despair, standing there in the kitchen at 3:00 A.M. I felt thwarted. Vanquished.

  But, no—not entirely vanquished.

  For thinking about Mr. Levy had sparked an association in my mind. The beginnings of an idea.

  If this were a play, I suddenly thought, what would I do?

  Yes—what if I were to approach my dilemma in those terms—as if I were staging a theatrical work—a drama?

  If this were a play I was writing, and these were my characters, I’d use my knowledge of them to predict their actions—and provoke their reactions. To shape their destiny, without them knowing it.

  Could I not, similarly, in real life, contrive a series of events that would—without me lifting a finger—end in Jason’s death? Why not? Yes, it was risky and might well fail—but that element of danger is what live theater is all about, isn’t it?

  My only hesitation in this was Lana. I didn’t want to lie to her. But I decided—and judge me harshly for this if you like—that it was for her own good.

  After all, what was I doing? Nothing but freeing the woman I loved from a faithless, dishonest criminal—and replacing him with a decent, honest man. She would be so much better off without him. She would be with me.

  I sat down at my desk. I switched on the green lamp. I pulled out my notebook from the top drawer. I opened it and turned to a fresh page. I reached for a pencil, sharpened it—and I began to plot it out.

  As I wrote, I could sense Heracleitus standing above me, watching over my shoulder, nodding with approval. For even though my plan went so wrong, even though it ended in such disaster, there—in the designing of the plot, in its conception—it was beautiful.

  That’s my story, in a nutshell. A tale of beautiful, well-intentioned failure—ending in death. Which is a pretty good metaphor for life, isn’t it?

  Well—my life, anyway.

  There we have it. I’m aware this has been a lengthy aside. It is, however, integral to my narrative.

  But that’s not up to me, is it? It’s what you think that counts.

  And you don’t say anything, do you? You just sit there, listening, silently judging. I’m so conscious of your judgment. I don’t want to bore you, or lose your interest. Not when you’ve given me so much of your time already.

  Which reminds me of something Tennessee Williams used to say. His writing advice to aspiring dramatists:

  Don’t be boring, baby, he’d say. Do whatever it takes to keep the thing going. Blow up a bomb onstage, if you have to. But don’t be boring.

  Okay, baby—so here comes that bomb.

  14

  Let us return to the island—and the night of the murder.

  Just after midnight, there were three gunshots in the ruin.

  A few minutes afterward, we all arrived at the clearing. A chaotic scene followed, as I tried to take Lana’s pulse, and to disentangle her from Leo’s arms. Jason gave Agathi his phone—to call an ambulance, and the police.

  Jason went back to the house to get a gun. He was followed by Kate, then Leo. Agathi and I were alone.

  This much you know.

  What you don’t know is what happened next.

  Agathi was in shock. She had gone completely pale, like she might faint. Remembering the phone in her hand, she lifted it up, to call the police.

  “No.” I stopped her. “Not yet.”

  “What?” Agathi looked at me blankly.

  “Wait.”

  Agathi looked confused—then she looked at Lana’s body.

  For a split second, did Agathi think of her grandmother—and wish she were here now? And that the old witch would shut her eyes and sway and mutter an incantation; an ancient magical spell to resurrect Lana, to make her live again—and return from death?

  Lana, please, Agathi prayed silently, please be alive—please live—live—

  Then, as in a dream or a nightmare—or on hallucinatory drugs—reality began to distort itself at Agathi’s command …

  And Lana’s body began to move.

  15

  One of Lana’s limbs twitched, ever so slightly, of its own accord.

  The blue eyes opened.

  And her body began to sit up.

  Agathi went to scream. I grabbed hold of her.

  “Shh,” I whispered. “Shh. It’s okay. It’s okay.”

  Agathi squirmed and threw me off. She seemed about to lose her balance. But she managed to stay upright, unsteadily, breathing hard.

  “Agathi,” I said. “Listen. It’s okay. It’s a game. That’s all. A play. We’re acting. See?”

  Agathi, slowly, fearfully, moved her eyes past me. She looked over my shoulder, at Lana’s body. The dead woman was now on her feet, holding out her arms for an embrace.

  “Agathi,” said the voice she thought she’d never again hear. “Darling, come here.”

  Lana wasn’t dead. Judging by the sparkle in her eyes, she’d never felt more alive. Agathi was overcome with emotion. She wanted to fall into Lana’s arms, sob with joy and relief, hold Lana tight. But she didn’t.

  Instead, she found herself staring at Lana with increasing anger.

  “A game—?”

  “Agathi, listen—”

  “What kind of game?”

  “I can explain,” said Lana.

  “Not now,” I said. “There isn’t time. We’ll explain later. Right now, we need you to play along.”

  Agathi’s eyes welled up with tears. She shook her head, unable to bear it any longer. She turned and marched off, disappearing in the trees.

  “Wait,” Lana called after her. “Agathi—”

  “Shh, keep quiet,” I said. “I’ll deal with it. I’ll talk to her.”

  Lana looked doubtful. I could tell her resolve was wavering. I tried again, more forcefully: “Lana, please don’t. You’ll ruin everything. Lana—”

  Lana ignored me. She ran after Agathi into the olive grove.

  I watched her go, aghast.

  I don’t know if I’m saying this with the benefit of hindsight—or if I had some inkling of it at the time—but at this precise moment my perfect plan began to unravel.

  And everything went to hell.

  ACT IV

  Truth or illusion, George: you don’t know the difference.

  —EDWARD ALBEE, Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?

  1

  A good rule of thumb, you know, when telling a story, is to delay all exposition until absolutely necessary.

  Nothing is more suspect, to my mind, than unsolicited explanation. It’s best to keep quiet, to refrain from any elucidation until you have to.

  Now, it seems, we have reached that crucial point in the narrative.

  I owe you an explanation—I can see that.

  Remember that night in my flat, what I said about Jason and Kate?

  Whatever they have—or think they have—it will crack under the slightest bit of pressure. It will fall apart.

  What better way to test them, I said to Lana, than a little murder?

  “Like one of the plays you used to stage at the ruin,” I said, “in the old days—remember? A little more gory, that’s all.”

  Lana looked confused. “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about a play. For an audience of two—for Kate and Jason. A murder, in five acts.”

  Lana listened as I began to explain my idea. I said that, by faking Lana’s murder, and casting suspicion on Jason, we’d watch his relationship with Kate disintegrate.

  “They’ll turn on each other in an instant,” I said. “Don’t think they won’t. If you want to end their affair, just put that kind of pressure on it for a few hours.”

  The two lovers would tear each other apart, each suspecting the other. And the moment each accused the other of murder, Lana could reveal herself. She would emerge from the shadows, having returned from death. She’d stand before them, gloriously alive—giving them the fright of their life. And leaving them in no doubt how they truly felt about each other—how shallow and tawdry, how easily polluted their feelings really were.

  “It will be the end of them, forever,” I said.

  This is, no doubt, what appealed to Lana about my idea—the prospect of ending Jason and Kate’s affair. Perhaps Lana was hoping to win Jason back. But she also had another reason for agreeing—a secret reason—which, as you will see, brought her little joy.

  The idea had a lovely poetic symmetry to it, I said. It provided the perfect revenge for Lana; and the superlative artistic challenge for me. Of course, Lana didn’t know quite how far I intended to take the performance.

  I didn’t lie to her. All I did—you might say—was not burden her with a lot of unnecessary exposition.

  Instead, I concentrated on the practicalities of staging our drama.

  As we talked, we discovered the story together.

  Drowning? I said.

  No, shooting, said Lana, with a smile—that would be much better; we could use the guns in the house—then easily incriminate Jason in Kate’s eyes.

  Yes, I said, that’s it. Good idea.

  What about the others? Should we involve them or not?

  I knew we had to, to a certain extent. Lana and I couldn’t pull this off on our own. For the illusion to work, Jason and Kate must never be allowed to get too close to Lana’s body. I couldn’t manage that by myself. I needed help.

  And Leo—hysterical, screaming—demanding they keep away from Lana … would do the trick nicely.

  I worried about how little acting experience Leo had—what if he wasn’t up to the challenge? What if he corpsed—no pun intended—and gave the game away?

  Lana promised she’d rehearse him diligently until he was perfect. It seemed a matter of parental pride for her that he be given the part. Ironic, considering how much she disapproved of his becoming an actor.

  I agreed to her demands, even though I had my doubts about Leo. As I did about keeping Agathi in the dark. But Lana overruled me on both counts.

  What about Nikos? she said. Should we tell him or not?

  Let’s keep him out of it, I said. Too many cooks, and all that.

  Lana nodded. Okay. You’re probably right.

  And so it was agreed.

  * * *

  Four days later, on the island, a few minutes before midnight, I went to meet Lana at the ruin. I was armed with a shotgun.

  Lana was waiting for me, sitting on one of the broken columns. I smiled as I approached. She didn’t smile back.

  “I wasn’t sure you’d be here,” I said.

  “Neither was I.”

  “Well?”

  Lana nodded. “I’m ready.”

  “Okay.” I raised the gun and pointed it at the sky.

  I fired three times.

  I watched as Lana applied the fake blood and the stage makeup to herself. The bullet wounds were latex, gory and effective—at night, anyway. I wasn’t sure how well they’d play in daylight.

  The special effects were the model’s own, procured for her by a makeup artist she had worked with on several movies. She said she needed them for a private performance—an apt description of our little production, I thought.

  Lana lay on the ground, in the pool of fake blood. Then I pulled Kate’s red shawl out of my back pocket and wrapped it around her shoulders.

  “What’s that for?” Lana asked.

  “Just a final touch. Now try not to move. Lie completely still. Let your limbs go limp.”

  “I know how to play dead, Elliot. I’ve done it before.”

  Hearing the others approach, I went and hid behind the column. I stuffed the shotgun into a rosemary bush.

  Then I emerged, a couple of minutes later—acting as if I had just arrived; breathless and confused.

  From then on, I followed my dramatic instinct. Seeing Lana lying there, in a pool of blood, with Leo, hysterical at her side, I found it easy to get caught up in the drama. It felt surprisingly real, in fact.

  I see now that’s exactly where I took a wrong turn in my thinking. I didn’t anticipate how real it would feel. I got so caught up with the twists and turns of the plot, I didn’t think of how it would affect everyone emotionally—and that, therefore, people might react in highly unpredictable ways.

  You might say I forgot my most fundamental rule: character is plot.

  And I paid the price for it.

  2

  Lana hurried through the olive grove, in search of Agathi.

  She needed to find her. Lana had to calm her down before she ruined everything.

  It had been a mistake not to tell Agathi, to keep the plan a secret from her. But Lana felt she had no choice. Agathi would certainly have refused to take part, and she would have done her best to talk Lana out of it. Now Lana rather wished she had.

  A small figure was in the distance, through the trees, at the end of the path.… It was Agathi, hurrying into the house.