I will stick to the facts:

  Kate Crosby was a British theater actor. She grew up in London, in a working-class family, south of the river; though any trace of an accent had long since been obliterated by years of drama school and voice training. Kate spoke with what used to be known as a BBC accent—rather refined and hard to place—but, it must be said, her vocabulary remained as earthy as ever. She was deliberately provocative, with a touch of “the end of the pier”—as Barbara West put it. Bawdy is the word I’d use.

  There was a famous story about how Kate once met King Charles, when he was still Prince of Wales, at a charity luncheon he was hosting. Kate asked Charles how far away the toilets were—adding she was so desperate, sir, if she had to, she’d piss in the sink. Charles roared with laughter, apparently; entirely charmed. Kate’s eventual damehood was no doubt secured there and then.

  Kate was in her late forties when our story begins. Or possibly older—it’s hard to know exactly. Like many actors, the precise date of her birth was a movable feast. She didn’t look her age, anyway. She was lovely to look at, as dark as Lana was fair—dark eyes, dark hair. In her own way, Kate was every inch as attractive as her American friend. Unlike Lana, she used a great deal of makeup; heavy use of eyeliner and several layers of thick black mascara accentuating her big eyes. The mascara never came off, to my knowledge; I think she just added a layer or two daily.

  Kate’s whole look was more “actressy” than Lana’s—lots of jewelry, chains, bracelets, scarves, boots, big coats. It’s as if she were doing everything she could to be noticed. Whereas Lana, who in many ways was truly extraordinary, always dressed in as simple a manner as possible—as if drawing undue attention to herself would be in bad taste, somehow.

  Kate was a dramatic person; larger-than-life, with a restless energy. She drank and smoked constantly. In this, and every other regard, I suppose, Lana and Kate must be regarded as opposites. Their friendship was always a bit of a mystery to me, I’ll admit. They seemed to have so little in common, yet were the very best of friends—and had been for a long time.

  In fact, of all the several intertwining love stories in this tale, Lana and Kate’s relationship was the earliest, endured the longest—and was perhaps the saddest of all.

  How did two such different people ever become friends?

  I suspect youth had a lot to do with it. The friends we make when young are rarely the kind of people we seek out later in life. The length of time we have known them accords them a kind of nostalgia in our eyes, if you will; an indulgence; a “free pass” in our lives.

  Kate and Lana met thirty years ago—on a film set. An independent movie being shot in London: an adaptation of The Awkward Age, by Henry James. Vanessa Redgrave was playing the lead, Mrs. Brook; and Lana was her daughter, the ingenue, Nanda Brookenham. Kate had the comic supporting role of the Italian cousin, Aggie. Kate made Lana laugh off camera as well as on, and over the summer shoot, the two young women became friends. Kate introduced Lana to London nightlife and they were soon out every night, having a raucous time—turning up on set hungover; sometimes, no doubt, knowing Kate, still drunk.

  It’s like falling in love, isn’t it, when you make a new friend? And Kate was Lana’s first close female friend. Her first ally in life.

  Where was I? Forgive me, it’s proving rather a tricky thing to keep hold of, a linear narrative. I must endeavor to master it, or we’ll never make it to the island—let alone the murder.

  Kate’s rehearsal, that’s it.

  Well, it struggled on limply, and she kept stumbling through her speeches. But not because she didn’t know the lines. She knew the lines. She just didn’t feel comfortable in the part—she felt lost.

  Clytemnestra is an iconic character. The original femme fatale. She killed her husband and his mistress. A monster—or a victim, depending on how you look at it. What a gift to an actor. Something to sink your teeth into. You’d think so, anyway. But Kate’s performance was remaining bloodless. She seemed unable to summon up the requisite Greek fire in her belly. Somehow, she needed to burrow her way inside the skin, into the heart and mind of the character; discover a small chink of connection that would allow her to inhabit her. Acting, for Kate, was a muddy, magical process. But right now, there was no magic—just mud.

  They staggered on to the end. Kate put a brave face on it but she felt wretched. Thank God she had a few days off now, for Easter, before the tech and dress rehearsals. A few days to regroup, rethink—and pray.

  Gordon announced at the end of rehearsal that he wanted everyone word-perfect after Easter. “Or I will not be responsible for my actions. Is that clear?” He addressed this to the whole cast, but everyone knew he meant Kate.

  Kate gave him a big smile and a pretend kiss on the cheek. “Gordon, love. Don’t worry, it’s all under control. Promise.”

  Gordon rolled his eyes, unconvinced.

  * * *

  Kate went backstage to get her stuff. She was still moving into the star’s dressing room, and it was a mess: half-unpacked bags, makeup and clothes everywhere.

  The first thing Kate did in any dressing room was light the jasmine candle she always bought, for good luck, and to banish that stuffy backstage smell of stale air, old wood, carpet, damp exposed brick—not to mention the sneaky cigarettes she would puff on out the window.

  Having relit the candle, Kate rummaged inside her bag, pulling out a bottle of pills. She shook a Xanax into her hand. She didn’t want the whole pill, just a little bit, a nibble—to take the edge off her anxiety. She broke it in half, then bit off a quarter. She let the fragment of bitter pill dissolve on her tongue. She rather enjoyed the harsh chemical taste of it; she imagined the nasty taste meant it was working.

  Kate glanced out the window. It was raining. It didn’t look heavy—it might brighten up soon. She’d go for a walk along the river. A walk would be good. She needed to clear her head. She had so much on her mind; she felt quite dizzy with it all.… So much ahead—so much to think about, to worry about—but she couldn’t bear to face it just now.

  Perhaps a drink would help. She opened the little fridge under the dressing table and took out a bottle of white wine.

  She poured herself a glass and perched on the dressing table. And she lit a cigarette, strictly against theater rules, punishable by death, but fuck it—the way things were looking, this was the last time she’d act in this theater; or any other, come to that.

  She threw a look of hatred at the script. It glared back at her from the dressing table. She reached over and turned it face down. What a disaster. Whatever made her think Agamemnon was a good idea? She must have been high when she agreed to it. She cringed, visualizing the vicious reviews. The Times theater critic already hated her; she’d have a field day tearing her apart. So would that bastard at the Evening Standard.

  Her phone rang—a welcome distraction from her thoughts. She reached for it and checked the screen. It was Lana.

  Kate answered. “Hey. You okay?”

  “I will be,” Lana said. “I’ve worked out what we all need is some sunshine. Will you come?”

  “What?”

  “To the island—for Easter?” Lana went on before Kate could respond. “Don’t say no. It’ll be just us. You, me, Jason, and Leo. And Agathi, of course … I’m not sure if I’ll ask Elliot—he’s been annoying me lately. Well, what do you say?”

  Kate pretended to deliberate. She tossed her cigarette butt out the window, into the falling rain.

  “I’m booking my flight right now.”

  4

  Lana’s island was a gift. A gift of love.

  It was given to her by Otto, as a wedding present. A ridiculously extravagant present, admittedly—but that was typical of Otto, apparently. By all accounts he was quite a character.

  The island was in Greece, in the southern part of the Aegean Sea, in a loose group of islands known as the Cyclades. The famous ones you’ve heard of—Mykonos and Santorini—but the majority of the islands are uninhabited; and uninhabitable. A few are privately owned, like the one Otto bought for Lana.

  The island didn’t cost as much as you might think. Beyond the wildest dreams of most ordinary people, of course, but, taken in its own context—as islands go—it wasn’t that expensive to buy, or maintain.

  It was tiny, for one thing—a couple of hundred acres in size—barely a rock. And considering that its new owners were a Hollywood movie producer and his muse, Otto and Lana ran a fairly humble household. They only hired one full-time staffer—a caretaker—which was a story in itself; an anecdote Otto loved to tell, delighting, as he did, in the idiosyncrasies of the Greeks. He was entirely captivated by them. And here, far from mainland Greece, it must be said, the islanders could be quite eccentric.

  The nearest inhabited island was Mykonos—twenty minutes away by boat. So, naturally, this was where Otto went in search of a caretaker for Lana’s island. But finding one proved harder than expected. No one, it seemed, was prepared to live on the island, not even for the generous wage being offered.

  It wasn’t just that the caretaker would have to endure an isolated and lonely life. There was also a myth—a local ghost story—that the island had been haunted since Roman times. It was considered bad luck to set foot on the island, let alone live there. A superstitious lot, these Mykonians.

  In the end, there was only one volunteer for the job: Nikos, a young fisherman.

  Nikos was about twenty-five—and recently widowed. He was silent and somber. Lana told me she thought he was seriously depressed. All he wanted, he told Otto, was to be alone.

  Nikos was barely literate and spoke only broken English—but he and Otto managed to make themselves understood, often employing elaborate hand gestures. No contract was drawn up, just a handshake.

  And, from then on, all year round, Nikos lived alone on the island. Caretaker of the property—and unofficial gardener. There wasn’t much of a garden, initially. He was living there for a couple of years before he started growing vegetables—but when he did, it was with immediate success.

  The following year, Otto, inspired by Nikos’s efforts, arranged for a small orchard to be imported from Athens—hanging on ropes, suspended from helicopters—apple, pear, peach, and cherry trees, all planted in a walled garden. They, too, thrived. Everything seemed to bloom, on this island of love.

  Sounds blissful, doesn’t it? Idyllic, I know. Even now, it’s so tempting to romanticize it. No one wants reality; we all want a fairy tale—and that’s how Lana’s story seemed to the outside world. A charmed, magical life. But if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that things are seldom as they seem.

  One night, years later, Lana told me the truth about her and Otto; how their fairy-tale marriage wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. Perhaps it’s inevitable; along with Otto’s larger-than-life personality, his generosity, relentless drive, and ambition came other, less attractive qualities. He was much older than Lana, for one thing, and had a paternal, even patriarchal attitude toward her. He was controlling of her actions, dictating what she ate and what she wore, relentlessly critical of any choice she might make, undermining her, bullying her—and, when drunk, emotionally and even physically abusive.

  I can’t help but suspect, if they had stayed together for longer, that Lana would eventually have rebelled, as she grew older and more independent. Surely, one day, she would have left him?

  We’ll never know. Only a few years into their marriage, Otto had a fatal heart attack one spring—in LAX Airport, of all places. He was on his way to meet Lana on the island, to rest, on doctor’s orders. Sadly he never made it to his destination.

  Following Otto’s death, Lana kept away from the island for several years. The memories and associations were too upsetting for her. But, as time passed, she became able to remember the island, and all the good times they had shared, without too much pain. So she decided to return.

  From then on, Lana visited at least twice a year, sometimes more often. Particularly once she moved to England—and needed a refuge from its climate.

  * * *

  Before we move on, I must tell you about the ruin. It plays an important part in our story, as you will see.

  The ruin was my favorite spot on the island. A semicircle of six broken, weathered marble columns in a clearing, surrounded by olive trees. An atmospheric spot; easy to imbue with magic. A perfect spot for contemplation. I would often sit on one of the stones, just breathe, and listen to the silence.

  The ruin was the remains of an ancient villa complex from over a thousand years ago. It had belonged to a wealthy Roman family. All that remained were these broken columns—which, Lana and Otto were told, had once housed an intimate theater, a small auditorium, used for private performances.

  A nice story—if a little contrived, in my opinion. I couldn’t help but suspect it was invented by an overzealous real estate agent, hoping to pique Lana’s imagination. If so, it worked. Lana was instantly captivated: she always called the ruin “the theater” from then on.

  For a while, she and Otto revived this ancient tradition: performing sketches and playlets at the ruin in the summer evenings, written and acted by the family and their guests. A practice that was mercifully abandoned long before I ever went to the island. The prospect of having to indulge visiting movie stars in their amateur dramatics is, frankly, more than I could bear.

  Apart from the ruin, only a handful of structures were on the island—both fairly recent: a caretaker’s cottage, where Nikos resided; and the main house.

  The house was in the middle of the island—a sandstone monster, over a hundred years old. It had pale yellow walls, a red terra-cotta roof, and green wooden shutters. Otto and Lana added to it, extending it, renovating the more dilapidated areas. They built a swimming pool and a guesthouse in the garden; and a stone jetty on the most accessible beach, where they kept their speedboat.

  It’s hard to describe how lovely the island is—was? I’m struggling a little with my tenses here. I’m not where sure I am—the present, or the past? I know where I would be, given half a chance. I’d give anything to be back there right now.

  I can picture it all so clearly. If I shut my eyes, I can be there: on the terrace at the house, a cool drink in my hand, looking out at that view. It’s pretty flat for the most part, so you can see a long way: past the olive trees, all the way down to the beaches and coves and the clear turquoise water. The water, when calm, is blue and glass-like, almost translucent. But, like most things in life, it has more than one nature. When the wind comes, which it does, frequently, the churning waves and currents stir up all the sand in the seabed, turning the water murky, dark, and dangerous.

  The wind plagues that part of the world. It hits it all the year round; not continuously, though, or with the same intensity—but every so often it works itself into a rage and tears across the water, battering the islands. Agathi’s grandmother used to call the Aegean wind to menos, which means “the fury” in English.

  The island also has a name, by the way.

  The island was named Aura, after the Greek goddess of the “morning air” or the “breeze.” A pretty name, which belied the ferocity of the wind, and of the goddess herself.

  Aura was a minor deity, a nymph, a huntress, a companion of Artemis’s. She didn’t like men very much and would slaughter them for sport. When she gave birth to two boys, she ate one of them before Artemis quickly spirited away the other.

  That’s how the locals spoke about the wind, incidentally—as monstrous and devouring. No wonder it made it into their myths, their stories; as personified by Aura.

  I was lucky enough never to have personally experienced it—the wind, I mean. I visited the island over several years and was always blessed with unusually docile weather—often missing a gale by a day or two.

  But not this year. This year, the fury caught up with me.

  5

  Lana did invite me to the island, in the end—–despite saying to Kate that I was annoying her.

  I’m Elliot, by the way, in case you hadn’t guessed.

  And Lana was only joking when she said that. That’s the kind of relationship she and I had. We played around a lot. We kept it light, like the bubbles in a glass of Bollinger.

  Not that I was offered champagne, or even cava, on my flight to Greece. Unlike Lana and her family, presumably—who traveled to the island the same way Lana went everywhere, on a private jet. Mere mortals like myself flew commercial; or more often than not, these days, sadly, budget airlines.

  And so it is here, at a distinctly down-to-earth check-in desk at Gatwick Airport, that I enter this story. As you know, I’ve been waiting impatiently to introduce myself. Now at last, we can get properly acquainted.

  I hope I won’t prove disappointing as a narrator. I like to think I’m considered decent company—fairly entertaining; pretty straightforward, good-natured; even occasionally profound—once I’ve bought you a few drinks, that is.

  I’m about forty years old, give or take a year or two. I’m told I look younger. That’s down to my refusal to grow up, no doubt—never mind grow old. I still feel like a kid inside. Doesn’t everyone?

  I’m about average height, perhaps a bit taller. I have a slim build, but not as razor-thin as I used to be. I used to vanish if I turned sideways. That had a lot to do with cigarettes, of course. I’ve got it under control now, just the odd joint and the very occasional cigarette, but during my twenties and early thirties, my God, I had a fierce tobacco habit. I used to exist solely on smoke and coffee. I was skinny, wired, edgy, and anxious. What a joy I must have been to be around. I’ve calmed down now, thankfully.

  That’s the only good thing I’ll say about getting older. I’m finally calming down.