I have dark eyes and dark hair, like my old man. Average looks, I’d say. Some have described me as handsome; but I don’t think of myself that way at all—unless I’m in good lighting.

  Barbara West always said the two most important things in life are lighting and timing. She was right. If the light’s too glaring, I see only my flaws. I hate my profile, for instance, and the way my hair sticks up in a weird angle at the back, and my small chin. It’s always an unpleasant shock when I catch sight of myself in a side mirror in a department-store changing room, with my bad hair, big nose, and no jaw. I don’t have movie-star looks, put it like that. Unlike the others in this story.

  I grew up outside London. The less said about my childhood, the better. Let’s dispense with it in as few words as possible, shall we? How about three?

  It was darkness. That about sums it up.

  My father was a brute; my mother drank. Together they lived surrounded by filth, squalor, and ugliness—like two drunken children squabbling in a gutter.

  Don’t feel bad for me; this isn’t a misery memoir. Just a simple statement of fact. It’s a familiar enough tale, I suspect. Like all too many children, I endured an upbringing characterized by long periods of abandonment and neglect, both physical and emotional. I was rarely touched, or played with, barely held by my mother—and the only time my father laid a hand on me was in anger.

  This I find harder to forgive. Not the physical violence, you understand, which I soon learned to accept as a part of life, but the lack of touch—and its repercussions for me, later, as an adult. How can I put it? It left me unused to—even afraid of?—the touch of another. And it has made intimate relationships, emotional or physical, extremely difficult.

  I couldn’t wait to leave home. My parents were strangers to me; it felt inconceivable that I was even related to them. I felt like an alien, an extraterrestrial, adopted by an inferior life-form—with no choice but to flee and find others of my own species.

  If that sounds arrogant, forgive me. It’s just when you spend years marooned on the desert island of childhood, trapped with parents who are angry, alcoholic, endlessly sarcastic, full of contempt; who never encourage you, who bully and belittle you, mock you for loving learning or art; who ridicule anything remotely sensitive, emotional, or intellectual … then you grow up a little angry, a little prickly and defensive.

  You grow up determined to defend your right to be—what, exactly? Different? An individual? A freak?

  In case I am speaking to a young person now, let me give you something to hold on to: do not despair at being different. For that very difference, initially such a source of shame, so humiliating, and painful, will one day become a badge of honor and pride.

  The reality is, these days, I am proud to be different—I thank God I am. And even when I was a child, and full of self-loathing, I sensed another world was out there. A better world, where I might belong. A brighter world—beyond the darkness, lit by spotlights.

  What am I talking about? The theater, of course. Think of that moment the auditorium darkens, the curtain glows, the audience clears its collective throat, settling down, tingling with anticipation. It’s magic, pure and simple; more addictive than any drug I ever tried. I knew from a young age—glimpsing it on school trips to plays by the Royal Shakespeare Company, the National Theatre, or West End matinees—that I had to belong to this world.

  Also I understood, just as clearly, that if I wanted to be accepted by this world, if I wanted to fit in, I had to change.

  Who I was simply wasn’t good enough. I had to become someone else.

  It seems absurd, writing that now—even painful—but I believed it then, with all my heart. I believed I had to change everything about me: my name, my appearance, how I carried myself, how I spoke, what I talked about, thought about. To be part of this brave new world, I needed to become a different person—a better one.

  And eventually, one day, I succeeded.

  Well, almost—a few tinges of the old me remained; like a bloodstain on a wooden floorboard—leaving a pale red mark, no matter how much you scrub at it.

  * * *

  My full name, by the way, is Elliot Chase.

  I flatter myself that my name might not be unknown to you—if you’re a theatergoer? If you don’t know the name, you may have heard of my play—or seen it? The Miserabilists was a big hit, on both sides of the Atlantic. It ran for a year and a half on Broadway, winning several awards. I was even nominated for a Tony, he says modestly.

  Not bad for a first-time dramatist, eh?

  Of course, there were the inevitable snide, bitchy comments and malicious stories, spread around by a surprising number of bitter, older, more established writers, envious of this young man’s immediate critical and commercial success; accusing me of all kinds of nasty things, ranging from plagiarism to downright theft.

  I suppose it’s understandable. I’m an easy target. You see, for many years, until her death, I lived with Barbara West, the novelist.

  Unlike me, Barbara needs no introduction. They probably taught her to you at school. The short stories are always on the curriculum; even though, in my unpopular opinion, she’s vastly overrated.

  Barbara was many years older than me when we met, and her health was failing. I stayed with her until the end.

  I didn’t love her—in case you’re wondering. Our relationship was more transactional than romantic. I was her escort; servant; chauffeur; enabler; punching bag. I once asked her to marry me—but she declined. Nor would she consent to a civil partnership. So we weren’t lovers or partners; we weren’t even friends—not toward the end, anyway.

  Barbara did leave me her house in her will, though. That rotting old mansion in Holland Park. It was enormous and hideous, and I couldn’t afford to run it—so I sold it and lived happily on the proceeds for several years.

  What she failed to leave me was the royalties to any of her bestselling books, which would have given me financial security for life. Instead, she dispersed them among various charities and secondhand cousins in Nova Scotia she barely knew.

  This disinheritance by Barbara was her last act of spite toward me, in a relationship dominated by petty cruelties. I couldn’t forgive her for this. That’s why I wrote the play, based on our life together. An act of vengeance, you might say.

  I’m not hotheaded. When I become angry, I don’t rage—I sit down, quietly, very still, armed with pen and paper—and plot my revenge with ice-cold precision. I skewered her with that play, exposing our relationship as a sham, and Barbara as the vain, ridiculous old fool that she was.

  Between you and me, I’ll admit, I was even more delighted with the outraged fury it caused among Barbara’s devoted fans worldwide than I was with its commercial success.

  Well, perhaps that’s not quite true.

  I’ll never forget that night my play first premiered in the West End. Lana was on my arm, as my date. For a moment, I experienced what it must be like to be famous. Cameras flashing, thunderous applause—and a standing ovation. It was the proudest night of my life. I often remember it, these days, and smile.

  * * *

  Which seems a good place to end this digression. Let us return to our central narrative—back to me and Kate, and our journey from rainy London, to sunny Greece.

  6

  I spotted Kate at Gatwick Airport before she saw me. Even at this time in the morning, she looked gorgeous, if somewhat disheveled.

  Her face fell slightly when she noticed me at the check-in desk. She pretended not to see me, heading straight for the back of the queue. But I waved and loudly called her name—enough times for other people to turn around. She had no choice but to look up and acknowledge me. She feigned surprise and fixed a smile on her face.

  Kate came and found me at the front. Her smile didn’t waver.

  “Elliot, hi. I didn’t see you.”

  “Didn’t you? Funny, I saw you straightaway.” I grinned. “Good morning. Fancy bumping into you here.”

  “Are we on the same flight?”

  “Looks like it. We can sit together and have a good old gossip.”

  “I can’t.” Kate held up her script to her chest like a shield. “I need to work on my lines. I promised Gordon.”

  “Don’t worry—I’ll test you on them. We can work all the way there. Now, give us your passport.”

  Kate had no choice, we both knew that—if she refused to sit with me, it would start the weekend off on a bad note. So her smile remained firm, and she handed me her passport. We checked in together.

  No sooner had we taken off, however, and the plane emerged above the clouds, than it became obvious Kate had no intention of practicing her lines. She stuffed the script into her bag.

  “Do you mind if we don’t? I have a terrible headache.”

  “Hangover?”

  “Always.”

  I laughed. “I know a cure for that. A little vodka.”

  Kate shook her head. “I can’t possibly face vodka at this time in the morning.”

  “Nonsense, it’ll wake you up. Like a punch in the face.”

  Ignoring Kate’s protestations, I flagged down a passing flight attendant and asked him for a couple of glasses of ice—ice being the only thing on this flight that was offered for free—and though he gave me a funny look, he didn’t refuse. Then I produced a handful of miniature vodka bottles I had smuggled onto the plane in my bag. Given the lack of choice of alcohol on airplanes these days, not to mention the exorbitant cost, I find it more convenient—and economical—to travel with my own.

  If that sounds irredeemably debauched, I assure you the bottles were tiny. Besides, if Kate and I were forced to spend the rest of this long journey together, we could both probably use an anesthetic.

  I poured some vodka into the two plastic cups. I raised my glass. “Here’s to an entertaining weekend. Cheers.”

  “Bottoms up.” Kate drank the vodka in one go and winced. “Ugh.”

  “That’ll cure your headache. Now, tell me about Agamemnon. How’s it going?”

  Kate forced a smile. “Oh. Really good. Great.”

  “Is it? Good.”

  “Why?” Kate dropped the smile and peered at me, suspiciously. “What have you heard?”

  “Nothing. Nothing, at all.”

  “Elliot, spit it out.”

  I hesitated. “It’s just a rumor, that’s all … that you and Gordon haven’t exactly been hitting it off.”

  “What? That’s absolute bollocks.”

  “I thought it must be.”

  “Total crap.” Kate opened another minibottle of vodka. She refreshed her glass. “Gordon and I get on like a house on fire.” She knocked back her drink.

  “I’m relieved to hear it. I can’t wait for the first night. Lana and I will be there, in the front row, cheering you on.” I smiled at her.

  Kate didn’t smile back. She looked at me for a moment—an unfriendly look, and silent. I can’t bear an awkward pause, so I filled it with an anecdote about a mutual friend going through an absurdly vengeful divorce, involving death threats and email hacking and all kinds of insanity. A long, complicated story, which I exaggerated for comic effect.

  The whole time I spoke, Kate watched me stonily. I could see she didn’t find me or the story funny.

  As I looked into her eyes, I saw into her mind … and read her thoughts:

  God, I wish he’d shut up. Elliot thinks he’s so bloody funny, so witty—he thinks he’s Noël Coward. But he’s not. He’s just a fucking cun—

  * * *

  Kate didn’t like me much—as you may have guessed.

  Let’s just say she was immune to my particular brand of charm. She thought she hid her dislike well, but like most actresses—particularly ones who like to think of themselves as enigmatic—she was incredibly easy to read.

  I met Kate long before I met Lana. Kate was a great favorite of Barbara West’s, both on- and offstage, and was frequently invited to the house in Holland Park, to the famous soirees; euphemistically known as “dinner parties” but actually debauched free-for-alls for hundreds of people.

  Kate intimidated me even then. I’d feel nervous when she’d seek me out at a party—spraying cigarette ash and booze in her wake—taking my arm, leading me aside, leading me astray, making me laugh by mercilessly mocking the other guests. I sensed that Kate was aligning herself with me as another outsider. I’m not like the others, love, she seemed to be saying. Don’t be fooled by the cut-glass vowels, I ain’t no lady.

  She was keen for me to know she was as much an impostor as I was—the only difference being, I was ashamed of my past, not my present. Unlike Kate, I desperately wanted to shed my former skin, to inhabit my current role and fit in with the other guests. By including me in all her jokes, all the nudges, winks, and asides, Kate was firmly letting me know that I wasn’t succeeding.

  To be honest, although I’m wary of criticizing Lana, as she never gave me cause—so this isn’t really a criticism—I laughed more often with Kate. Kate was always trying for a laugh—always looking for the joke in everything; always arch and sarcastic. Whereas Lana—well, Lana was serious in many ways—extremely direct, always sincere. They were like oil and water, those two, they really were.

  Or perhaps it’s just a cultural difference? All the Americans I have known have tended to be straightforward, almost blunt. I respect that—there’s a kind of purity to that honesty. (“Scratch a Yank and you’ll find a Puritan,” Barbara West used to say. “Don’t forget they all went over on the bloody Mayflower.”) Unlike we Brits, that is—pathologically polite, almost servile, always agreeing with you to your face, only to bitch about you viciously the moment you turn your back.

  Kate and I were much more similar creatures; if it hadn’t been for Lana, we might have ended up as friends. That is my only reproach to Lana and all her kindness to me; that she accidentally came between Kate and me. As soon as Lana and I started becoming close, you see, Kate began to view me as a threat. I could see it in her eyes—a new hostility, a competitiveness for Lana’s attention.

  Regardless of how she felt about me, I found Kate to be fascinating and obviously talented—but also complicated and volatile. She made me feel uneasy, or perhaps cautious is a better word—the way you feel around an unpredictable, bad-tempered cat, liable to lash out at you with no warning. I don’t believe you can ever truly be friends with someone if they frighten you. How can you be yourself? If you’re afraid, you can’t be authentic.

  And, yes—I was afraid of Kate. I had good reason to be, as it transpired.

  Ah. Have I revealed that too soon? Possibly.

  But there it is, I have said it. I must let it stand.

  * * *

  We landed at Mykonos Airport—a glorified landing strip, which made it feel even more exotic. Then we took a cab to Mykonos Old Port, to pick up the water taxi to the island.

  It was late afternoon when we arrived at the port. It was the stuff of picture postcards: blue-and-white fishing boats, tangled nets like balls of wool; the sound of wood creaking on water; the thin smell of gasoline on the sea breeze. The bustling waterfront cafés were packed; there were the sounds of chatter and laughter; and the strong aromas of sludgy Greek coffee and deep-fried squid. I loved it all—it felt so alive; part of me wanted to linger here forever.

  But my destination—or should I say my destiny?—lay elsewhere. So, I clambered into the water taxi after Kate.

  We began our trip across the water. The sky was turning violet as we crossed. It was getting blacker by the second.

  Soon, the island appeared ahead, a darkening mass of land in the distance. It was almost ominous in the dusk light. Its austere beauty never failed to fill me with something akin to awe.

  There she is, I thought. Aura.

  7

  As Kate and I neared the island, another speedboat was leaving it.

  It was being driven by Babis—a short, tanned, bald man in his sixties, smartly dressed. He ran Yialos restaurant in Mykonos—and, subject to a decades-long agreement initiated by Otto, Agathi would phone ahead with a grocery list, which Babis would then deliver; as well as arrange for the house to be aired and cleaned. I was glad to have missed him—he was a bore and a snob, in my opinion.

  As he passed us, Babis slowed down his boat. He made a performative show of bowing deeply and ceremoniously to Kate. Three elderly cleaning women were sitting in the back of his boat, next to a pile of empty grocery baskets. As he bowed, the old women exchanged stony looks behind his back.

  I bet they hate him, I thought. I was about to comment on this to Kate—but one glance at her told me to keep quiet. She hadn’t even noticed Babis. She was staring ahead, at the island, a deep frown on her face. She had become increasingly morose as the journey went on. Clearly something was on her mind. I wondered what it was.

  We arrived on Aura and carried our bags in weary silence up the long driveway.

  There, at the end of the path, was the house. It was all lit up, a beacon of light, surrounded by darkness.

  Lana and Leo welcomed us warmly. Champagne was opened; and apart from Leo, we all drank a glass. Lana asked if we might like to unpack and freshen up before dinner.

  I asked for the same room I always had—in the main house, the room next to Lana’s. Kate requested the summerhouse; where she had slept so well, last summer.

  Lana nodded at Leo. “Darling, will you help Kate with her bags?”

  Leo, ever gallant, was already on his feet.

  But Kate declined. “It’s fine, love. I don’t need any help. I’m a tough old bird. I can manage. I’ll just finish my drink.”

  At that moment, Jason wandered in, staring at his phone, scowling deeply. He was about to say something to Lana when he saw Kate and stopped. He didn’t see me.

  “Oh, it’s you.” Jason gave Kate a smile that seemed a little forced. “Didn’t know you were coming.”