I know, I know—I must cease this maudlin self-pity. It does no one any good—Lana least of all. It’s me I’m feeling sorry for—this poor wretch who must live without her.
In one sense, I still possess her. Lana lives on forever, immortalized in her movies; eternally young, eternally beautiful—while we mortals grow older, uglier, and sadder every day. But that’s the difference between two and three dimensions, isn’t it? As Lana exists now, preserved in celluloid, she’s only to be gazed at. Not touched. Not held; not kissed.
So, it seems Barbara West was right in the end (though in an entirely different way from how she meant) when she said to me spitefully one day, “Darling, I do hope you’re not falling in love with Lana Farrar. Actors simply aren’t capable of love. You’re much better off hanging a picture of her on your wall and having a wank over it.”
Funnily enough, I have a photograph of Lana here with me on my desk as I write. It’s an old publicity still—slightly aged, curling at the edges, faded and yellowed. It was taken a few years before I met Lana. Before I ruined her life, and my own.
But, no—that’s not fair.
My life was ruined already.
2
Okay, I have something to tell you.
Before I can go any further, before I can reveal who committed the murder—and, more important, why—I have a confession of my own to make.
It’s about Lana.
There is so much I could say about her. I could tell you how much I loved her. I could reminisce about our friendship, regaling you with stories and anecdotes. I could romanticize her, mythologize her—paint you an artist’s flattering impression, idealized beyond recognition.
But that would be a disservice to you—and to Lana. What’s required, if I have the stomach for it, is a “warts and all” portrait, like the one Oliver Cromwell famously demanded. What’s needed is the truth.
And the truth is, much as I loved her, Lana wasn’t quite the person I believed she was. She had many secrets, it seems, even from those closest to her. Even from me.
But let’s not judge her too harshly for that. We all keep secrets from our friends, don’t we? I know I do.
Which brings me to my confession.
Believe me, it’s not easy. I hate pulling the rug out from under you like this. All I ask is that you hear me out.
Here, in the imaginary bar in my mind, where I’m talking to you, I’ll order you another drink—and tell you to brace yourself. I’ll have one, too—not a perfect martini like in the old days; just a quick slug of vodka, cheap stuff that burns the throat.
I need it, you see, to steady my nerves.
When I first began writing this account, I promised you I would tell only the truth. But the thing is, looking back over what I have written, it occurs to me that I may have misled you over a few points, here and there.
I have told you no actual lies, I assure you—it’s a sin of omission, that’s all.
I’ve told you nothing but the truth.
Just not all of it.
I did this from an honorable motive: the desire to protect my friend; not to betray her confidence. But unless I do, you will never understand what happened on the island.
So, I must rectify this error. I must tell you things you need to know, fill in certain gaps. I must reveal all of Lana’s secrets.
And mine, too, for that matter.
That’s the tricky thing about honesty. It cuts both ways, that sword; which is why I am so wary of wielding it.
Here goes.
* * *
To begin with, I must turn back time.
Do you remember when you first encountered Lana, on the street in London?
Let us return there, for a moment. Let us go back to that miserable day in Soho—and the rainfall that prompted Lana to make the spontaneous decision to flee the English weather, for a few days in sunny Greece.
I suppose my first, and most grievous, omission, when I began telling this story, was in allowing you to assume that once she made this decision, Lana immediately phoned Kate at the Old Vic—to invite her to the island.
But, in fact, twenty-four hours elapsed before Lana made that call.
Twenty-four hours, during which, as you shall see, a great deal happened.
3
Lana was walking on Greek Street, appropriately enough, when she had the idea about going to the island. But the moment she pulled out her phone to call Kate, to invite her to the island, the rain started coming down heavily. A sudden deluge.
Lana quickly returned the phone to her pocket and hurried home.
No one was in the house when she let herself in. She dried herself off as best she could. She’d have a bath, she decided, once she’d had a cup of tea.
Lana had only picked up the habit of tea drinking since moving to London. Endless comforting cups of hot tea in this damp, depressing climate made perfect sense. She brewed a pot of Earl Grey and perched on the window seat; watching the rain fall outside.
Lana’s mind went back on the same track it had been on earlier. Back to what was bothering her. She was determined to work it out. If she kept puzzling over it, she felt sure the answer would unearth itself.
Once again, Leo popped into her mind. Why? Did this anxious feeling have something to do with him? With that awkward conversation they’d had, a few days earlier, here, in this kitchen?
* * *
“Mum, I’ve got something to tell you,” Leo said.
Lana braced herself. “Go on.”
She didn’t know what she was expecting—some typical teenage confession involving sexuality, addiction, or religion? None of these possibilities bothered her. They’d work it out together, the way they always had. Lana had never given her son anything other than 100 percent support in anything he did.
“I want to be an actor.”
Lana was taken aback. This was a shock. Not just the words that had come out of Leo’s mouth—which she hadn’t anticipated—but also her reaction, which was instantly, violently hostile. She suddenly felt angry.
“What the hell are you talking about?”
Leo stared at her blankly. He didn’t know how to respond. He looked like he might burst into tears. The conversation went downhill from there. Lana’s response had surprised and hurt him. Leo wasted no breath in telling her so: she was being “toxic”—and he didn’t understand why.
Lana tried to explain that it was her duty as a parent to try to dissuade him. Acting was a waste of all the advantages and opportunities he had been given. An extraordinary education, a natural scholarly aptitude and intelligence; as well as his mother’s contacts—many of the world’s most influential people’s numbers were on her phone, just a call away.
Wouldn’t Leo be much better off going to university—here in Britain, or in America—and qualifying as something more substantial? Last year he had expressed an interest in human rights law—surely something like that would suit him better? Or medicine? Or psychology, or philosophy? Anything … but an actor.
Lana was clutching at straws here, and she knew it.
And so did Leo. He gave her a cold look of contempt. “What are you talking about? You’re such a hypocrite. You’re an actor. And Dad was in the business, too.”
“Leo, your father was a producer. A businessman. If you said you wanted to move to LA and work in production, that would be entirely different—”
“Oh, really? You’d be over the moon?”
“I wouldn’t be over the moon, but I’d be happier.”
“I can’t believe you’re saying this—” Leo rolled his eyes. He was breathing heavily. He was getting angry now, Lana knew. She didn’t want this to get out of hand. She lowered her voice and tried to placate him.
“Darling, listen. What happened to me just doesn’t happen. I was incredibly lucky. Do you know how many unemployed actors there are in LA? Your odds are one in a million. One in ten million.”
“Oh, I get it. I’m not talented enough? That’s what you think?”
Lana nearly lost her patience. “Leo, I have absolutely no idea if you are talented or not. Until this very moment, you have expressed no interest in acting. You’ve never even been in a play—”
“A play?” Leo blinked, mystified. “What’s that got to do with it?”