Lana quickly got dressed and hurried out of the bedroom. She felt her way along the darkened passage and climbed up the steps to the roof terrace, where she kept a secret pack of cigarettes and a lighter, protected from the weather in a tin box. She rarely resorted to smoking these days. But now, she needed a cigarette.
Lana stood on the roof and opened the box. She took out the packet of cigarettes. Her hands trembled as she lit one. She inhaled deeply, trying to calm herself.
As Lana smoked, she looked over the rooftops at the lights of London, and the stars sparkling above.
Then—peering over the edge—she stared at the pavement below. She flicked the cigarette butt over the edge. The red ember disappeared into darkness.
Lana felt a sudden desire to follow it.
It would be so easy, she thought—just a couple of steps, and she’d be over the edge—her body falling, slamming against the pavement. Then it would be over.
What a relief that would be. She wouldn’t have to face any of the horrors that lay ahead—the pain, the betrayal, the humiliation. She didn’t want to feel any of it.
Lana took a small step forward toward the edge. Then another …
She stood right at the edge of the roof. One more step—and it will be over—yes, yes, do it.… She lifted her foot—
Then her phone vibrated in her pocket.
A small distraction, but enough to wake her from her trance. Lana pulled back from the edge, catching her breath.
She took out her phone and glanced at it. It was a text message. Guess who from?
Yours truly, naturally.
Fancy a drink?
Lana hesitated. Then—at last—she did the very thing she should have done first.
She came to see me.
9
This is where my story begins.
If I were the hero of this tale, instead of Lana, I would start the narrative right here—with Lana banging on my door at eleven thirty at night.
This was my inciting incident, as it’s known in dramatic technique. Every character has one—it can be as unusual or violent as a tornado, whirling you into a different world, or as commonplace as a friend turning up unexpectedly one night.
I often apply theatrical structure to my own life, you know. I find it extremely helpful. You’d be surprised how often the same rules apply.
I learned how to structure a story through a fiery apprenticeship: years of compulsively writing crap play after crap play; spewing them out, one after the other, a production line of unperformable dramas, each worse than the last—stilted construction, endless inane dialogue, sheet after sheet of pointless, passive characters doing nothing—until I slowly and painfully learned my craft.
Considering I lived with a world-famous writer, you might think Barbara West would have been the obvious person to mentor me. Do you suppose she gave me any helpful hints or slivers of encouragement? No, never. Her default position, it must be said, was to be unkind. She only ever made one comment on my writing, incidentally—after reading a short play I’d written: “Yuck, your dialogue stinks.” She handed it back to me. “Real people don’t talk like that.”
I never showed her anything again.
Ironically, the best teacher I ever had was a book I found on Barbara West’s shelf. An elderly, obscure-looking volume, published in the early 1940s. The Techniques of Playwriting, by Mr. Valentine Levy.
I read it one spring morning, sitting at the kitchen table. As I read it, I had a lightbulb moment—finally, things made sense. Finally, someone explained storytelling in words I could understand.
Both theater and reality, said Mr. Levy, came down to just three words—motivation; intention; and goal.
Every character has a goal—wanting to be rich, say. This is fulfilled by an intention designed to achieve it—like working hard, marrying the boss’s daughter, or robbing a bank. So far, so simple. The final component is the most important and, without it, characters remain two-dimensional.
We need to ask why.
Why isn’t a question we tend to ask often. It’s not an easy question to answer—it requires self-awareness and honesty. But if we ever want to understand ourselves or other people—real or fictional—we must explore our motivation with all the diligence of a Valentine Levy.
Why do we want something? What is our motive?
According to Mr. Levy, there is only one answer:
“Our motivation is to remove pain.”
There you have it. So simple, yet so profound.
Our motivation is always pain.
It’s obvious, really. All of us are trying to escape the pain and be happy. And all the actions we take to achieve this goal—our intentions—that’s the stuff of story.
That’s storytelling. That’s how it works.
So if we consider that moment Lana turned up at my flat, you can see how my motivation was pain. Lana was in so much pain that night—it caused me distress just to witness it. And my misguided attempt to alleviate her suffering—and my own—was my intention. And my goal? To help Lana, of course. Did I succeed? Well, that’s where theater diverges from reality, sadly.
In real life, things don’t work out quite as you planned.
* * *
Lana was a mess when she got to my place. She was barely holding it together; and it didn’t take much—just a couple of drinks—to unlock the floodgates, and then she completely fell apart.
I’d never seen anything like this before. I’d never once seen Lana lose control. I won’t say it wasn’t frightening; but then, uncontained emotion is always distressing to be around, isn’t it? Particularly when it’s from someone you love.
We went into my living room—a small room, crammed mainly with books; a large bookcase covering the entirety of one wall. We sat on the two armchairs by the window. We started off with martinis, but soon Lana was knocking back straight vodka from a glass.
Her story was confused and incoherent—coming out in pieces, in disjointed bits, occasionally unintelligible through her tears. When she had got it all out, she demanded my opinion—whether I believed it was possible that Kate and Jason were having an affair.
I hesitated, reluctant to reply. My hesitation spoke more eloquently than any words.
“I don’t know.” I avoided Lana’s eyes.
Lana gave me a look of dismay. “Jesus, Elliot. You’re such a bad actor. You knew?” She sank back in the armchair, drained by this confirmation of her worst fears. “How long have you known? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because I don’t know for sure. It’s just a feeling.… And, Lana—it’s not my place to say anything.”
“Why not? You’re my friend, aren’t you? My only friend.” She wiped the tears from her eyes. “You don’t think Kate planted it, do you? The earring? So I’d find it?”
“What? Are you joking? Of course not.”
“Why not? It’s just the kind of thing she would do.”
“I don’t think she has the brains, quite frankly. I don’t think either of them is particularly bright. Or kind.”
Lana shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“I do.” Warming to my theme, I opened another bottle of vodka, refilling our glasses. “‘Love is not love which alters when it alteration finds.’ Love isn’t affairs and lying and sneaking around.”
Lana didn’t reply. I tried again, because it was important.
“Listen to me. Love is mutual respect, and constancy—and friendship. Like you and me.” I took her hand and held it. “These two nitwits are too shallow and selfish to know what love is. Whatever they have, or think they have, it will not last. That’s not love. It will crack under the slightest pressure. It will fall apart.”
Lana didn’t say anything. She stared into space, desolate. I felt like I couldn’t reach her. Seeing her like this was unbearable. I suddenly felt angry.
“How about I take a baseball bat and beat the crap out of him for you?” I was only half joking.
Lana managed the ghost of a smile. “Yes, please.”
“Tell me what you want—anything—and I will do it.”
Lana looked up and stared at me with bloodshot eyes. “I want my life back.”
“Okay. Then you must confront them. I will help you. But you must do this. For the sake of your sanity. Not to mention your self-respect.”
“Confront them? How do I do that?”
“Invite them to the island.”