Kate was in the middle of a rehearsal.
She was due to open in just over a week, at the Old Vic—in a new, highly anticipated production of Agamemnon, the tragedy by Aeschylus. Kate was playing Clytemnestra.
This was the first run-through of the play in the actual theater, and it was not going well. Kate was still struggling with her performance—more specifically, with her lines; which, at this late stage of the game, was not a good sign.
“For Christ’s sake, Kate,” yelled the director, Gordon, from the stalls, in his booming Glaswegian accent. “We open in ten days! Can you not, for the love of God, sit down with the fucking book and learn the lines?”
Kate was equally exasperated. “I know the lines, Gordon. That’s not the problem.”
“Then what is? Pray enlighten me, love.” But Gordon was being heavily sarcastic and not waiting for an answer. “Keep going,” he shouted.
Between you and me—entre nous, as Barbara West used to say—I don’t blame Gordon for losing his temper.
You see, despite Kate’s immense talent—and she was hugely talented, let’s make no mistake about that—she was also chaotic; messy; temperamental; usually tardy; often belligerent; not always sober; as well as, of course, brilliant, charismatic, funny—and possessing an unerring instinct for truth, both on-and offstage. All of which combined meant—as poor Gordon had discovered—she was a bloody nightmare to work with.
Ah … but that’s not fair, is it? Slipping in my judgment of Kate like that—under the radar, so to speak—as if you wouldn’t notice. I’m a sly one, aren’t I? I’ve sworn to be objective, inasmuch as it’s possible, and let you make up your own mind. So, I must honor that vow. Henceforth, I will endeavor to keep my opinions to myself.
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.