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.