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 No?l 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.