The Fury(3)

The problem was, without her all-consuming career to define her, Lana had the uncomfortable realization that she didn’t know who she was—nor what she wanted to do with herself. She felt lost, she told me.

It’s hard for those of us who remember Lana Farrar’s movies to picture her as being “lost.” On-screen, she suffered a great deal but did so with stoicism, inner fortitude, and tremendous guts. She would face her destiny without flinching and go down fighting. She was everything you want in a hero.

In real life, Lana couldn’t be more different from her screen persona. Once you got to know her intimately, you began to glimpse another person hidden behind the fa?ade: a more fragile and complicated self. Someone who was much less sure of herself. Most people never encountered this other person. But as this story unfolds, we must keep a lookout for her, you and I. For she holds all its secrets.

This discrepancy, for want of a better word, between Lana’s public and private selves was something I struggled with over the years. I know Lana struggled with it, too. Particularly when she first left Hollywood and moved to London.

Thankfully she didn’t have to struggle too long before fate intervened, and Lana fell in love—with an Englishman; a slightly younger, handsome businessman named Jason Miller.

Whether this falling in love was, in fact, fate, or just a convenient distraction—a way for Lana to postpone, perhaps indefinitely, all those tricky existential dilemmas about herself and her future—is open to question. In my mind, at least.

Anyway, Lana and Jason were married; and London became Lana’s permanent home.



* * *



Lana liked London. She liked it largely, I suspect, because of the English reserve—people there tended to leave her alone. It’s not in the English national character to accost ex–movie stars on the street, demanding selfies and autographs, no matter how famous they might be. So, for the most part, Lana could walk around the city undisturbed.

She walked a lot. Lana enjoyed walking—when the weather allowed it.

Ah, the weather. Like anyone else who spends any length of time in Britain, Lana developed an unhealthy preoccupation with the climate. As the years passed, it became a constant source of frustration for her. She liked London, but, after nearly ten years of living there, the city and its weather had become synonymous in her mind. They were inextricably linked: London equaled wet, equaled rain, equaled gray.

This year had been particularly gloomy. It was nearly Easter and, so far, not a hint of spring had materialized. Currently, it was threatening rain.

Lana glanced up at the blackening skies as she wandered through Soho.

Sure enough, she then felt a spot of rain on her face—and another on her hand. Damn. She had better turn back now, before it got worse.

Lana started retracing her steps—and her thoughts. She returned to the thorny problem she had been mulling over. Something was bothering her, but she didn’t know what it was. She had been feeling anxious for several days. She felt restless, uneasy, as if pursued by something and trying to give it the slip—keeping her head down in the narrow streets, evading what was tailing her. But what was it?

Think, she told herself. Work it out.

As she walked, Lana made an inventory of her life—searching for any glaring dissatisfactions or worries. Was it her marriage? Unlikely. Jason was stressed about work, but that was nothing new—their relationship was in a good place at the moment. The problem wasn’t there. Then where? Her son? Leo? Was it their conversation the other day? It was just an amicable chat about his future, wasn’t it?

Or was it far more complicated?

Another spot of rain distracted her. Lana glared resentfully at the clouds. No wonder she couldn’t think straight. If only she could see the sky … see the sun.

As she made her way home, her mind played on this idea of escaping the weather. Here, at least, something could be done.

How about a change of scene? It was Easter next weekend. What if they took a last-minute trip—in search of sunshine?

Why not go to Greece, for a few days? To the island?

Why not, indeed? It would do them good—Jason, Leo, and Lana in particular. She could invite Kate and Elliot, too, she thought.

Yes, that would be fun. Lana smiled. The promise of sunlight and blue skies instantly brightened her mood.

She pulled her phone out of her pocket.

She’d call Kate straightaway.





3





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.