The Fury(31)

Or is that bullshit? Did Lana secretly suspect something? Why else race to the theater like that? I’ll tell you one thing: after decades of being styled and photographed, modeling one piece or another, Lana had developed a photographic memory regarding clothing and items of jewelry. I find it hard to believe that she would think the earring familiar, yet be strangely unable to recall where she had seen it—or on whom. Perhaps I’m wrong. But I don’t suppose we’ll ever know for sure.

By the time Lana arrived at the Old Vic, she had calmed herself down; convinced it was all in her mind, she was just being paranoid.

Lana knocked at the stage-door window, presenting the old man in the booth with her famous smile.

His face lit up as he recognized her. “Afternoon. Looking for Miss Crosby, are you?”

“That’s right.”

“She’s in rehearsal at the moment. I’ll buzz you in.” He lowered his voice, confidentially. “Even though you’re not on the list.”

Lana smiled again. “Thank you. I’ll wait in her dressing room, if that’s all right?”

“Very good, miss.” He pressed a button.

With a loud buzz the stage door unlocked. Lana hesitated for a second. Then she opened the door and went inside.





7





Lana made her way along the stuffy, narrow corridor until she reached the star’s dressing room.

She knocked on the door. No reply. So she cautiously opened it. The room was empty. She went inside, shutting the door behind her.

It was not a large room. It had a tatty couch against one wall, a narrow shower room—essentially a cubicle—and a large, well-lit dressing table. Typical of Kate, it was a mess, with half-unpacked bags and clothes everywhere.

Lana took a breath. Then she began—at last—to be honest with herself. By that I mean she quickly and methodically started looking through Kate’s belongings. Even as she did this, Lana remained mentally disassociated from her actions. She stayed calm and detached, as if her hands were operating beyond her control, her fingers rifling through the bags and boxes of their own accord. Nothing to do with her.

In any case, the search yielded nothing.

What a relief, she thought. Thank Christ for that.

Of course she found nothing: there was nothing to be found. Everything was okay. This was all in her head.

Then she noticed the large black makeup bag, sitting on the dressing table. She froze. How had she not seen it? It was right there.

Lana reached out, with trembling fingers. She unzipped the bag—opening it up …

And there, inside the bag … was a half-crescent moon earring, glinting at her.

Lana pulled out the other earring from her pocket. She compared both earrings, but there was no need. They were obviously identical.

The dressing room door suddenly opened behind her.

“Lana?”

Lana dropped one earring back in the makeup bag. Her hand closed around the other earring. She quickly turned around.

Kate walked in, smiling. “Hello, love. Oh, shit—we haven’t made plans, have we? I can’t get away for hours yet. Today’s a fucking disaster. I could happily murder Gordon.”

“No, Kate, no plans. I was just passing the theater. I thought I’d say hi.”

“Are you okay?” Kate peered at her, concerned. “Lana—you don’t look well. Do you want some water? Here, sit down—”

“No, thanks. You know, I don’t feel great. Too much walking, I—I should go.”

“Are you sure? Shall I get you a cab?”

“I can manage.”

“Will you be okay?”

“I’m fine. I’ll call you later.”

Before Kate could object, Lana hurried out of the dressing room.

She left the theater. She didn’t stop until she was on the street. Her heart was thudding in her chest. She felt like her head might explode. She was finding it hard to breathe. She felt panicked; she had to get home.

Lana saw a passing taxi and hailed it. As she waved down the cab, she realized she still had the earring in her fist.

She opened her hand and looked at it.

The earring had dug so deep into her palm, it had drawn blood.





8





As she returned to Mayfair, Lana was in shock.

The physical ache in her palm, where the earring had dug into her hand, was her only sensation. She focused on it, feeling it pulse and throb.

When she got home, she knew, she would have to face her husband. She had no idea what to say or how to say it. So, for the moment, she would say nothing. Jason was bound to see how upset she was, but she’d do her best to hide it.

It was typical of Jason, however, when he did finally return that evening, that he didn’t notice anything was wrong. He was preoccupied by his own problems—on a tense business call as he walked into the kitchen; then sending emails on his phone, while Lana prepared two steaks for their dinner.

It was interesting, Lana thought, how heightened her senses were. Everything felt so vivid—the smell of the steaks, the sizzling, the sensation of the knife in her hand as she chopped a salad—as if her brain had slowed itself right down to the present second. Right now was all she could deal with. She didn’t dare think of the future. If she did, she would crumple onto the kitchen floor.