The Fury(32)

Lana managed to keep going, and the evening passed, much like any other. A couple of hours after dinner, they went upstairs. Lana watched Jason undress and get into bed. He soon fell asleep.

But Lana was wide-awake. She got out of bed. She stood above Jason, watching him.

She didn’t know what to do. She had to confront him. But how? What could she possibly say? That she suspected him of having an affair with her best friend? Based on what? An earring? It was ridiculous. Jason would probably laugh—and offer a perfectly innocent explanation.

If this were a movie, she thought—like one of those candyfloss romantic comedies she used to make—it would turn out that Kate met Jason secretly to help him select a birthday present for Lana—or perhaps an anniversary gift?—and somehow, in a moment of heightened physical comedy, Kate’s earring got attached to the lapel of his jacket.

There you go, perfectly innocuous.

But Lana didn’t buy it. As she watched Jason sleep, she began to admit the truth to herself. The truth was she had known, for some time, that there was something—some kind of feeling—between Kate and Jason. Perhaps it had always been there, right from the start. From the very beginning?

Kate met Jason first, you see. They even went out a few times. The night Lana met Jason, he was there as Kate’s date.

You can imagine what happened—the instant Jason saw Lana, like so many others before him, he fell; and from then, only had eyes for her. Kate graciously stepped aside. It was all resolved quite amicably. Kate gave Lana her blessing and assured her she had no hard feelings; that there had been nothing serious between them.

Even so, Lana had felt guilty about it. Perhaps this guilt is what blinded her. Perhaps that was why she kept ignoring her nagging suspicion that, for all her protestations, Kate’s eyes always lingered on Jason when he was in the room; and she would pay him odd, unexpected compliments; or flirt with him after a couple of drinks and try to make him laugh. It was all there, everything Lana needed to know, right there in front of her.

She had shut her eyes to it.

But, now, her eyes were open.

Lana quickly got dressed and hurried out of the bedroom. She felt her way along the darkened passage and climbed up the steps to the roof terrace, where she kept a secret pack of cigarettes and a lighter, protected from the weather in a tin box. She rarely resorted to smoking these days. But now, she needed a cigarette.

Lana stood on the roof and opened the box. She took out the packet of cigarettes. Her hands trembled as she lit one. She inhaled deeply, trying to calm herself.

As Lana smoked, she looked over the rooftops at the lights of London, and the stars sparkling above.

Then—peering over the edge—she stared at the pavement below. She flicked the cigarette butt over the edge. The red ember disappeared into darkness.

Lana felt a sudden desire to follow it.

It would be so easy, she thought—just a couple of steps, and she’d be over the edge—her body falling, slamming against the pavement. Then it would be over.

What a relief that would be. She wouldn’t have to face any of the horrors that lay ahead—the pain, the betrayal, the humiliation. She didn’t want to feel any of it.

Lana took a small step forward toward the edge. Then another …

She stood right at the edge of the roof. One more step—and it will be over—yes, yes, do it.… She lifted her foot—

Then her phone vibrated in her pocket.

A small distraction, but enough to wake her from her trance. Lana pulled back from the edge, catching her breath.

She took out her phone and glanced at it. It was a text message. Guess who from?

Yours truly, naturally.

Fancy a drink?

Lana hesitated. Then—at last—she did the very thing she should have done first.

She came to see me.





9





This is where my story begins.

If I were the hero of this tale, instead of Lana, I would start the narrative right here—with Lana banging on my door at eleven thirty at night.

This was my inciting incident, as it’s known in dramatic technique. Every character has one—it can be as unusual or violent as a tornado, whirling you into a different world, or as commonplace as a friend turning up unexpectedly one night.

I often apply theatrical structure to my own life, you know. I find it extremely helpful. You’d be surprised how often the same rules apply.

I learned how to structure a story through a fiery apprenticeship: years of compulsively writing crap play after crap play; spewing them out, one after the other, a production line of unperformable dramas, each worse than the last—stilted construction, endless inane dialogue, sheet after sheet of pointless, passive characters doing nothing—until I slowly and painfully learned my craft.

Considering I lived with a world-famous writer, you might think Barbara West would have been the obvious person to mentor me. Do you suppose she gave me any helpful hints or slivers of encouragement? No, never. Her default position, it must be said, was to be unkind. She only ever made one comment on my writing, incidentally—after reading a short play I’d written: “Yuck, your dialogue stinks.” She handed it back to me. “Real people don’t talk like that.”

I never showed her anything again.

Ironically, the best teacher I ever had was a book I found on Barbara West’s shelf. An elderly, obscure-looking volume, published in the early 1940s. The Techniques of Playwriting, by Mr. Valentine Levy.