The Fury(46)

Barbara seemed surprised at his request. Perhaps she doubted he could read. “Take your pick.” She shrugged.

He randomly chose one book from the shelf: Hard Times.

“Oh yuck, Dickens.” Barbara pulled a face. “So sentimental. Still, I suppose you’ve got to start somewhere.”

But the kid didn’t find Dickens sentimental. He found him wonderfully entertaining. And funny, and profound. So he read David Copperfield next; and his enjoyment grew, along with his appetite. Not just for Dickens, but for whatever he could find on Barbara’s shelves—devouring all the great authors he could lay his hands on.

Every day spent in that house was an education—not just from her books, but from Barbara herself; and from the circle she moved in—the literary salon she ran from her living room.

As time went on, and the kid was exposed to more and more of her life, he kept his eyes and ears open. He tried to absorb as much as he could from her guests’ conversations; what all these sophisticated people said, and how they said it. He would memorize phrases and opinions and gestures, practicing them when he was alone, in front of a mirror; trying them on, like uncomfortable clothes he was determined to squeeze into.

Don’t forget the kid was an aspiring actor. And, frankly, this was his only role, which he tirelessly and meticulously rehearsed over the years—until he honed it to perfection.

Then, one day, staring at himself in the mirror, he could see no trace of the kid.

Someone else was staring back at him.

But who was this new person? The first thing he had to do was find a name for him. He stole one from a play on Barbara’s shelf, from Private Lives by No?l Coward.

Barbara thought this was hilarious, of course. But despite mocking him, she went along with it. She preferred this new name, she said, as it was less hideous than his real one. But between you and me, I think the idea just appealed to her sense of the perverse.

That evening, over a bottle of champagne, he was christened Elliot Chase.

I was born.

And then, with perfect timing—Lana appeared.





4





I have forgotten many things in my inebriated life. Numberless names and faces, places I’ve been, whole cities, have fallen into a void in my mind. But something that I will never forget until I die—forever emblazoned on my mind, engraved upon my heart—is the moment I first met Lana Farrar.

Barbara West and I had gone to see Kate in a play. It was a new translation of Hedda Gabler at the National. It was the first night, and though the production was a pretentious stinker, in my humble opinion, it was received with wild acclaim and heralded as a triumph.

There was a first-night party afterward—which Barbara begrudgingly agreed to attend. Any unwillingness on her part was pure bullshit, believe me. If there was free booze and free food on offer, Barbara was always the first in line. Especially at a party of luvvie theatricals, who would queue up to tell her how much her writing meant to them, and generally kiss her arse. She loved all that, as you can imagine.

Anyway, I was standing next to her, bored to death, concealing a yawn, idly casting my gaze over a motley crew of actors and wannabe actors, producers, journalists, and so on.

Then, I noticed, across the room, a large group of people, admirers and hangers-on, gathering around someone—a woman, judging by the glimpse I caught through the jostling crowd. I craned my neck to see who it was, but her face kept being obscured by the shifting bodies surrounding her. Finally, someone moved, a gap was created—and I caught a momentary flash of her face.

I couldn’t believe my eyes. Was it really her? Surely not.

I craned my neck to get a better look, but I didn’t need one. It was her.

Feeling excited, I turned and nudged Barbara. She was midlecture to an unhappy-looking playwright, about why he wasn’t more commercially successful.

“Barbara?”

Barbara waved away my interruption. “I’m talking, Elliot.”

“Over there. Look. It’s Lana Farrar.”

She grunted. “So?”

“So, you know her, don’t you?”

“We’ve met once or twice.”

“Introduce me to her.”

“Certainly not.”

“Go on. Please.” I looked at Barbara, hopefully.

She smiled. Nothing gratified Barbara more than refusing a heartfelt request. “I don’t think so, duck.”

“Why not?”

“Yours not to reason why. Go and get me another drink.”

“Get your own fucking drink.”

In a rare act of rebellion, I left her. I knew she’d be furious and make me pay for it later, but I didn’t care.

I walked across the room, straight up to Lana.

Time seemed to slow down as I approached her. I felt as if I were departing reality, entering a heightened state. I must have pushed my way through the crowd; I don’t remember. I was oblivious to everyone but her.

I found myself there, in the inner circle, standing to one side of her. I stared at her, starstruck, while she listened politely to some man talking. But she couldn’t fail to notice me standing there. She glanced at me.

“I love you,” I said.

These were the first words I ever said to Lana Farrar.

The people around her were all startled. They burst out laughing.