The Fury(49)

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The closer Lana and I became, the less time we spent outside. We spent most of our time at her house—that huge six-story mansion in Mayfair.

God, I miss that house. Just the smell of it—the fragrance upon entering the doorway. I used to pause in the vast hallway, shut my eyes—and breathe it, drink it in. Smell is so evocative, isn’t it? It’s similar to taste: both senses are time machines, transporting you—beyond your control, against your will, even—to somewhere in your past.

Nowadays, if I sniff a bit of polished wood or cold stone, I’m right back there, in that house, with its scent of chilly Venetian marble, polished dark oak, lilies, lilac, sandalwood incense—and feel such a burst of contentment; a warm glow in my heart. If I could bottle that smell and sell it, I’d make a bloody fortune.

I became a permanent fixture there. I felt like part of the family. It was an unfamiliar feeling, but wonderful. The sound of Leo practicing his acoustic guitar in his bedroom; the enticing smells emanating from the kitchen, where Agathi performed her magic; and—in the living room—Lana and me: talking, or playing cards or backgammon.

How mundane, I hear you say. How trivial. Perhaps—I don’t deny it. Domesticity is a peculiarly British trait. Never let it be said that an Englishman’s home is not his castle. All I wanted was to be safe within those walls, with Lana—drawbridge firmly up.

I had longed for love, whatever that means, all my life. I longed for another human being to see me, accept me—care for me. But when I was a young man, I was so invested in this fake person I wanted to be, this false self. I simply wasn’t capable of engaging in a relationship with another human being—I never let anyone get close enough. I was always acting, and any affection I received felt curiously unsatisfying. It was for a performance, not for me.

These are the mad hoops damaged people jump through: so desperate to receive love—but when it is given to us, it can’t be felt. This is because we don’t need love for an artificial creation, a mask. What we need, what we desperately long for, is love for the only thing we will never show anyone: the ugly, scared kid inside.

But with Lana, it was different. I showed the kid to her.

Or at least, I let her glimpse him.





7





My therapist used to sometimes quote that famous line from The Wizard of Oz.

You know the bit. It’s where the Scarecrow, confronted by the dark and frightening Haunted Forest, says:

“Of course, I don’t know—but I think it’ll get darker before it gets lighter.”

Mariana meant this metaphorically, referring to the process of therapy. She was right: things do get darker before they get lighter; before the therapeutic dawn.

Funnily enough—as an aside—I have a pet theory that everyone in life corresponds to one of the characters in The Wizard of Oz. There’s Dorothy Gale, a lost child, looking for a place to belong; an insecure, neurotic Scarecrow, seeking intellectual validation; a bullying Lion, really a coward, more afraid than everyone else. And the Tin Man, minus a heart.

For years, I thought I was a Tin Man. I believed I was missing something vital inside: a heart; or the ability to love. Love was out there, somewhere, beyond me, in the dark. I spent my life groping for it—until I met Lana. She showed me I already had a heart. I just didn’t know how to use it.

But then, if I wasn’t the Tin Man … who was I?

To my dismay, I realized I must be the Wizard of Oz himself. I was an illusion—a conjuring trick, operated by a frightened man, cowering behind a curtain.

Who are you? I wonder. Ask yourself this honestly; and you might be surprised at the answer. But will you be honest?

That’s the real question, I think.



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“A frightened child is hiding inside your mind, still unsafe; still unheard and unloved.”

The night I heard Mariana utter those words, my life changed forever.

For years, I had pretended my childhood didn’t happen. I had erased it from my memory—or thought I had—and I lost sight of the kid. Until that foggy January evening in London, when Mariana found him for me again.

After that therapy session, I went for a long walk. It was bitterly cold. The sky was white, and the clouds heavy. It looked like it might snow. I walked all the way from Primrose Hill to Lana’s house in Mayfair.

I needed to burn off nervous energy. I needed to think—about me; and the kid, trapped in my head.

I pictured him, small and afraid, shivering; languishing undeveloped, undernourished—chained up in the dungeon of my mind. As I walked, all kinds of memories started coming back to me. All these injustices; the cruelties I had deliberately forgotten—all the things he endured.

I made a promise to the kid, there and then. A pledge, a commitment—call it what you will. From now on, I would listen to him, I would look after him. He wasn’t ugly, or stupid, or worthless. Or unloved. He was loved, for Christ’s sake—I loved him.

From now on, I would be the parent he needed—too late, I know, but better late than never. And this time, I’d bring him up properly.

As I walked, I glanced down—and there he was, the little boy, walking by my side. He was struggling to keep up, so I slowed down.

I reached out and held his hand.