The Fury(5)

Gordon announced at the end of rehearsal that he wanted everyone word-perfect after Easter. “Or I will not be responsible for my actions. Is that clear?” He addressed this to the whole cast, but everyone knew he meant Kate.

Kate gave him a big smile and a pretend kiss on the cheek. “Gordon, love. Don’t worry, it’s all under control. Promise.”

Gordon rolled his eyes, unconvinced.



* * *



Kate went backstage to get her stuff. She was still moving into the star’s dressing room, and it was a mess: half-unpacked bags, makeup and clothes everywhere.

The first thing Kate did in any dressing room was light the jasmine candle she always bought, for good luck, and to banish that stuffy backstage smell of stale air, old wood, carpet, damp exposed brick—not to mention the sneaky cigarettes she would puff on out the window.

Having relit the candle, Kate rummaged inside her bag, pulling out a bottle of pills. She shook a Xanax into her hand. She didn’t want the whole pill, just a little bit, a nibble—to take the edge off her anxiety. She broke it in half, then bit off a quarter. She let the fragment of bitter pill dissolve on her tongue. She rather enjoyed the harsh chemical taste of it; she imagined the nasty taste meant it was working.

Kate glanced out the window. It was raining. It didn’t look heavy—it might brighten up soon. She’d go for a walk along the river. A walk would be good. She needed to clear her head. She had so much on her mind; she felt quite dizzy with it all.… So much ahead—so much to think about, to worry about—but she couldn’t bear to face it just now.

Perhaps a drink would help. She opened the little fridge under the dressing table and took out a bottle of white wine.

She poured herself a glass and perched on the dressing table. And she lit a cigarette, strictly against theater rules, punishable by death, but fuck it—the way things were looking, this was the last time she’d act in this theater; or any other, come to that.

She threw a look of hatred at the script. It glared back at her from the dressing table. She reached over and turned it face down. What a disaster. Whatever made her think Agamemnon was a good idea? She must have been high when she agreed to it. She cringed, visualizing the vicious reviews. The Times theater critic already hated her; she’d have a field day tearing her apart. So would that bastard at the Evening Standard.

Her phone rang—a welcome distraction from her thoughts. She reached for it and checked the screen. It was Lana.

Kate answered. “Hey. You okay?”

“I will be,” Lana said. “I’ve worked out what we all need is some sunshine. Will you come?”

“What?”

“To the island—for Easter?” Lana went on before Kate could respond. “Don’t say no. It’ll be just us. You, me, Jason, and Leo. And Agathi, of course … I’m not sure if I’ll ask Elliot—he’s been annoying me lately. Well, what do you say?”

Kate pretended to deliberate. She tossed her cigarette butt out the window, into the falling rain.

“I’m booking my flight right now.”





4





Lana’s island was a gift. A gift of love.

It was given to her by Otto, as a wedding present. A ridiculously extravagant present, admittedly—but that was typical of Otto, apparently. By all accounts he was quite a character.

The island was in Greece, in the southern part of the Aegean Sea, in a loose group of islands known as the Cyclades. The famous ones you’ve heard of—Mykonos and Santorini—but the majority of the islands are uninhabited; and uninhabitable. A few are privately owned, like the one Otto bought for Lana.

The island didn’t cost as much as you might think. Beyond the wildest dreams of most ordinary people, of course, but, taken in its own context—as islands go—it wasn’t that expensive to buy, or maintain.

It was tiny, for one thing—a couple of hundred acres in size—barely a rock. And considering that its new owners were a Hollywood movie producer and his muse, Otto and Lana ran a fairly humble household. They only hired one full-time staffer—a caretaker—which was a story in itself; an anecdote Otto loved to tell, delighting, as he did, in the idiosyncrasies of the Greeks. He was entirely captivated by them. And here, far from mainland Greece, it must be said, the islanders could be quite eccentric.

The nearest inhabited island was Mykonos—twenty minutes away by boat. So, naturally, this was where Otto went in search of a caretaker for Lana’s island. But finding one proved harder than expected. No one, it seemed, was prepared to live on the island, not even for the generous wage being offered.

It wasn’t just that the caretaker would have to endure an isolated and lonely life. There was also a myth—a local ghost story—that the island had been haunted since Roman times. It was considered bad luck to set foot on the island, let alone live there. A superstitious lot, these Mykonians.

In the end, there was only one volunteer for the job: Nikos, a young fisherman.

Nikos was about twenty-five—and recently widowed. He was silent and somber. Lana told me she thought he was seriously depressed. All he wanted, he told Otto, was to be alone.

Nikos was barely literate and spoke only broken English—but he and Otto managed to make themselves understood, often employing elaborate hand gestures. No contract was drawn up, just a handshake.