The Fury(53)

Which makes it sound more cloak-and-dagger than it was. You didn’t need to be George Smiley to spy on Kate Crosby. She wasn’t inconspicuous; you didn’t lose her in a crowd—whereas I always melt into the background.

Kate was appearing in a successful revival of Rattigan’s Deep Blue Sea, which had transferred to the Prince Edward Theatre in Soho. So it was just a matter of lurking across the street from the stage door, watching from the shadows; waiting for the play to finish, and Kate to emerge and sign autographs for the crowd of fans.

Then, when Kate left and made her way along the street, I followed.

I didn’t have to follow far—just from stage door to pub door. Kate walked around the corner and slipped in through the side door of—yes, you guessed it—the Coach & Horses. Peering through one of the pub’s narrow windows, I saw Jason waiting for her at a corner table, with a couple of drinks. Kate greeted him with a long kiss.

I was shocked. Not so much by the revelation that they were lovers—which, to be frank, had a kind of sordid inevitability to it—but by their total, unbelievable lack of discretion. They were all over each other that night—drunker and messier as the evening wore on. They were so oblivious of their surroundings, I felt secure enough to leave the window and venture inside the pub.

I sat at the other end of the bar, ordered a vodka tonic, and watched the proceedings from there. Appropriately enough, some old dear was sitting at the upright piano, belting out the chorus of “If Love Were All” by No?l Coward: “I believe the more you love a man, The more you give your trust The more you’re bound to lose.”

When they finally left the pub, I followed. I watched them kissing in an alley for a moment.

Then, having seen enough, I hopped in a cab and went home.





11





From then on, I kept a detailed record in my notebook of everything I saw—all the dates, times, locations of their clandestine meetings. I wrote it all down. I had a feeling it might come in useful, later on.

Often, during my surveillance, I would ponder the precise nature of Kate and Jason’s affair—what they got out of it (apart from the obvious)—and why they were so intent on pursuing a course that, to me, seemed destined for disaster.

Sometimes, I would apply Valentine Levy’s system to their affair, breaking it down, in terms of motivation, intention, and goal. As usual, motivation was key.

Presumably Jason’s motive for embarking on the affair had to do with boredom, sexual attraction, or selfishness? Maybe that’s unkind.

If I were being generous, I might say Jason found Kate easier to talk to—Lana was wonderful, but her habit of always seeing the best in you made you determined to rise to that challenge. Kate, on the other hand, was far more cynical in her view of human nature, and therefore much easier to confide in—not that Jason was entirely honest with her, either.

But, truthfully, I believe the real reason for Jason’s infidelity lay in the darkest of places. He liked to think he was powerful. He was competitive and aggressive—he couldn’t even lose a game of backgammon without flying off the handle, for God’s sake.

So what happens when a man like that marries a woman like Lana? A woman who is infinitely more powerful in every regard? Might he not wish to punish that woman; to crush her, break her—and call it love? His affair with Kate was an act of revenge on Jason’s part. An act of hatred; not love.

Kate’s motive for pursuing the affair was quite different. It reminds me of what Barbara West used to say—that emotional betrayal is much worse than sexual infidelity. “Screw another woman, fine,” she would say. “But take her out for dinner, hold her hand, tell her your hopes and dreams—then you’ve screwed me.”

And that’s precisely what Kate wanted from Jason—dinner conversations and held hands and passionate romance—a love affair. Kate wanted Jason to leave Lana and be with her. Kate kept pressing him on this.

Jason kept putting her off. Who could blame him? He had far too much to lose.



* * *



Late one night, I followed Kate to a bar in Chinatown. She met a friend there—a redhead called Polly. They sat by the window and talked.

I stood across the street, lurking in the shadows. I needn’t have worried about them seeing me—Polly and Kate were engrossed in an animated conversation. At one point, Kate was in tears.

I didn’t need to be able to lip-read to work out what was being said. I knew Polly quite well. She was Gordon’s stage manager—and they had been involved in a lengthy affair. Everyone knew about it—except Gordon’s wife.

Polly was a troubled person, in many ways. But I liked her. She was outspoken and direct—so I could imagine how her conversation with Kate played out. Kate confided in her, no doubt hoping for a sympathetic ear. From where I was standing, it didn’t look like she was getting one.

“End it,” Polly was saying. “End it now.”

“What?”

“Kate. Listen to me. If he doesn’t leave his wife now, then he never will. It will just drag on and on. Give him an ultimatum. Thirty days to leave her—one month—or you end it. Promise me.”

I suspect these words grew to haunt Kate. Because thirty days came and went and she didn’t follow Polly’s advice. As time passed, the reality of what Kate was doing started sinking in. Her conscience began to plague her.