The Fury(67)

Finally, in the notebook’s last pages, written, then rewritten, was a bizarre plot to drive Kate to murder Jason on the island. Even more disturbingly, it was written as a play—including dialogue and stage directions. Lana shuddered, thinking about it. She felt as if she, too, had gone mad. The last time she’d felt this kind of unreality was when she had discovered the earring.

The earring—which, according to the notebook, had been planted for her to find. Was this possible? She struggled to reconcile the words she had read with the man who wrote them. A man she thought she knew—and loved.

That’s what made it so painful—the love she had. This betrayal felt so profound, so visceral, it felt like a physical wound; a gaping hole. It couldn’t be true. Had her best friend really lied to her? Had he manipulated her; isolated her; schemed to end her marriage? And now, planned an actual murder?

Lana knew she had to go to the police with this—right now, this second. She had no choice. Emboldened by this decision, she started walking faster. She would go straight to the police station, and she would tell them—

Tell them what? About the scribbled rantings of a madman? Would she not also look crazy—turning up with garbled accusations of gaslighting, affairs, murder plots? Her pace slowed as she played it out in her mind. The story would get out, almost immediately—she’d be on the front page of every tabloid in the world tomorrow. Enough material was there to keep the papers busy for weeks, months. No, she couldn’t allow that—for Leo’s sake, as well as her own. Going to the police was not a possibility.

Then what? What else could she do? She had no more options.

Her footsteps faltered and came to a halt. She stood still, in the middle of the pavement. She didn’t know what to do, or where to go.

The street wasn’t busy; it was too early. A handful of people walked past, mostly ignoring her; apart from an impatient man who sighed heavily. “Come on, love,” he said, pushing past her. “Get out of the bloody way.”

This prompted Lana to move—to put one foot in front of the other and keep going. She didn’t know where to go, so she just kept walking.

Eventually, she found herself in Euston. She wandered into the train station and, feeling tired, she sank down onto a bench. She was exhausted.

This was the second brutal psychological assault she had endured in as many days. The first was the discovery of the affair between Jason and Kate—which had prompted an outpouring of emotion, tears, and hysteria. But Lana had used up all her tears—she had none left for this second betrayal. She felt unable to cry, or feel. She only felt weary, and confused. She was finding it hard even to think.

Lana sat there, on the bench, for about an hour. Her head remained bowed as the station came to life around her. No one noticed her—she was invisible, another lost soul, ignored by the steady stream of commuters.

Eventually, someone saw her. An old man who, like Lana, had nowhere to go. He shuffled close to her. He stank of booze.

“Cheer up, sweetheart. Things can’t be that bad.” Then, peering more closely: “Say, you look familiar.… Don’t I know you?”

Lana didn’t look up, didn’t reply, just kept shaking her head. Eventually, the old man gave up. He ambled off.

Lana forced herself up. She walked out of the station, just as the pub across the road was opening its doors. She hesitated and considered going inside. But she decided against it. She didn’t need to get drunk. She needed her mind to be absolutely clear.

As she walked past the pub, she found herself thinking about Barbara West.

Suddenly Lana was flooded with the memories that she had worked so hard to forget. She recalled all the things Barbara had said to her about Elliot. That he was dangerous, that he was crazy. Lana had refused to believe her. She had insisted that Elliot was a good man, loving and kind.

But she had been wrong. Barbara was telling the truth.

Now, as Lana walked, she felt herself coming into focus. She found herself thinking more easily, with more fluidity. She knew her purpose now. She knew what must be done.

She dreaded doing it, but she had no choice—she had to know the truth. So she walked all the way from Euston to Maida Vale. She went up to the front door of a Victorian terraced house in Little Venice. She stood on the doorstep, keeping her finger pressed on the buzzer—until there were angry footsteps in the hallway, and the door was thrown open by the owner, in a rage.

“What the hell—?” Kate looked a fright. She had only recently got to sleep after a heavy night. Her hair was messy and her makeup smeared. Her anger evaporated when she saw it was Lana. “What are you doing here? What’s wrong?”

Lana stared at her. She said the first thing that came into her head:

“Are you fucking my husband?”

Kate breathed in sharply, practically a gasp. Then, in the same breath, she let out a long, slow, audible sigh.

“Oh, Jesus. Lana … it’s over. I ended it. I’m sorry … I’m so sorry.”

This wasn’t much—but somehow this truthful exchange provided a tiny base, a stepping stone, from which to proceed. The truth liberated them—or at least opened the door a crack. Finally, the two women could talk honestly.

Lana went inside and sat at Kate’s kitchen table. They sat there for hours and talked and cried. They were more honest with each other than they had been for years. All the misunderstandings, crossed wires, hurt feelings, lies, suspicions—they all came tumbling out. Kate confessed her feelings for Jason, there since the first day she met him. She buried her head in her hands and wept.