The Fury(9)

“Don’t worry—I’ll test you on them. We can work all the way there. Now, give us your passport.”

Kate had no choice, we both knew that—if she refused to sit with me, it would start the weekend off on a bad note. So her smile remained firm, and she handed me her passport. We checked in together.

No sooner had we taken off, however, and the plane emerged above the clouds, than it became obvious Kate had no intention of practicing her lines. She stuffed the script into her bag.

“Do you mind if we don’t? I have a terrible headache.”

“Hangover?”

“Always.”

I laughed. “I know a cure for that. A little vodka.”

Kate shook her head. “I can’t possibly face vodka at this time in the morning.”

“Nonsense, it’ll wake you up. Like a punch in the face.”

Ignoring Kate’s protestations, I flagged down a passing flight attendant and asked him for a couple of glasses of ice—ice being the only thing on this flight that was offered for free—and though he gave me a funny look, he didn’t refuse. Then I produced a handful of miniature vodka bottles I had smuggled onto the plane in my bag. Given the lack of choice of alcohol on airplanes these days, not to mention the exorbitant cost, I find it more convenient—and economical—to travel with my own.

If that sounds irredeemably debauched, I assure you the bottles were tiny. Besides, if Kate and I were forced to spend the rest of this long journey together, we could both probably use an anesthetic.

I poured some vodka into the two plastic cups. I raised my glass. “Here’s to an entertaining weekend. Cheers.”

“Bottoms up.” Kate drank the vodka in one go and winced. “Ugh.”

“That’ll cure your headache. Now, tell me about Agamemnon. How’s it going?”

Kate forced a smile. “Oh. Really good. Great.”

“Is it? Good.”

“Why?” Kate dropped the smile and peered at me, suspiciously. “What have you heard?”

“Nothing. Nothing, at all.”

“Elliot, spit it out.”

I hesitated. “It’s just a rumor, that’s all … that you and Gordon haven’t exactly been hitting it off.”

“What? That’s absolute bollocks.”

“I thought it must be.”

“Total crap.” Kate opened another minibottle of vodka. She refreshed her glass. “Gordon and I get on like a house on fire.” She knocked back her drink.

“I’m relieved to hear it. I can’t wait for the first night. Lana and I will be there, in the front row, cheering you on.” I smiled at her.

Kate didn’t smile back. She looked at me for a moment—an unfriendly look, and silent. I can’t bear an awkward pause, so I filled it with an anecdote about a mutual friend going through an absurdly vengeful divorce, involving death threats and email hacking and all kinds of insanity. A long, complicated story, which I exaggerated for comic effect.

The whole time I spoke, Kate watched me stonily. I could see she didn’t find me or the story funny.

As I looked into her eyes, I saw into her mind … and read her thoughts:

God, I wish he’d shut up. Elliot thinks he’s so bloody funny, so witty—he thinks he’s No?l Coward. But he’s not. He’s just a fucking cun—



* * *



Kate didn’t like me much—as you may have guessed.

Let’s just say she was immune to my particular brand of charm. She thought she hid her dislike well, but like most actresses—particularly ones who like to think of themselves as enigmatic—she was incredibly easy to read.

I met Kate long before I met Lana. Kate was a great favorite of Barbara West’s, both on-and offstage, and was frequently invited to the house in Holland Park, to the famous soirees; euphemistically known as “dinner parties” but actually debauched free-for-alls for hundreds of people.

Kate intimidated me even then. I’d feel nervous when she’d seek me out at a party—spraying cigarette ash and booze in her wake—taking my arm, leading me aside, leading me astray, making me laugh by mercilessly mocking the other guests. I sensed that Kate was aligning herself with me as another outsider. I’m not like the others, love, she seemed to be saying. Don’t be fooled by the cut-glass vowels, I ain’t no lady.

She was keen for me to know she was as much an impostor as I was—the only difference being, I was ashamed of my past, not my present. Unlike Kate, I desperately wanted to shed my former skin, to inhabit my current role and fit in with the other guests. By including me in all her jokes, all the nudges, winks, and asides, Kate was firmly letting me know that I wasn’t succeeding.

To be honest, although I’m wary of criticizing Lana, as she never gave me cause—so this isn’t really a criticism—I laughed more often with Kate. Kate was always trying for a laugh—always looking for the joke in everything; always arch and sarcastic. Whereas Lana—well, Lana was serious in many ways—extremely direct, always sincere. They were like oil and water, those two, they really were.

Or perhaps it’s just a cultural difference? All the Americans I have known have tended to be straightforward, almost blunt. I respect that—there’s a kind of purity to that honesty. (“Scratch a Yank and you’ll find a Puritan,” Barbara West used to say. “Don’t forget they all went over on the bloody Mayflower.”) Unlike we Brits, that is—pathologically polite, almost servile, always agreeing with you to your face, only to bitch about you viciously the moment you turn your back.