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.
Kate and I were much more similar creatures; if it hadn’t been for Lana, we might have ended up as friends. That is my only reproach to Lana and all her kindness to me; that she accidentally came between Kate and me. As soon as Lana and I started becoming close, you see, Kate began to view me as a threat. I could see it in her eyes—a new hostility, a competitiveness for Lana’s attention.
Regardless of how she felt about me, I found Kate to be fascinating and obviously talented—but also complicated and volatile. She made me feel uneasy, or perhaps cautious is a better word—the way you feel around an unpredictable, bad-tempered cat, liable to lash out at you with no warning. I don’t believe you can ever truly be friends with someone if they frighten you. How can you be yourself? If you’re afraid, you can’t be authentic.
And, yes—I was afraid of Kate. I had good reason to be, as it transpired.
Ah. Have I revealed that too soon? Possibly.
But there it is, I have said it. I must let it stand.
* * *
We landed at Mykonos Airport—a glorified landing strip, which made it feel even more exotic. Then we took a cab to Mykonos Old Port, to pick up the water taxi to the island.
It was late afternoon when we arrived at the port. It was the stuff of picture postcards: blue-and-white fishing boats, tangled nets like balls of wool; the sound of wood creaking on water; the thin smell of gasoline on the sea breeze. The bustling waterfront cafés were packed; there were the sounds of chatter and laughter; and the strong aromas of sludgy Greek coffee and deep-fried squid. I loved it all—it felt so alive; part of me wanted to linger here forever.
But my destination—or should I say my destiny?—lay elsewhere. So, I clambered into the water taxi after Kate.
We began our trip across the water. The sky was turning violet as we crossed. It was getting blacker by the second.
Soon, the island appeared ahead, a darkening mass of land in the distance. It was almost ominous in the dusk light. Its austere beauty never failed to fill me with something akin to awe.
There she is, I thought. Aura.
7
As Kate and I neared the island, another speedboat was leaving it.
It was being driven by Babis—a short, tanned, bald man in his sixties, smartly dressed. He ran Yialos restaurant in Mykonos—and, subject to a decades-long agreement initiated by Otto, Agathi would phone ahead with a grocery list, which Babis would then deliver; as well as arrange for the house to be aired and cleaned. I was glad to have missed him—he was a bore and a snob, in my opinion.
As he passed us, Babis slowed down his boat. He made a performative show of bowing deeply and ceremoniously to Kate. Three elderly cleaning women were sitting in the back of his boat, next to a pile of empty grocery baskets. As he bowed, the old women exchanged stony looks behind his back.