But I said none of this to Lana. Even if I had, I doubt she would have heard a word. Love, it seems, is deaf as well as blind.
Now, sitting at her dressing-table mirror, staring at the earring, Lana began to feel strangely dizzy—as though she were standing on the edge of a cliff, watching the ground crumble away in front of her, falling, falling, crashing to the rocks and the roaring sea below. It was all falling—all of it, her whole life, tumbling into the waves.
Was Jason sleeping with another woman? Was this possible? Did he no longer desire her? Was their marriage a sham? Was she unwanted?
Unloved?
At this precise moment, it’s fair to say, Lana lost her mind. She raged and trembled and shook—and so did the bedroom, as she tore it apart. She rifled through all Jason’s things in a frenzy—drawers, cupboards, suits, pockets, underwear, socks, searching for anything concealed, any kind of clue. She nearly faltered when she looked through his wash bag in the bathroom, convinced she’d find condoms. But, no—nothing. Nor was there anything remotely shady or sinister in his study—no credit card receipts in the drawers, no incriminating bills. No second earring. Nothing. She knew she was driving herself mad. For the sake of her sanity, she must put this from her mind.
Jason loves you, Lana told herself, you love him—and trust him. Calm down.
But she couldn’t calm down. Once again she found herself pacing—once again feeling pursued by something unknowable.
She glanced out the window. It had stopped raining.
She grabbed her coat and went outside.
6
Lana walked for about an hour. She walked determinedly, all the way to the Thames. She focused on the physical sensation of walking, and trying not to think, trying not to let her mind go crazy.
As Lana approached the river, she walked past a bus stop—and saw a poster on a billboard. She stopped. She stared at it. Kate’s face stared back at her in black and white—red blood spattered across it—and the title of the play: AGAMEMNON.
Kate, she thought. Kate would counsel her. Kate would know what to do.
Almost as a reflex, Lana hailed a passing black cab. It pulled up with a screech of brakes. She spoke through the open window to the driver.
“The Old Vic, please.”
Lana could feel herself calming down as the taxi raced over the bridge to the theater on the South Bank. In her mind, she could already picture them laughing about it—Kate telling her not to be silly, that she was imagining things; that it was absurd, that Jason was devoted to her. As she pictured this conversation, Lana felt a sudden rush of affection for Kate—her oldest, dearest friend. Thank God for Kate.
Or is that bullshit? Did Lana secretly suspect something? Why else race to the theater like that? I’ll tell you one thing: after decades of being styled and photographed, modeling one piece or another, Lana had developed a photographic memory regarding clothing and items of jewelry. I find it hard to believe that she would think the earring familiar, yet be strangely unable to recall where she had seen it—or on whom. Perhaps I’m wrong. But I don’t suppose we’ll ever know for sure.
By the time Lana arrived at the Old Vic, she had calmed herself down; convinced it was all in her mind, she was just being paranoid.
Lana knocked at the stage-door window, presenting the old man in the booth with her famous smile.
His face lit up as he recognized her. “Afternoon. Looking for Miss Crosby, are you?”
“That’s right.”
“She’s in rehearsal at the moment. I’ll buzz you in.” He lowered his voice, confidentially. “Even though you’re not on the list.”
Lana smiled again. “Thank you. I’ll wait in her dressing room, if that’s all right?”
“Very good, miss.” He pressed a button.
With a loud buzz the stage door unlocked. Lana hesitated for a second. Then she opened the door and went inside.
7
Lana made her way along the stuffy, narrow corridor until she reached the star’s dressing room.
She knocked on the door. No reply. So she cautiously opened it. The room was empty. She went inside, shutting the door behind her.
It was not a large room. It had a tatty couch against one wall, a narrow shower room—essentially a cubicle—and a large, well-lit dressing table. Typical of Kate, it was a mess, with half-unpacked bags and clothes everywhere.
Lana took a breath. Then she began—at last—to be honest with herself. By that I mean she quickly and methodically started looking through Kate’s belongings. Even as she did this, Lana remained mentally disassociated from her actions. She stayed calm and detached, as if her hands were operating beyond her control, her fingers rifling through the bags and boxes of their own accord. Nothing to do with her.