Think, she told herself. Work it out.
As she walked, Lana made an inventory of her life—searching for any glaring dissatisfactions or worries. Was it her marriage? Unlikely. Jason was stressed about work, but that was nothing new—their relationship was in a good place at the moment. The problem wasn’t there. Then where? Her son? Leo? Was it their conversation the other day? It was just an amicable chat about his future, wasn’t it?
Or was it far more complicated?
Another spot of rain distracted her. Lana glared resentfully at the clouds. No wonder she couldn’t think straight. If only she could see the sky … see the sun.
As she made her way home, her mind played on this idea of escaping the weather. Here, at least, something could be done.
How about a change of scene? It was Easter next weekend. What if they took a last-minute trip—in search of sunshine?
Why not go to Greece, for a few days? To the island?
Why not, indeed? It would do them good—Jason, Leo, and Lana in particular. She could invite Kate and Elliot, too, she thought.
Yes, that would be fun. Lana smiled. The promise of sunlight and blue skies instantly brightened her mood.
She pulled her phone out of her pocket.
She’d call Kate straightaway.
3
Kate was in the middle of a rehearsal.
She was due to open in just over a week, at the Old Vic—in a new, highly anticipated production of Agamemnon, the tragedy by Aeschylus. Kate was playing Clytemnestra.
This was the first run-through of the play in the actual theater, and it was not going well. Kate was still struggling with her performance—more specifically, with her lines; which, at this late stage of the game, was not a good sign.
“For Christ’s sake, Kate,” yelled the director, Gordon, from the stalls, in his booming Glaswegian accent. “We open in ten days! Can you not, for the love of God, sit down with the fucking book and learn the lines?”
Kate was equally exasperated. “I know the lines, Gordon. That’s not the problem.”
“Then what is? Pray enlighten me, love.” But Gordon was being heavily sarcastic and not waiting for an answer. “Keep going,” he shouted.
Between you and me—entre nous, as Barbara West used to say—I don’t blame Gordon for losing his temper.
You see, despite Kate’s immense talent—and she was hugely talented, let’s make no mistake about that—she was also chaotic; messy; temperamental; usually tardy; often belligerent; not always sober; as well as, of course, brilliant, charismatic, funny—and possessing an unerring instinct for truth, both on-and offstage. All of which combined meant—as poor Gordon had discovered—she was a bloody nightmare to work with.
Ah … but that’s not fair, is it? Slipping in my judgment of Kate like that—under the radar, so to speak—as if you wouldn’t notice. I’m a sly one, aren’t I? I’ve sworn to be objective, inasmuch as it’s possible, and let you make up your own mind. So, I must honor that vow. Henceforth, I will endeavor to keep my opinions to myself.
I will stick to the facts:
Kate Crosby was a British theater actor. She grew up in London, in a working-class family, south of the river; though any trace of an accent had long since been obliterated by years of drama school and voice training. Kate spoke with what used to be known as a BBC accent—rather refined and hard to place—but, it must be said, her vocabulary remained as earthy as ever. She was deliberately provocative, with a touch of “the end of the pier”—as Barbara West put it. Bawdy is the word I’d use.
There was a famous story about how Kate once met King Charles, when he was still Prince of Wales, at a charity luncheon he was hosting. Kate asked Charles how far away the toilets were—adding she was so desperate, sir, if she had to, she’d piss in the sink. Charles roared with laughter, apparently; entirely charmed. Kate’s eventual damehood was no doubt secured there and then.
Kate was in her late forties when our story begins. Or possibly older—it’s hard to know exactly. Like many actors, the precise date of her birth was a movable feast. She didn’t look her age, anyway. She was lovely to look at, as dark as Lana was fair—dark eyes, dark hair. In her own way, Kate was every inch as attractive as her American friend. Unlike Lana, she used a great deal of makeup; heavy use of eyeliner and several layers of thick black mascara accentuating her big eyes. The mascara never came off, to my knowledge; I think she just added a layer or two daily.
Kate’s whole look was more “actressy” than Lana’s—lots of jewelry, chains, bracelets, scarves, boots, big coats. It’s as if she were doing everything she could to be noticed. Whereas Lana, who in many ways was truly extraordinary, always dressed in as simple a manner as possible—as if drawing undue attention to herself would be in bad taste, somehow.