“Nothing. It’s just a rose.”
“Does Barbara know you bought me a rose?”
I laughed. “Of course not. It doesn’t mean anything. It’s just a flower. I’m sorry it made you uncomfortable.”
“It’s not that.” She looked away for a moment. “It doesn’t matter. Shall we go?”
We finished our wine and left the pub.
We continued strolling along the Thames. As we walked, Lana glanced at me, then said, quietly, “I can’t give you what you want, you know. I can’t give you what you’re looking for.”
I smiled, even though I was nervous. “What I’m looking for? You mean friendship? I’m not looking for anything.”
Lana half smiled. “Yes, you are, Elliot. You’re looking for love. Anyone can see that.”
I could feel my cheeks reddening. I looked away, in embarrassment.
Lana tactfully moved the conversation on. We neared the end of our walk.
And that was that—with the lightest of touches, Lana had firmly and politely let me know that she did not think of me as a potential lover. She had dispatched me to the realm of friendship.
Or so I thought at the time. Looking back now, I’m not so sure. So much of how I interpreted that moment was colored by my past, and who I thought I was; and the distorted lens through which I viewed the world. I felt so convinced of my undesirability—if that’s even a word. It’s how I’d felt, ever since I was a kid. Ugly, unattractive. Unwanted.
But what if for one second I had put down my self-obsessed emotional baggage that I insisted on carrying about with me?
What if I had actually listened to what Lana was saying?
Well—then I might have discovered that her words had little to do with me, and everything to do with her.
With the benefit of hindsight, I can hear what Lana was saying. She was saying she was sad, she was lost; and she was lonely—or she would never have been sitting there with me, a relative stranger, on a Sunday afternoon. When she accused me of wanting love, what she really meant was that I wanted to be saved. I can’t save you, Elliot, Lana was saying. Not when I need saving myself.
If I had realized this at the time—if I hadn’t been so blind, so fearful, if I’d had more courage—well, I might have acted very differently in that moment.
And then, perhaps, this story would have had a happier ending.
6
From then on, I began to accompany Lana on her walks around London.
We’d walk for hours and spent many happy afternoons crossing bridges, trudging along canals, roaming through parks—discovering old and peculiar pubs tucked in, around, and sometimes even under the city.
I often think about those walks. About all the things we talked about—and the things we didn’t. All the things that were skirted over, ignored, dismissed. The things I failed to notice.
I said to you earlier that Lana always saw the best in you, making you rise to the challenge and try to be that person: embody the best possible version of yourself. Well, it was true of her, too. Lana was trying to be the person I wanted her to be, I can see that now. Both of us performing for each other. It makes me so sad to write that. Sometimes I look back and wonder if that’s all it ever was—a performance?
But, no, that’s not fair. It was real enough, deep down. In her own way, Lana was as much a fugitive from her past as I was—or, to put it less poetically, just as fucked-up. Isn’t that what brought us together in the first place? What connected us? The fact we were both so lost?
I couldn’t see any of this back then. My omniscience is entirely retrospective. I sit here now, knowing what I know, and peer into the past, trying to see the end in the beginning, and piece together all the hidden clues and signs I missed then; when I was young, and in love, and starstruck.
The truth is, I didn’t want to see the sad, wounded woman walking by my side. The damaged, frightened person. I was far more invested in her performance, and the mask she wore. I’d squint a little, as I gazed at Lana, so I wouldn’t see the cracks in it.
Sometimes, as we walked, I’d ask Lana about her old movies. She was so quick to dismiss them, I’ll admit it rather hurt my feelings—all these films I cherished and had seen so many times.
“You made a lot of people happy. Including me. You should be proud of that.”
Lana shrugged. “I don’t know about that.”
“I do. I was a fan.”
That’s as far as I went. I didn’t want to make her uncomfortable. I didn’t want to reveal the extent of my—my what? Let’s be kind; let’s not call it obsession. Let’s call it love—for that’s what it was.