And so, we became friends. But were we ever just friends, really?
I’m not so sure.
Even a man as—I’m struggling for inoffensive adjectives here—unthreatening, unmanly, as timid as myself, is not immune to beauty. To desire. Wasn’t there an unacknowledged tension between us, even then? It was so subtle, a gossamer-thin frisson; a whisper of sexuality. But it was there, hanging like a spider’s web in the air around us.
* * *
The closer Lana and I became, the less time we spent outside. We spent most of our time at her house—that huge six-story mansion in Mayfair.
God, I miss that house. Just the smell of it—the fragrance upon entering the doorway. I used to pause in the vast hallway, shut my eyes—and breathe it, drink it in. Smell is so evocative, isn’t it? It’s similar to taste: both senses are time machines, transporting you—beyond your control, against your will, even—to somewhere in your past.
Nowadays, if I sniff a bit of polished wood or cold stone, I’m right back there, in that house, with its scent of chilly Venetian marble, polished dark oak, lilies, lilac, sandalwood incense—and feel such a burst of contentment; a warm glow in my heart. If I could bottle that smell and sell it, I’d make a bloody fortune.
I became a permanent fixture there. I felt like part of the family. It was an unfamiliar feeling, but wonderful. The sound of Leo practicing his acoustic guitar in his bedroom; the enticing smells emanating from the kitchen, where Agathi performed her magic; and—in the living room—Lana and me: talking, or playing cards or backgammon.
How mundane, I hear you say. How trivial. Perhaps—I don’t deny it. Domesticity is a peculiarly British trait. Never let it be said that an Englishman’s home is not his castle. All I wanted was to be safe within those walls, with Lana—drawbridge firmly up.
I had longed for love, whatever that means, all my life. I longed for another human being to see me, accept me—care for me. But when I was a young man, I was so invested in this fake person I wanted to be, this false self. I simply wasn’t capable of engaging in a relationship with another human being—I never let anyone get close enough. I was always acting, and any affection I received felt curiously unsatisfying. It was for a performance, not for me.
These are the mad hoops damaged people jump through: so desperate to receive love—but when it is given to us, it can’t be felt. This is because we don’t need love for an artificial creation, a mask. What we need, what we desperately long for, is love for the only thing we will never show anyone: the ugly, scared kid inside.
But with Lana, it was different. I showed the kid to her.
Or at least, I let her glimpse him.
7
My therapist used to sometimes quote that famous line from The Wizard of Oz.
You know the bit. It’s where the Scarecrow, confronted by the dark and frightening Haunted Forest, says:
“Of course, I don’t know—but I think it’ll get darker before it gets lighter.”
Mariana meant this metaphorically, referring to the process of therapy. She was right: things do get darker before they get lighter; before the therapeutic dawn.
Funnily enough—as an aside—I have a pet theory that everyone in life corresponds to one of the characters in The Wizard of Oz. There’s Dorothy Gale, a lost child, looking for a place to belong; an insecure, neurotic Scarecrow, seeking intellectual validation; a bullying Lion, really a coward, more afraid than everyone else. And the Tin Man, minus a heart.
For years, I thought I was a Tin Man. I believed I was missing something vital inside: a heart; or the ability to love. Love was out there, somewhere, beyond me, in the dark. I spent my life groping for it—until I met Lana. She showed me I already had a heart. I just didn’t know how to use it.
But then, if I wasn’t the Tin Man … who was I?
To my dismay, I realized I must be the Wizard of Oz himself. I was an illusion—a conjuring trick, operated by a frightened man, cowering behind a curtain.
Who are you? I wonder. Ask yourself this honestly; and you might be surprised at the answer. But will you be honest?
That’s the real question, I think.
* * *
“A frightened child is hiding inside your mind, still unsafe; still unheard and unloved.”
The night I heard Mariana utter those words, my life changed forever.
For years, I had pretended my childhood didn’t happen. I had erased it from my memory—or thought I had—and I lost sight of the kid. Until that foggy January evening in London, when Mariana found him for me again.