The reality is, these days, I am proud to be different—I thank God I am. And even when I was a child, and full of self-loathing, I sensed another world was out there. A better world, where I might belong. A brighter world—beyond the darkness, lit by spotlights.
What am I talking about? The theater, of course. Think of that moment the auditorium darkens, the curtain glows, the audience clears its collective throat, settling down, tingling with anticipation. It’s magic, pure and simple; more addictive than any drug I ever tried. I knew from a young age—glimpsing it on school trips to plays by the Royal Shakespeare Company, the National Theatre, or West End matinees—that I had to belong to this world.
Also I understood, just as clearly, that if I wanted to be accepted by this world, if I wanted to fit in, I had to change.
Who I was simply wasn’t good enough. I had to become someone else.
It seems absurd, writing that now—even painful—but I believed it then, with all my heart. I believed I had to change everything about me: my name, my appearance, how I carried myself, how I spoke, what I talked about, thought about. To be part of this brave new world, I needed to become a different person—a better one.
And eventually, one day, I succeeded.
Well, almost—a few tinges of the old me remained; like a bloodstain on a wooden floorboard—leaving a pale red mark, no matter how much you scrub at it.
* * *
My full name, by the way, is Elliot Chase.
I flatter myself that my name might not be unknown to you—if you’re a theatergoer? If you don’t know the name, you may have heard of my play—or seen it? The Miserabilists was a big hit, on both sides of the Atlantic. It ran for a year and a half on Broadway, winning several awards. I was even nominated for a Tony, he says modestly.
Not bad for a first-time dramatist, eh?
Of course, there were the inevitable snide, bitchy comments and malicious stories, spread around by a surprising number of bitter, older, more established writers, envious of this young man’s immediate critical and commercial success; accusing me of all kinds of nasty things, ranging from plagiarism to downright theft.
I suppose it’s understandable. I’m an easy target. You see, for many years, until her death, I lived with Barbara West, the novelist.
Unlike me, Barbara needs no introduction. They probably taught her to you at school. The short stories are always on the curriculum; even though, in my unpopular opinion, she’s vastly overrated.
Barbara was many years older than me when we met, and her health was failing. I stayed with her until the end.
I didn’t love her—in case you’re wondering. Our relationship was more transactional than romantic. I was her escort; servant; chauffeur; enabler; punching bag. I once asked her to marry me—but she declined. Nor would she consent to a civil partnership. So we weren’t lovers or partners; we weren’t even friends—not toward the end, anyway.
Barbara did leave me her house in her will, though. That rotting old mansion in Holland Park. It was enormous and hideous, and I couldn’t afford to run it—so I sold it and lived happily on the proceeds for several years.
What she failed to leave me was the royalties to any of her bestselling books, which would have given me financial security for life. Instead, she dispersed them among various charities and secondhand cousins in Nova Scotia she barely knew.
This disinheritance by Barbara was her last act of spite toward me, in a relationship dominated by petty cruelties. I couldn’t forgive her for this. That’s why I wrote the play, based on our life together. An act of vengeance, you might say.
I’m not hotheaded. When I become angry, I don’t rage—I sit down, quietly, very still, armed with pen and paper—and plot my revenge with ice-cold precision. I skewered her with that play, exposing our relationship as a sham, and Barbara as the vain, ridiculous old fool that she was.
Between you and me, I’ll admit, I was even more delighted with the outraged fury it caused among Barbara’s devoted fans worldwide than I was with its commercial success.
Well, perhaps that’s not quite true.
I’ll never forget that night my play first premiered in the West End. Lana was on my arm, as my date. For a moment, I experienced what it must be like to be famous. Cameras flashing, thunderous applause—and a standing ovation. It was the proudest night of my life. I often remember it, these days, and smile.
* * *
Which seems a good place to end this digression. Let us return to our central narrative—back to me and Kate, and our journey from rainy London, to sunny Greece.