She wonders if there is a word for a woman like her, perhaps a Greek word—a special sort of word for a special sort of woman, one who betrays her friend.

Oh, Hannah. Oh, Jesus.

She buys herself a croissant and takes it home and eats it alone, standing at the sink.

Ticket sales increase in response to the reviews; they are 80 percent full on the weekdays and then sold out on Friday and Saturday evenings. Their group warm-ups take on a celebratory air. When they have all completed their vocal exercises, their stretches, their articulation exercises, and their pacing out of the stage, they gather in a circle and throw a ball to each other to tune up their reflexes. Ten minutes before the start they sing their Russian folk song. Occasionally the younger men try out Cossack moves, before they high-five each other and whoop as they disperse to their dressing rooms to listen for the call for Beginners on the loudspeaker.

Only Johnny does not warm up. Instead he sits on the stage on the lounge chair that Vanya favors, wearing his crumpled linen costume, hat pushed down on his head, and does the crossword, looking up occasionally at the antics of the other actors with one eyebrow raised. When they sing he gets to his feet and wanders out for a cigarette.

Lissa is grateful to have something to do, somewhere to go in the evenings; grateful to have the ritual of performance to hold her, to know where to stand, how to speak, where to put her hands.

She gets a text from Hannah. Bought tickets! Me and Nath coming next Thurs night.

Great! she writes back, as her stomach swills with queasy fear.

The end of the first week, her mother comes with Laurie. After the performance they are waiting for her in the bar. Sarah holds Lissa’s face in her hands. “Wonderful, darling, wonderful—well done. No review in the Guardian though?”

If a play goes on stage and the Guardian doesn’t review it, does the play really exist?

“Nothing in the Guardian, Ma, no.”

Laurie steps up and hugs her close. “Best you’ve been, Liss, best you’ve been.”

On the Monday of the second week, her father comes with his wife in tow.

“Well done, sweetie. You looked beautiful,” he says. “Reminded me of your mother when she was young.”

Beside him her stepmother nods away like a nervous bird, gripping her handbag beneath her arm. “I enjoyed it,” she says. “Not a lot happens though, does it?”

No, Lissa agrees, not a lot happens. When she suggests a drink, her father looks willing, but she sees her stepmother touch his arm and he turns to Lissa with a small helpless shrug.