People’s agents come, those with pulling power bringing casting directors with them: The Globe, The National, a TV company. The inevitable whispers travel around the dressing room before the show—so-and-so is in tonight, so-and-so is in—and the knowledge of these people watching, people who have the power to change the course of your life, spikes the blood. Now the pecking order shifts and changes, no longer the simple calculation of talent, the meritocracy of the stage. Michael’s agent seems to bring half of London’s TV and theater people with him, and Helen’s agent comes three times, each night with a different casting director in tow. Lissa sees them in the bar after the show, huddled in a corner as though engaged in vital affairs of state, the industry people leaning in, faces attentive, serious, as they listen to what the young actors have to say.

Her own agent comes finally—unaccompanied by casting directors, in the middle of the third week, when the show is a little flat. She sees her sitting in the back row, a small woman with unruly red hair, and as she is changing out of her costume Lissa gets a text.

Wonderful. Had to get away, speak tomorrow?

The next day she checks her phone often, waiting for a phone call that doesn’t come.

Thursday arrives and she spends the day feral with anticipation. She writes Nathan a message. You coming with Hannah tonight? She hears nothing back. But as soon as she steps out on stage she sees Hannah, sitting alone, an empty seat beside her, and she is flooded with disappointment and relief.

Afterwards in the bar, Hannah hugs her. “Amazing, Liss. Loved it. So she was worth it in the end?”

“Who?” She feels strangely disoriented. Her friend here before her, the knowledge of her transgression blazing within her.

“The Polish director.”

“Oh, yeah,” says Lissa, “I guess she was.” Her eyes rove over Hannah’s face. “Nath didn’t feel like coming then?”

“He got held up at work. He sends his love.”

“His love? Really?”

“Hey, did you get a message from Cate?” Hannah says. “Inviting you to Canterbury?”

“I can’t. I’m performing. Are you going to go?”

“I think so. We need to get out of London. Me and Nath. Do something spontaneous for a change.”

Lissa laughs. “Spontaneity’s not your forte, Hannah,” she says. “If you want to do something spontaneous, go somewhere else. Go to Berlin. Go to New York. Go to Belize.”

Hannah looks at her—a quick hurt look. “Well,” she says quietly, “maybe I’ll start with Canterbury and see how it goes.”

Lissa smiles, and a strange bitter taste fills her mouth.