The woman’s eyes begin to roll back in her head. She nods to herself, as though her suspicions are confirmed by the feel of Hannah’s feet, her calves. The woman’s eyes are closed now; she seems to be listening.

“Mmmmm. Mmmmm.” The woman is making a low humming sound. “Mmmmm. Mmmm. Mmmm.”

Hannah looks out of the window at the dreary little garden.

“Am I cursed?” she says to the woman. “Can you tell me if I’m cursed?”

But she is not sure if she has spoken or not, if she has uttered or only thought the words.

Lissa

ON THE LAST NIGHT THE CAST CELEBRATE TOGETHER AND BUY salmon and dill and cream cheese and crackers and vodka, and one by one, when their final scenes have finished, they go into the men’s dressing room and down shots—Nostrovia! By the time of the curtain call they are all tipsy, and when the final curtain has been taken, they pile back into the dressing room, all of them in their costumes still, and make Johnny and Helen—the last of them left on stage—drink three shots each to catch up.

Klara comes and finds them, hugging them all in turn. The technical staff drink beer and cider while the actors down more vodka, singing their Russian songs over again—until even the technical staff join in. Someone puts on dance music, and the dressing room becomes a shebeen as the noise level increases to a roar.

Lissa checks her phone. She has had only one message from Nathan since Thursday.

No regrets.

At first she read it as a question, but then realized it was a statement, and replied: None.

The music has changed—Greg has got ahold of the stereo and is playing old dance tunes from the 1930s—and the actors have coupled up to turn each other around the floor.

“Lissa.” Johnny is before her, hand outstretched. “Would you like to dance?”

She takes his hand, and he pulls her to her feet. She is drunk, she realizes, and she leans on him for balance as he moves her around the room. She closes her eyes briefly, enjoying his proximity, his warmth, his smell of tobacco and soap.

“I’m sorry,” she says into his chest.

“What for?”

“The other night. Standing you up at the bar.”

“S’all right.” Johnny’s voice rumbles against her ear. “Is he your boyfriend?”

She gives a gesture, part shrug, part shake of the head. “It’s complicated.”

“Ain’t that always the truth.”

They stop moving and he steps back a moment, holding her at arm’s length, regarding her. He reaches out and tucks a piece of her hair behind her ear. “It’s been a pleasure, love. Here.” He takes out a piece of paper, scribbles a number on it. “Just so you’ve got it,” he says, handing it to her. “Look after yourself, you hear?”

“I’ll try.”