In truth, she had known the part was not hers as soon as she read the script: a blowsy blonde in an Ayckbourn comedy.

“I don’t mind,” she says, stroking the cat. “After Vanya it’s hard to imagine doing something like that.”

Sarah brings over the soup, which is a vibrant orangey yellow—there are toasted cumin seeds and yogurt to spoon on top. “Squashes from the garden,” says Sarah.

They eat in companionable silence, until Sarah puts down her spoon. “I wanted to say, darling, you were really wonderful in Vanya. I haven’t seen you be better. There’s a quality you have. A radiance. It’s rare.” Her mother sounds surprised, as though it has occurred to her for the first time.

“Really?” Lissa looks up. “Why do you say that?”

“What do you mean?”

“Why now?”

Sarah’s brow creases. “Because it occurred to me. Because it’s true.”

“Oh.”

“Darling, I’m trying to be nice.”

“Trying?”

“Oh god, Lissa.” Sarah puts down her spoon. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t turn a compliment into its opposite.”

“I just think it’s strange you choose to be complimentary about my choice of career now.”

“What do you mean? What’s different about now?”

Lissa looks at the clock—she has been here for an hour. There is no one else: no brother, no sister, no father, no child. Only she and her mother, grinding away together like an unoiled axle.

“I’m seeing someone,” she says quietly, curling her spoon around the last of her soup.

“Oh?”

“Yes,” she says. “Someone lovely.”

“Oh, darling. Oh. But that’s wonderful.” Sarah leans forward. “Who is he?”

“He’s a . . . friend.”

“Anyone I know?”

“I don’t think so.” Already she regrets speaking. Already she is somewhere dangerous. She did not mean to say this—she is a fool. “He’s someone I met . . . online.”

“Oh. Well, everyone meets there now, don’t they? The internet.” Sarah waves her hand. She makes it sound like the village green. “It would be stranger if you hadn’t, in a way. So.” Sarah’s face is hawklike, hungry. “Can’t you tell me anything? Does he have a job? A name?”

“His name is—Daniel.”

“And what does he do?”

“He’s an academic.”

Sarah’s hands come together in an involuntary clap. “Well. Well. You must bring him around,” she says, reaching over and gripping Lissa’s hand. “Bring him over for supper soon.”

“Yes,” says Lissa, as her mother stands and clears the plates. It has grown dark outside, and when Sarah comes back with plum pudding, she lights the candles on the table. They reflect the room through the dark, gleaming surface of the window, and Lissa sits there, in her borrowed robes, and she shines.