“He’s the failed . . . well, he’s just failed. Failed at life. They’re all failing, aren’t they? It’s Chekhov.”

“And you’re the wife of the . . .”

“Failed academic. Serebryakov.”

“That’s right. Oh gosh, yes—I think I saw Glenda do it, back in the day.”

Glenda Jackson is her mother’s touchstone for all things good and wholesome about the acting profession.

“Or no—wait, it was that gorgeous one—Greta something or other.”

“Scacchi?”

“That’s it. She was wonderful. You will be too.” Sarah leans forward and grips Lissa’s wrist. “Goodness, well done, darling. A proper part. About time too. You should tell Laurie. She’ll be thrilled.”

Laurie, her mother’s oldest friend, who taught drama at Sarah’s school, who gave up her time to coach Lissa to get her into drama school all those years ago.

“You tell her,” says Lissa.

“I will.” Her mother sits back and regards her through the smoke. Sarah’s gaze. Nothing escapes it. How many hours has she suffered it? She used to model for her mother as a child—hours and hours for years and years of sitting in that battered old chair in the attic. Until one day she refused to do it anymore.

“I must say,” says Sarah, “it’s wonderful you can pass for . . . whatever it is she’s supposed to be. I mean, they’re never more than thirty, are they, these women in these plays. Unless they’re fifty. Or the maids. They shuffle on and off a bit, don’t they, the maids.” She waves her cigarette in the air. “Light a samovar or two.”

“Yes,” Lissa says, though to what she is saying yes she isn’t quite sure. All of it, she supposes. Yes, it’s wonderful she can pass for thirty. Yes, there’s nothing between thirty and fifty, not just in Chekhov, but in everything else. Perhaps in life. Perhaps this is it—Womanhood. The Wasteland Years.

“Gosh.” Her mother takes a healthy swig. “This is fun, isn’t it? Haven’t drunk in the day for eons. So who’s the director?”

“She’s Polish. Klara.”

“I can’t believe you didn’t say anything.”

“I’ve stopped. I mean, it’s hardly worth it, is it, anymore?” She picks at a stray piece of skin on her thumb with her opposite nail.

“Oh no, don’t say that. You must let me know, when things come up. I can wear my lucky earrings.”

“Yeah, well. I’m not sure they’ve been that helpful. In the grand scheme of things.”

“They helped when you got that telly part. And when you were ill.” Her mother points the cigarette reprovingly in Lissa’s direction.

The sun rounds the corner of the wall and falls onto the grass beside them. Lissa angles her face towards it. The cat winds itself, mewling, against her mother’s calves.

“So when do you start?”