SHE ARRIVES FIFTEEN minutes early at the address written on the front of her script, a basement studio in Dalston, tucked away on a side street between two Turkish restaurants, their fronts shuttered up against the morning. The director is there already, in a corner of the room, speaking to someone who can only be the designer, their heads bent to a scale model of the set. She is shorter than Lissa remembered, dumpy even, gray hair in a dandelion frizz around her head. Ten or so chairs are set out in a circle for the actors, another row behind them for the technical staff. On a small side table a kettle steams into the bright air. A clear-faced young woman comes up, pumps Lissa’s hand and introduces herself as Poppy, the ASM. “Great to meet you! There’s coffee, pastries, help yourself.”

Lissa drops her bag by a chair and wanders over to the table.

“Might as well take advantage of the hospitality.”

She turns to the voice and sees a man about her height standing beside her.

“God knows when we’ll see its like again.” There’s a faint northern accent to the bass growl. Scouse? He is clean-shaven, fifty or so, with gray in among the brown of his hair, which is longish, falling past his ears. His eyes are the most extraordinary blue. She knows him from somewhere. She must have seen him on stage but cannot remember when. She goes to say something back, but he has turned and gone already, croissant in hand, over to his seat.

“Lissa?”

She turns to see a much younger man this time, thin-faced with wide-set eyes and thick lips. She meets his proffered hand. Does she know him?

“Lissa Dane, isn’t it?”

“Yes. I’m sorry, I—”

The young man laughs. “I just recognize your face. From pictures.”

“Really?”

“Didn’t you use to go out with Declan Randall?”

“Oh. Yes, I did.”

“I love his work.”

She nods. “Well, he’s a talented man.”

“That last film—the one in the prison. The French director? Awesome.”

“I haven’t seen it,” she says.

“You’re kidding.” He shakes his head. “If I could have anyone’s career, it would be his.”

She nods, finds her gaze sliding out to where the older actor is sitting. It is bugging her. His face. Where does she know it from?

“So you’re not together anymore?”

“No,” she says. “Not for a couple of years. He dumped me. For a makeup girl.”

“Jesus,” he says, shaking his head. “That’s harsh.”

“Yeah, well. He was an egotistical monster. So, you know.” She picks up her coffee. “Silver linings and all that.”