Usually, by this point, at the end of the first week, there is a sense of how things are going, but this time she cannot tell—yesterday for instance, when she was working through Yelena’s monologue, the director’s expression was one of barely contained disdain, ultimately erupting in her banging the table. “Stop this microwaved emotion!”

Microwaved emotion, it is rapidly becoming clear, is Klara’s favorite phrase. They went on to try the monologue several different ways but each time Klara shook her head, muttering under her breath. Yet when it came to Johnny’s turn, Vanya’s speech to Yelena—You’re my happiness, my life, you’re my youth . . . let me look at you, let me listen to your voice—Klara sat back, nodding, murmuring her assent. If she were a cat, she would have purred.

There is no denying that Johnny is a superb actor. Last night she heard Greg raving to Michael in the pub about a performance he’d seen Johnny give twenty years ago in Liverpool—Best Hamlet of his generation. Made me want to be an actor. Total fucking tragedy he’s not a star.

Despite the fact that most of the men and most of the women in the cast seem to seek his approval in some unspoken way, Johnny keeps himself to himself. He didn’t stay long at the pub last night, just the one pint, which he drank at the bar in the company of Richard, the older actor playing Serebryakov. He is careful with his energies, unlike the others, who spill over already into easy intimacies, into kisses and hugs and the swapping of tales. As he left she overheard him telling Richard that he had his kids this weekend. They always want to go to the indoor play area—it’s hell on earth with a hangover.

She has no idea what Johnny thinks of her. His expression is unreadable. Yesterday, when she was rehearsing alone with Klara, she saw Johnny slip quietly into the room. He stayed at the back silently watching her—those blue eyes, the calm intensity of his gaze.

A thought comes to her, and as the thought comes she opens her bathrobe, reaches into her knickers, and puts her hand to her crotch. She closes her eyes and thinks of herself standing there, alone on the stage, and of Johnny watching her, of taking off her clothes for him, one slow layer at a time. And his face, his blue eyes, the way he watches, the way he wants her—and then it is not Johnny, it is Nathan, Nathan sitting in Johnny’s place, at the back of the room, watching her, wanting her, and her standing naked now, and she is coming, coming into her hand.

She lies there, gathering her breath, staring up at the ceiling.

Then she curls over herself, groans, and pushes her head into the cushion with shame.

Hannah