A chair is produced, and Lissa dutifully makes her way into the middle of the space and sits upon it. “And you”—Klara turns on her heel and points to Michael—“you are also stiff. You are only on stage for five minutes, but you are stiff. It is horrible. Come here.”

Michael stands, runs his hand through his hair. He is grinning. “Great,” he says. “Nice one.”

“Michael, do you know this technique?”

Michael shakes his head.

“Leesa. Describe it to Michael, please.”

Lissa crosses her legs at the ankle, then uncrosses them. “So . . . as far as I can remember . . . it starts by one or the other of us noticing something about the other person. I will notice something about you, something on the surface at first. It may be what you are wearing. I might say, you are wearing a blue top. And you repeat it back to me. I am wearing a blue top. We do that for a bit, and then we go deeper—”

“Stop!” Klara slaps the desk. “Enough explanation. Begin.”

Michael gives a quick barking laugh. Lissa takes a breath.

“Your hair,” she says, “is . . . shaped like a pompadour.”

Michael smiles. “My hair is shaped like a pompadour?” he says, giving the word a little upward tick.

“STOP.”

Michael turns towards the director.

“No acting.” Klara bangs the table and Poppy the assistant stage manager jumps. “You are acting. If this is your acting, I am glad you have no lines in this play. The point is not to act.”

Chastened, Michael turns back to Lissa, who shoots him a compassionate look, and they begin again.

“You look pale,” says Lissa.

“I look pale.”

“You look pale.”

“I look pale.”

She can see he is frozen now, too frightened to make a move.

She remembers her teacher at drama school, a small intense man who believed passionately in this way of working. Say what you see, was what he always said when they used the Meisner technique. Put your attention on the other person, look closely, and call what you see. “You look scared,” she says to Michael.

“I look scared,” Michael agrees.

“You look scared.”

The game stumbles on limply as Klara hisses and tut-tuts and shakes her head.

“STOP. This is terrible. Terrible.” She waves Michael off the stage with a vicious hand.

“Je-sus,” he says under his breath, as he stands and hitches his jeans. “Good luck.”

“You.” Klara twitches her head towards where Johnny sits. “Johnny. Your turn.”

Johnny gets up silently and goes to take Michael’s place.