“Do you know how many fucking times people have said that to me?” Hannah throws her cushion to the other side of the room, where it bounces and falls still. “Too many.” And then, quite suddenly, Hannah folds in on herself. “Why?” she says. “Why is this happening to me? Am I cursed? I feel like I’m cursed.”

Lissa moves towards her, sits beside her on the sofa. “Hey. Han. You’re not cursed.”

Hannah lifts her face from her hands. “Will you speak to him?”

“I can’t—”

“Please.” Hannah grips her arm. “Get him to change his mind. He’ll listen to you. Lissa. Talk to him. Please.”

SHE TAKES THE bus down to Bloomsbury, gets off at Southampton Row and walks up towards Russell Square, where the trees flare orange and red, the sky an iron gray.

When she contacted him she said she needed to speak to him, but was only free in the morning on Thursday. He texted back immediately: Sounds intriguing. I’m at the college on Thursday. Come and see me there?

It took her five outfit changes to get out of the door. In the end she put on an old faded sweatshirt, jeans, and her parka. Sneakers. No makeup, hair up.

At reception they direct her to the third floor—she climbs the stairs, pushes her way through double doors into his hallway. His door is closed, but as she approaches it opens and a young woman emerges. She is tall, her hair loose. Long limbs in tight jeans. She walks past Lissa without a second look.

There are posters on his door, in the manner of academic offices: one advertises a talk, another a union meeting about the tuition fees. She raises her hand and knocks.

“Come in.”

He is sitting at the desk with his back to her. “Hey.” He turns. “Liss.” He looks pleased to see her.

“Hey.” She steps inside, closes the door behind her. The room is pleasant, a high window through which the trees of Russell Square are just visible, a wall lined with books, a small sofa, his desk. Him. He is wearing a soft blue T-shirt, with a wide neckline. “So this is where the magic happens,” she says.

He smiles and she realizes she can’t really look at him, so she goes over to his bookshelves and looks at them instead. They are neat, arranged alphabetically.

“Coming of Age in Samoa?”

“Classic. You should read it.”

“What’s it about?”

“Sex.”

“Oh.” She can feel herself turning red.

He is grinning. Is he teasing her?

“How’s the play?” he says.

“Better. We open tomorrow.”

“That came up quickly. Can I come?”

“Of course. But you need to reserve a seat.”

“Then I’ll do that.”

“Good.”

“Why don’t you sit down?”

She sits on his sofa. It is still warm. She thinks of the young woman who was in here before her.