She lets the metal door slam shut behind her, then looks both ways up and down the alley. She no longer moves into any new space without calculation. She checks directions on her phone and heads out to the bar. She’s been summoned by Molly. The bar is called Dean Martini. It’s not particularly close to the theater or to Cate’s hotel; there’s an Uber ride involved. Odd-hour phone calls have been part of her job description for the past couple of weeks, but until now, late-night drinks have not. Tonight Cate is in New York, and Molly needs someone to talk to. She and Lauren have batted something around too many times. They need an outside opinion; can Cate meet her?

Molly sits still as a Buddha in a red leather booth near the back of the bar, under a blowup of Dean Martin in a tuxedo with his black tie undone. He’s rakish. He’s on the sound system singing “Baby It’s Cold Outside.” She is sitting behind the remains of a straight-up martini, wearing some delicious cologne that smells like lilac and woodsmoke. Cate had kind of forgotten about cologne. She might have to revisit that. Molly does older well—stylish but with little old-fashioned touches. Her watch is a rectangle with a dark yellow face, brown leather band about to tear at the buckle. Very 1940s. Of course, just wearing a watch at all is pretty twentieth century.

She makes a swishing motion for Cate to slide in across from her, then orders for both of them by signaling the bartender with two raised fingers. Cate’s not much of a hard-liquor drinker, but the martini moment seems to be at hand. When drinks arrive, Molly takes her speared olive and drops it into Cate’s glass. A flirty gesture, but inconsequential. Cate supposes Molly has dropped olives into the martinis of many women along her way. In forward motion, she seems much younger than her seventy-plus years. She’s a dynamo. But at the end of what has been a long day directing, she is weary. Her color is slightly drained, her cheeks sag into slight pouches at the sides of her mouth. This makes her more human, definitely less iconic.

“Houston,” Molly says, “we have a problem.”

“Gladys.” It’s not a wild guess.

“In almost every respect, she’s doing a great job. She’s commanding, but also blockheaded. Her Vita is totally heartless and oblivious. But when sex comes into the picture, well, you can see she’s playing Vita like an old letch. I actually caught her wiggling or whatever her eyebrows. Like Groucho Marx. She just needs a cigar to wag. Wiggle and wag. How do I make her stop? I can’t just bully her. I think of all those tickets bought on the basis of her presence in the play. I can’t afford to have her leave in a huff.”