‘Let me go up,’ Lucy said, as they stood at the bottom of the stairs. ‘I’m charming.’

‘I can be charming.’

Lucy stood on the bottom step. ‘But I’m more so. Today, I’m more so.’ She walked up.

She re-appeared five minutes later. ‘He said no. It’s over.’

‘How much did he read?’

‘The first page.’

Lucy sighed. She kicked a small pot containing a dying shrub. ‘Maybe it’s enough.’

Natasha took the pages out of her hand. ‘It’s not enough.’

Upstairs, in the low-ceilinged room, sat a boy, thumbing through a novel.

‘You’re right,’ Natasha said. ‘It’s bad.’

He didn’t look up.

‘But I don’t care,’ Natasha continued. ‘Give us one night.’

‘The acting troupe are in there for the next two weeks,’ he said, and continued lazily turning the pages, ‘and then college is over.’

Natasha thought of the starchy graduation robes. The rushed and formal ceremony that she would not be welcome at anyway. Only the boy’s presence kept her from vomiting.

‘One night,’ she said.

‘The acting troupe are in there for the next two weeks. You will have to fight them for it.’ He looked her up and down. ‘Are you willing to do that?’

Natasha took the book out of his hand and cleared herself a space at the edge of his desk. She knocked over several papers and pens. ‘I know you want me to go away,’ she said.

The boy looked scared.

‘But let me tell you about where I grew up.’

A week later the chalkboard at the front of the theatre read:

Abortion, A Love Story: One Night Only.

*

In the hour before the show, Natasha and Lucy sat in the changing room, sharing a cake. They divided the cake into thin slices, which Natasha didn’t touch. A bottle of Lucy’s beloved fizzy drink also remained sweating on the table.

‘I feel like I’m being smothered,’ Natasha said.

‘It’s just nerves,’ Lucy replied.

‘I think somebody has cut off my oxygen supply.’

‘Nerves. You’re nervous.’

‘I’m not.’

‘Don’t let them see it,’ Lucy said, popping a slice of cake into her mouth. Natasha could see the pink icing beneath her tongue. ‘That’s important. Don’t let them see it.’

An hour earlier before they’d unpacked their props and organised themselves, they had exchanged flowers, cards and well wishes. On Natasha’s card, Lucy had written: ‘If we were in a long banquet hall filled with the world’s best and most interesting people, I would only want to sit beside you. Lucy x.’ On Lucy’s card Natasha had written, ‘Best of luck with the play!’ which was the level of emotion she was capable of expressing at the time.

The boy from the theatre walked into the dressing room. He avoided Natasha and directed his gaze towards the palm tree in the corner. ‘This is your five-minute call.’

‘How many people are out there?’ Lucy asked.

‘Ten.’ The boy looked at his clipboard. ‘At last count.’

‘That’s too many,’ Natasha said, ‘we should ask some of them to leave.’