Natasha thought Lucy’s particular urge might be satisfied by acting in a play instead. She went to the computer house and emailed the acting troupe to tell them about Lucy’s tiny feet, shoplifting addiction and periods of mania. They said they were very interested in her coming on board. For two weeks, the girls immersed themselves in plays to find a monologue that Lucy could audition with. It was March and there were no seats in the library. Just looking around gave Natasha palpitations. They took off their jackets and lay on the floor.

In the plays, there were women walking in and out of doors, women calling their husbands for dinner, women staying faithful to their husbands, or being unfaithful and getting severely punished for it; women who lived on islands, lonely women or women who wanted to be left alone, plain women, watchful women and, frequently, dead women. Throughout, Natasha kept Abortion, A Love Story in an envelope beside her. She couldn’t leave it. She thought it might reveal something to her.

‘Here,’ Natasha said, one Wednesday afternoon, sliding a script over to Lucy. ‘I think you should audition with this.’

Lucy read through it. ‘This woman seems delusional and unstable.’

‘She is delusional and unstable,’ Natasha said. ‘It’s perfect.’

Now, Natasha waited in the college coffee shop for Lucy to return from her ill-fated audition. She had the pages of Abortion, A Love Story spread out in front of her. She watched Lucy enter the coffee shop in a huff. She took a fizzy drink from the fridge and slammed the door shut. She pulled out the seat opposite Natasha.

‘I don’t like that acting troupe at all,’ she said. ‘They pretend to be the gatekeepers of something. What the hell are they the gatekeepers of?’ She stabbed her drink with her straw. ‘Tell me. Be honest. Was I bad up there?’

‘Lucy,’ Natasha said, holding up a page covered in red marks, ‘let’s make this a comedy.’

‘Abortion, A Love Story?’

Natasha nodded.

‘But it’s about these two girls, sisters in misery.’

‘I know.’

‘They don’t have anything.’

‘Of course.’

‘It’s a bad time.

‘It’s a woeful time.’

‘And it gets worse.’

‘How?’

‘It’s always raining.’

‘True.’

Lucy took a sip of her drink. ‘Who could find all that funny?’

‘Not me.’

‘And the pain and the suffering of the women,’ Lucy said, shaking her head. ‘The violence of what they have endured. That’s what the audience will want.’

‘Yeah,’ Natasha said, ‘and let’s not give it to them.’

Lucy was silent.

‘Comedy is tragedy sped up.’

Lucy tapped two fingers on her can. ‘That’s Ionesco.’

‘I thought it was my dad,’ Natasha said.

‘You know we’re risking our reputations.’

‘We don’t have reputations to risk.’ Natasha leaned forward. ‘Do you trust me, Lucy?’

Lucy took a long, thoughtful gulp. She nodded.

*