Lucy holds out her glass and Natasha fills it to the top. When it begins to overflow, Natasha keeps pouring. She opens a second bottle and continues pouring until the liquid is all over the floor, all over the tablecloth and all over Lucy. Lucy stares straight ahead.

‘When,’ Lucy says.

Natasha takes a grey wig and waistcoat from the drinks cabinet and places it on the table. She pushes her drinks cart offstage left.

‘What could be possibly worse than this on a Saturday night?’ Lucy asks the audience. ‘This set-up. You know I’ve thought some pretty distasteful stuff in my life, and actually done worse, but I don’t deserve this. I’m generous. I try. What could possibly be more awful than this?’

From the other side of the stage, Natasha carries in a small table and a newspaper. She sits at the table. She is wearing a prim cardigan and a long skirt. Gentle, refined music begins to play. Lucy carries over her chair. She puts on the grey wig and the waistcoat. She picks up the newspaper and sits down, clearing her throat. She opens the newspaper. Lucy and Natasha sit in total silence as the refined music continues to play.

‘What music is this?’ Natasha asks.

Lucy raises one finger to silence her. She keeps reading the newspaper.

‘What are you doing this weekend?’

Lucy raises a finger to silence her.

‘What are you doing this weekend?’

A finger is raised again.

‘What are you doing this weekend?’ Natasha asks again, more quietly this time.

Lucy lays down her newspaper. She looks aggrieved. ‘Why do you come into my house and ask what I’m doing this weekend, Natasha. I’m not your boyfriend.’

‘What are you doing this weekend?’ Natasha repeats.

A photo pops up onscreen: a blurry Lucy, her breasts on show.

‘I’m working on my marriage,’ Lucy-in-the-wig says, and picks up the paper again.

The lights go down to complete darkness. Lucy and Natasha switch costumes. They sit back down at the table where Lucy places a lamp and a tape recorder. The light from the lamp is all that illuminates the stage. Natasha switches on the tape recorder.

‘So, Lucy tell me what happened?’ Natasha says, business-like.

‘I—’ Lucy struggles.

Behind Lucy every photo she has ever taken flashes up on the screen in fast succession, a long parade of images. Lucy’s hands clutching her breasts, spreading her legs apart.

Natasha watches the screen for a while. ‘That’s a problem,’ she exhales slowly, in the manner of a weary detective. ‘That’s a problem, for sure.’

‘What?’ Lucy doesn’t turn her head.