‘We’ve got ourselves a slapper,’ Natasha says. ‘You know you should leave a polite amount to the imagination. Wipe that make-up off your gob. Stress your innocence, but not loudly, because that makes people suspicious. This is tricky. Don’t be caught anywhere you shouldn’t be. Spend a lot of time in the library. There are a lot of books in the library you can look at. Don’t linger near any of the sexual stuff. Lead a normal, daily life. Be seen living a normal, daily life. Ride a bicycle. That’s a good, carefree way of getting around. You trust a woman on a bicycle. That’s essential, the bicycle. Try not to think about any pain. Are you paying attention? These things matter. Don’t reply to any messages. Don’t even think about replying to any messages. Don’t get up in the middle of the night and send recriminatory and accusatory emails. Nothing good will come from that. Bury yourself, but at the same time be reborn. They will find your worst insecurities and they will kill you with them, so don’t have any insecurities. Look after your family. Love all animals. Be respectful. Be seen to be respectful. Make some fairy cakes. This is image rehabilitation. Take a good, long look at yourself. Not here, but in another building, away from me. Spend time in the garden. Reconnect. Change in every way, but don’t be seen to be doing so. Do you have any questions? Are you tired?’ Natasha turns off the tape recorder. ‘I think once a few things are straightened out, we’re in with a good chance of winning this thing.’

Lucy sits staring at her hands. ‘Okay.’

‘You can go now, Lucy.’

Lucy stands up to leave. She wanders, dazed, stage left.

‘That’s not the exit,’ Natasha says, ‘that’s the exit.’ She points the other way.

‘Right,’ Lucy says but stands still.

A set moves in on wheels. It’s painted like a waiting room. In its confined space are two nailed-down chairs, a table with some magazines and a clock with its hands spinning frantically: day to night, day to night. In the corner is a large potted plant. Lucy and Natasha sit on the chairs. Natasha smoothly removes her grey wig and waistcoat, shaking out her hair. Elevator music blasts out – dull, non-distinct sounds.

‘We’re not allowed make a single joke here,’ Natasha says.

‘But—’ Lucy says.

‘No.’

‘What if I—’

‘No.’

‘What do we then?’

‘We wait,’ Natasha says.

The girls sit in silence, leafing through their magazines, occasionally sighing, glancing at the distorted clock, examining their fingernails.