He says, I dreamt I smuggled cigarettes across the border for you. I dream of picking off mascara, pulling out my eyelashes. I dream of being ten stone nine. I dream of missing my cue, of standing blankly in the spotlight for a long time making up the faces of the audience with stick-on moustaches and talcum powder hair. We shiver at the foot of his staircase at 4.30am, and sleep standing up amidst the shrill invasion of the fire alarm. Did you hear it too, I ask this morning, I had the most wonderful sleep. Staircase 47 burnt their toast. No, says J, but I was woken by a fire alarm fugitive. I picture her sprinting across two courts with sleep-bleary eyes, her dressing gown sweeping the mud. She arrives with inexplicable twigs tangled amongst the tight curls of her hair, perhaps she dreamt those too.