Chi-Town, New Jersey

It was late. She'd had a few drinks with a couple of people from her shift. Karen hit the light switch, blinked as the grimy overheads flickered on. Kept her coat buttoned, as she started the ancient gas heater. Almost open flames – behind a grid of wires spaced so wide two guinea pigs could go through, side by side.

A big room; a small bathroom opened off. Semi-shoddy, low-but-not-lowest-end kitchenette fittings, not new. Chipped Formica and peeling chrome table, "matching" chairs with tears in the leatherette. Her bed was a fold-out couch. Opened, the 2" mattress lumped and smelled musty. Even through sheets. Closed, the nubbly acrylic cushions lumped and were abrasive. Even through sheets. After trying both, Karen opened the couch, breathed through her mouth, and showered extra minutes mornings.

Three reasons to take this big, shabby half-basement "efficiency." It was the cheapest. It was four blocks from the theater, three from the coffee shop where Karen waitressed. And it was big, and open, and reminded her of Jimmy's loft. And Jimmy.

Still wearing her coat, Karen drew hot water (at least the water pressure was good, and the hot water hot) into her dishpan, added a big pour of Epson salts. Removed shoes and socks; allowed herself a sigh as she eased aching arches into the bath. Punished at rehearsals, punished at work, poor feet.

Grey. Montclair was grey to her. And she was greyed in spirit. It had started so well, so hopefully. But, after three weeks' rehearsal, half-way through, Karen felt adrift, and Price Davis' early excitement at working with her seemed to have dimmed; she didn't know why, and couldn't ask. The music director loved her; there was that. And as far as she could tell, the choreographer had no issues – she was working her ass off to get the choreography, changing almost daily, right.

The cast was – almost all of them – so young. The smaller roles, the ensemble, were filled by recent local theatre grads; surrounded by them, playing off Caroline, who would turn 24 in a couple of weeks, Karen felt old. Her next birthday was a long way off, but would be her 30th. She had been the "new" girl, fresh, wide-eyed, for so long. It had been her stock in trade, if she were honest. But the calendar didn't lie, and neither did the mirror. A few tiny lines at the corners of her eyes. Karen knew she was pretty, maybe even beautiful. But 22, 23, 25 even, she was not.

The non-baby actors were older – Giselle Freeman, who belted "Mama" Morton with such fierce gusto, was mid-40s, at a guess. Geraint Rhys, whose feet tapped fast as raindrops, or machine-gunfire, late 30s. Working professionals, they were businesslike toward Karen. Not unfriendly, but no attempts at real friendship.

And Marcus Bendict, playing Mary Sunshine. His acting wasn't the problem, his dyspeptic worldview was. A former star counter-tenor, bitter that his voice had weakened with age, he high-hatted the youngsters and sneered at everyone else. The past few days, though, he seemed to be softening, ever so slightly, toward – not Karen, but Caroline.

Which was just and right. Because Caroline was killing it. Her dancing was – it was witty; Karen hadn't known that could be a thing. Caroline tended to improvise a little on the choreography; Kevin Greer would rebuke her, but Karen began to notice him putting in, at different points, the little variations he'd made Caroline take out. Her Velma was sexy, funny, and a little crazy-dangerous; "All That Jazz" took Karen's breath away, and it was really hard to keep a straight face through "I Can't Do it Alone."

Karen's Roxie was less well-defined. She couldn't find enough clues in the script to get the picture she wanted. She'd never seen the musical performed live, only the movie, and was dismayed at how hard it was to make Roxie likeable. Of course, she was an opportunist and a murderess, but, surely, the female lead in a musical should be more appealing? Karen couldn't figure out how to make her so, and Price Davis was maddeningly unconcerned by this. Very concerned, though, with tiny nuances in Velma.

Today, she'd worked mostly on "Funny Honey" and "Roxie." Her best numbers, and Karen knew "Funny Honey" was going to be good; she felt anchored, grounded when she sang it, and she made the cast laugh.

And she'd watched a run-through of "All That Jazz," again. And as she watched, Marcus Benedict had flowed up to her, and murmured, "Don't worry too much – Velma is supposed to be better than Roxie."

Karen had wanted to punch his face. Cry. Throw up. Did none of those things. Walked away.

She dried her feet, emptied and rinsed the dishpan. Hung her coat up, the heater had by now warmed the room a little.

Went to brush her teeth and wash. The bathroom light socket was faulty, the bulb always flickered a minute. Karen looked at her reflection in the flickers; "Flash back to a girl . . ." Flashback. New York. "Bombshell." "Hit List." Jimmy. Some song she'd heard had a line, didn't it? "Like a corkscrew to my heart, ever since we've been apart."

Missing Jimmy was the worst part of all. Because, whether "Chicago" went well for her or not, she and Jimmy were over. All but the official pronouncement. She clung to their weekend ritual, but they'd made love only once since she'd started her New Jersey jobs. A Saturday night; she'd gone to "Gatsby" - she made an effort, he made an effort. That was what it had been. He was sad, she knew. So was she. But they were smashed, and nothing would put them back together. Humpty and Dumpty. Every bit of it her own fault.

Karen cried herself to sleep.