We sit on faded red seats in the Swan theatre – Nonno’s favourite. We’re in the round, so close to the stage, behind a wooden balcony. We watch the cast bend, stretch, chat and sip from bottles of water. Behind them is an onstage wardrobe without doors. An array of ragged and well-worn costumes hang from hooks dangling from ropes which climb out of sight. Nonno waves to someone and they come over. I feel nervous. Nonno stands up, so I do too.

‘Gianni! Ciao! Come stai?’ A girl kisses Nonno on both cheeks.

‘Molto bene, grazie, Lucia. This is my granddaughter, Hope. Hope, this is Lucia,’ Nonno puts his arm about my shoulder.

‘Hi,’ I say, hoping that I’ll have something more articulate to add. The girl – well, young woman really – has wide-apart green eyes that were smiling a second ago, but are now serious, taking me in. Her hair is a mess, black curls falling in her eyes. She needs some clean clothes, hers are covered in what looks like chalk. She’s wearing a denim pinafore dress with a greying t-shirt which looks a size too small for her and loud stripy tights. Her black eyebrows dominate her face, which makes the green stand out all the more. She’s stunning. I know she’s just said something to me but I’ve no idea what. Come on, Hope, think. ‘I’m Hope,’ I tell her, which she of course already knows but she doesn’t laugh.

‘And I’m Lucia. Come, come and meet everyone.’ She holds out her hand. It’s warm and takes mine firmly. I thought I’d just be sitting with Nonno. I follow her on to one of the wooden walkways to the stage.

‘Hey, everyone! This is Hope. Hope, this is everyone.’ Lucia gestures to the people gathered on the stage, about eight, I think, not too intimidating. They’re all women and girls, no boys or men, which feels different. Most of them smile or wave and say hi. I look out to the audience but the house lights are up so I can’t see Nonno. I wonder if he’s still there. Someone hands me a battered copy of Top Girls.

‘We’re on the kitchen scene with Joyce and Marlene,’ another actress tells me, as if they don’t mind me being on stage with them. ‘Do you know the play?’ I nod. ‘Good, I’m Mae.’ Then I place her: she’s on the posters in the foyer. I’m sure I’ve seen her before, from something on the telly maybe. She looks a lot younger in real life, although she’s probably got stage make-up on in the poster.

Someone sets two chairs out in the middle of the stage. There’s already a table with two cups of tea. Mae and another woman head to the back of the stage, near the hanging costumes, I can’t hear what they’re saying. The rest of the women sit in a semi-circle facing the two chairs. I’m sat here, with them, on the RSC stage, about to watch their rehearsal.

‘Right, are we ready? Vicky? Mae?’ a woman calls out, I guess the director. The air changes and the lights dim. The faces of the two actors centre-stage transform. Mae’s jaw drops down, making her lips jut out a bit. She draws her cheeks in, visibly souring. The other woman, who must be Vicky, rises in her chair a little, bringing her whole body into alignment – she becomes knowing and powerful. They start, their words shooting at one another.

I know this scene well. Aisha and Callie did it for their duologue. The best bit about it, apart from the swearing, was the way the two characters cut across each other naturally. All the other plays we’d read made sure that characters waited politely to speak their lines but this play threw all of that out the window. It felt more real, more honest. Lucia is standing at a funny angle, like she’s waiting to join the scene. I take in her clothes again and realise she must be playing the kid, Angie. That explains her odd fashion choices, she’s in costume. Mae and Vicky pause, then move to the director – I wish I knew her name. I turn to hear them better.

‘…it’s the brutality of the honesty, though, that’s what we want to see,’ Vicky replies to whatever the director just said. ‘They say things to each other that they’d never say to anyone else. They know how to hurt with their words because they’re family.’

I think about Mum and me and all the ways I’ve hurt her with my words.

‘Yes, this, this, and also the undertones of the lost child. Joyce is dripping with pent-up resentment about all the sacrifices she’s made,’ Mae adds.

I think about what Mum said, about needing to do something for herself for once.I picture all the sacrifices she’s made for me.

‘And the play asks us, the audience, does Marlene’s behaviour – to become the kind of woman she wants to be – excuse her? Can we forgive her the mistakes?’ the director asks.

I wonder if Mum will be able to forgive me for saying I hated her.

‘It’s all about choices. What has to be sacrificed. You can’t have everything, or at least not without some repercussions!’ Vicky declares.

I can’t imagine having a child. I don’t know whether I want kids. I can’t see my body working well enough to make a baby – a lot of the time it struggles to get through the day without a complete breakdown.

‘And Marlene makes the ultimate sacrifice when she hands over her child. She’s made to pay!’ Mae says – and, before I can stop myself, I’m responding too.

‘But both of them make huge sacrifices, not just Marlene,’ I say. I only know I’ve said it out loud because everyone turns to look at me. I was keeping all my other thoughts in my head, but this one escaped.

‘Yeah, you’re right. They’re both deeply flawed.’ Mae nods. She’s thinking about what I’ve said, really considering it.

‘All of them are. All of us are, we’re all deeply flawed, that’s what makes us so interesting,’ the director adds, and they laugh and I join in. I get it, the truth of it.

‘That’s what’s universal about this play. No matter your gender you can relate to the characters. They make mistakes and then have to try to fix them,’ Lucia adds, to me. I worry that Nonno’s said something about me and my situation. She’s sat cross-legged on the floor, looking encouragingly at me.

‘I think Churchill’s maybe saying you can’t escape your past even when you’re powerful, like Marlene?’ I can’t stop my voice going up at the end, as if I’m unsure. ‘Even if you’re an adult and you’ve got all the power, you still can’t run and hide,’ I add.

We discussed this loads in Theatre Studies but this isn’t a safe little lesson. This play is on this stage in The Swan theatre and people out there, like me, are going to pay to see it. They’re going to go online and pick seats and maybe book a table for a meal after. And they’ll watch these women, then they’ll go home and talk about it. But do I want this, to be one of the actors people go home and talk about? I don’t know how I’d feel about that, strangers discussing my voice, my body, the way I said certain lines, or the way my face looked. I know I like being part of the debate but that’s very different from standing in a place like this, with people like them, in front of a real audience of strangers who don’t know me and don’t care about me.

‘Power is key. Take the scene with Angie and Kit for example,’ Vicky says, and they all start talking over one another – just like Joyce and Marlene.

‘Good, good. Mae, Vicky, I think we’ll move forwards to Marlene’s line: “You were quick enough to take her,” Alright?’ the director says. Someone switches the teacups for glasses of apple juice. Mae and Vicky walk back to the chairs and their body language changes again. Vicky is leaning forwards now, possessive and assured, whiskey glass in hand. She looks confrontational but animal-like, too, as if she’s eyeing up her prey.

I know this scene, I’ve watched Callie do it enough times. Mae is poised like she’s ready for a fight. The air is tight and the rest of us feel it, wired and rigid. It’s almost unpleasant, too close, too fraught, but I find myself inching closer. I’m swimming in every single drop of the tension. The first grenade is yet to be thrown but you can see what’s to come just by looking at them, you can see the warfare that’s about to take place.

‘And then what happened?’ Nonno asks. He’s barely touched his panini, but I don’t have time to ask him why he’s not hungry. I’ve got too much to say. We’re sat on benches by the river Avon and I’m shovelling food and drink in as fast as I can because we’ve been asked to stay and watch tonight’s press performance. Nonno couldn’t buy any tickets, they’d sold out, but Susannah – I finally learned the director’s name – invited us to stay and watch. They always keep a seat or two spare on press night and tonight we’re the lucky ones.

‘Yes, Lucia asked Susannah if it’d be alright, which was really kind of her. I think I was supposed to just be watching but when Susannah found out I knew the play she let me join in!’

‘So you were Angie!’ I can sense his excitement. He understands what this means to me.

‘Yes! I had Lucia’s spare costume and she lent me her script. Susannah asked me questions about Angie and gave me some notes and Vicky and Mae were really patient. We ran the scene several times. I could have done it all day long. Susannah said that my projection is really strong,’ I tell him, trying hard not to sound like someone with a crush. I must have mentioned her name at least ten times so far, but she is the director after all.

‘Did Lucia give you any advice?’ Nonno asks. I shake my head.

‘No, she let me take it. She just sat back and watched. I think she didn’t want me to feel like I had to copy her Angie, so she let me find my own version. But she told me afterwards that … that Susannah said I wasn’t bad,’ I say shyly.

‘Ha! Praise indeed, piccolina. And how did it feel, this being not bad?’ He gets to the heart of the matter, cracking open his sparkling water. He pops a tablet out of a packet and swallows it.

‘Have you got a headache?’ I ask him. It’s pretty hot in the sun. He nods and sips more water, then waves his hand and points back to the theatre, telling me to carry on talking, so I do. I can’t not. ‘Nonno, I feel lit up.’ I tell him honestly.

‘Ah, I see,’ he says.

‘What?’ I ask.

‘You know there isn’t an open door here? We have to go home tonight, back into the world. I’ve spoken to your mamma. She’s not happy. I will explain it better to her in person. Don’t worry. Hope, this is just a taste, sì? Just to show you what can be. The rest is up to you. You have to go out and find your own door.’ He stands and puts his rubbish in the bin. ‘And now, we must go. Susannah is expecting you!’ he says with a smile. I smile back, because he’s right, the rest is up to me, it’s my choice.