On Saturday evening, June had eleven people and a colleague behind the counter who asked where the spare programmes were kept.
She showed him, then left him to it. Nina had arranged the ordinary staffing she had promised. June didn't have to sell the tickets and introduce the film and be ready for every question at once.
The woman who had suggested the dance-hall film came early. She wore a red coat and looked round the foyer as if bringing an old friend to a place she hoped would treat him well.
“You found it,” she told June.
“I did.”
“Did you like it?”
“I'll tell you in there.”
The woman smiled. “Good.”
June watched her take a programme and go through the doors. Two students followed, discussing where to eat afterwards. An older man came by himself and asked if there would be an interval. There wouldn't. He decided he could manage and bought a bottle of water.
Nobody had come up holding Ruby's video on a phone.
June didn't let that become a promise about the rest of the night. She went into the room.
Nina sat at the back. The woman in red chose the second row, the same seat she had used before. June stood at the front with her notes folded in one hand.
“Thank you for coming,” she said. “This film was somebody else's idea. Which is a relief, because if you hate it we can all blame her.”
The woman in red gave a surprised laugh. June immediately disliked the last part.
“No,” she said. “That came out wrong. I asked her for the idea. I'm grateful.”
The woman waved a hand. “I can take a bad review.”
A few people laughed. June put the notes on the chair beside her.
“She told me about a scene where a woman learns to dance. I watched it and thought it was about being brave enough to become good at something. Then I watched the end and changed my mind.”
She told them about the ordinary things she liked: the bandleader who was terrible at announcing his own musicians, the woman who attended every week without ever taking off her coat, the moment when two dancers had to stop because they were laughing too hard to count.
“I think it knows you can be awkward and still be enjoying yourself,” she said. “We'll talk afterwards, if you want to.”
When she finished, she sat in the first row by herself. She had considered choosing the seat she and Eli had used. She hadn't needed to prove anything by sitting there.
For the first few scenes, she missed somebody beside her. There were places she would have nudged Ruby. There were lines she wanted to argue with Eli about. She felt the empty seat, then heard the woman in red laugh behind her.
June watched the film.
It didn't go away, the missing. It became one thing in an evening with other things happening. A student laughed at the bandleader. The man with the water bottle sighed when a dancer made the same mistake for the third time. June found a joke she hadn't noticed at home and laughed before anybody else.
At the end, nobody leapt to their feet. The lights came up. She went to the front and asked whether the woman had learned to dance by the final scene.
“Technically,” said one of the students. “She was still terrible.”
“She was enjoying it,” said the woman in red.
“You can enjoy being terrible.”
“I think that was the point.”
June smiled. “I changed my mind when she stopped counting. At first she wants to get every step right. At the end she forgets to worry.”
The older man raised a hand. “My wife couldn't dance. Didn't stop her for a minute.”
He told them about a wedding at which she had knocked somebody's drink over and carried on because she liked the song. June asked whether he had danced with her. He said of course, looking mildly amazed by the question.
The conversation went in a direction June hadn't planned. People talked about dances they remembered, then returned to the film to decide whether its most careful character was the least happy. June let them find the route.
Near the end, one of the students asked quietly, “Are you the friend from that video?”
The room stilled. June looked at her.
“Yes. I made a limited statement before I knew the full facts. I've said what I learned and withdrawn it as support for that story.”
The student nodded. “I saw the correction. Sorry. I just recognized you.”
“That's all right. I'm keeping my private account private.”
She waited a moment, then asked the older man which song had been playing at the wedding. He couldn't remember. Somebody suggested three possibilities, each of which he rejected with delight.
They ended there, laughing at a song nobody had managed to name.
In the foyer, two people asked when the next evening would be. June told them she'd decide soon. The woman in red stayed to ask if she would watch another film she remembered.
“It has a dreadful ending,” she said.
“Dreadful how?”
“I won't ruin it. You should see.”
June wrote down the title. Nina watched them from the counter, smiling.
When everybody had gone, June sat on the bench to put her notes away. Her colleague had finished with the ticket drawer. Nina was turning off the foyer lights.
“All right?” Nina asked.
June looked at the folded paper. She had barely used it.
“I liked it,” she said.
“So did they.”
“Some of them liked being wrong.”
“An excellent audience.”
They went out together. Nina needed to turn left; June needed to turn right. They said good night beneath the awning. There was no awkward pause before separating.
June walked home with eleven people's evening in her head, and room for a twelfth opinion that belonged to her.