Lola slams the door of her dressing room with her heel, tosses her feather boa onto the red velvet sofa, and collapses beside it, laughing. You clapped louder than the whole crowd, cariño. I saw you from the top of the stairs. The troupe has left, the dressing room is mine. So tell me: do you want the stage number, or the one I never perform in front of the public?