Chapter Text
Not even the warm summer sun could improve Robert’s mood this morning. He had been rudely awoken from a much needed sleep by a string of twelve alarms and a threatening text message from the stage manager stating that if he did not arrive in time for the get-out then the cast might find out about the cause of a certain mystery expense on their last production. Thus Robert faced the morning head on and without breakfast, barely having done his laces before he was out the door.
The bus that he usually took to Cornley’s theatre did not run frequently on a Sunday morning and he had to do the entire journey on foot. On any other occasion this would mean an ample opportunity to gather rage for the day to fire at Chris (or Sandra if she was unlucky). He still felt a familiar frustration bubble at each cafe he passed, knowing that it was ultimately Chris and Trevor’s fault that he was not sufficiently fuelled for the day. He knew that his temper had once or twice upset a few people (who had probably deserved upsetting) so had been forced to listen to people telling him “is it really about the other person or are you taking out your feelings on others”, or “have you ever thought that maybe you are hangry and that Max did not want to be pushed into a bin”. He loathed to admit that hunger may have had a part in it, and that he had even tried. He was not going to make friends in the industry by pushing them away due to poor meal management. He also did not want anybody at the drama society to think he was trying for them, because he was not. He resented them all, and somehow was stuck with them these past years in Cornley. Fate was truly a bastard. Another cafe passed, another wave of Bean-centred anger washed over him.
But there was a silver lining to this walk: Chris’s phone. Robert would not say he was in the habit of stealing Chris’s phone. It often got lost and Robert would find it in the open on a table before it was lost, which was quite thoughtful really. He would hold onto it until there was at least some level of desperation from the disgustingly lanky, pathetic director before placing it in his bag or jacket pocket. The sweet image of a panicked Chris was not the only thing to be gained because Robert also had his passcode. He would often check his search history, camera roll, recent calls, messages - the standard. Voicemails were always the best because they usually were left by people with grievances, or Trevor, or his mother (who also had grievances but also had extra layers for Robert to digest).
Robert swaggered down the road with his in-walk entertainment linked to his earphones. There were more than usual, most of which had been left since the show. His eyes were drawn to the last few, all from members of the drama society who were probably just calling in sick or asking for an apology rather than anything particularly meaty. But that would not stop his personalised podcast from having its entertainment value, especially with the events at the afters last night.
JONATHAN HARRIS 2 - 02:45
Hello Chris. Tonight was… interesting, wasn’t it? I’m sure you’ll probably be fine come the morning, but I can’t say the same for me. It’s been too many mistakes in a row. I can’t do this anymore. It was all fun and games but we aren’t students now, we’re proper adults. I’m a dad. What I’m trying to say is… goodness, I promise I’m not actually crying. I just - I will miss everything, all of you. But this is my last show with you all. I have to do what’s right for my fami- [knock]
who the bloody hell is that?
There were fifteen more minutes of that one. Jonathan did have a habit of not ending voicemails. The real good stuff had been said, extra salt to throw in Chris Bean’s wounds. Perhaps these messages were better than breakfast. Robert crossed the decaying high street, stifling his laughter as he charged onwards towards the theatre and away from the lifeless early morning centre of town.
TREVOR WATSON - 08:57
Hey, it’s Trevor. I’ve got the normal table but the cafe owner is trying to shoo me away cos it’s supposed to be for four people and I’ve been here nursing a latte for half hour. You coulda text me if you weren’t gonna show and saved me a tenner. I know you’re probably asleep or trying to write an apology letter or some other bullshit but please get your skinny arse down to the theatre, ok? Otherwise I’ll send Sandra over to see what state you’re in. God, you worry me sometimes. Anyway, I’ll see you in a bit. Buh bye.
How sweet. It was nice to hear just how much Trevor cared, which was too much. The notes of longing lingered on Robert’s aural palate as he smirked to himself. They were both fools, of course. Trevor was too professional to admit any feelings for Chris. And Chris? Well, he would never notice anything, and nor is Trevor his type. In Robert’s opinion, anyway.
He hurried past the church that was two stops from the theatre, wiping his brow and hoping that whoever arrived first had the decency to put the air conditioning on. Across the road from the church was the pub they had started their afters in. Most of the cast showed, except for Dennis and Vanessa. Most of the cast then proceeded to sink a number of drinks that they might have been able to handle back in the Haversham days, but they were perhaps a little too thinly worn to stomach now. He was not innocent in this, but the cast were usually prepared for that.
What they had not been prepared for was, during violently loud karaoke session from Max and Sandra, to see a hammered and ravenous Chris Bean abandon his burger and challenge Robert to a gentleman’s sparring match… which led to them having to make their way to another establishment to see out the rest of the night. The current pain in his knuckles was worth the look on Chris’s face. A hazy vision, underscored by off-key rendition of Everything Has Changed, of that face he loved to mock wincing at the left hook that caught his shoulder. It was so hazy that Chris’s face looked wrong, he looked wrong entirely. Must have been a good night if he couldn’t remember it.
The theatre was in sight as Robert opened the final message. It was from Dennis. The little fuck had either left without him or forgone this morning entirely - both of which felt like personal attacks. He’d left a message an hour ago that was just heavy breathing. Bless him, thought Robert, what a silly little man. He had been rather good in the recent show, though; across the two week run he made no verbal mistakes and only missed four entrances per show. This was mainly because all of his lines were sung - another of Chris’s remarkable finds, a tragic play about rival guitar luthiers set in the 90s but with a Greek chorus - and he learnt them off a recording of Max singing them, which he replayed constantly because it made him laugh.
The bushes around the car park soon obscured the front entrance to the theatre. Robert paused here to ready himself for upbraiding the latecomers and to wind up the stage manager as much as possible, as was his duty. Chris’s phone began to vibrate in his hand, and he saw that Sandra was calling. He resisted the temptation to answer, instead glaring at the screen as if it had wronged him. He swallowed, anticipation rising. The theatre door creaked. She would pluck out an awful excuse and Chris would just buy it, because she’s Sandra and she’s special.
SANDRA - 09:28
What the fuck has happened? Oh my god, ok. [deep breath] Please call me back the moment you can. We can sort it out together, right? It’s all going to be fine. Just come back. I’ve looked everywhere so I’m just going to assume you’ve left. I would too, but the others are on their way so just come back. Please, Chris.
His heart dropped for a moment. Had something happened to Chris? Had someone else happened to Chris? That was not allowed. He then remembered who the call was from. Miss Drama Queen, over-exaggerating ever minor issue on the planet. One of the bulbs had probably gone and she’d made a scene when she arrived, that would be it.
There was a sharp, bitter smell wafting through the doors as Robert entered - the mark of a good night out, his dad would have said. He proceeded through the dated, musty corridors to the stalls entrance and the smell mixed with that of the old building and… takeaway fries? The portraits of the theatre’s past benefactors looked down on Robert standing in the doorway as he frowned at what had previously been the set of Strung Together. He retched slightly at the pool of vomit beside the toppled flats and shredded curtains. The visible portion of the sofa’s teal cushions had been decorated with blotches of brownish-red, some torn to reveal the stuffing; the remainder of the sofa was draped in a ripped blanket which Robert recognised as being from Max and Dennis’s dressing room. Behind that sofa stood Sandra, who was for once appropriately distressed.