Work Text:
Hello. This is the voicemail of-
A click. The pleasant vaguely feminine automated voice gives way to a man practically snarling the word "Robert" in a voice so gravelly it should be a garden path.
-who can't be reached at the moment. Please leave your message after the tone!
Beeeeep.
A moment's pause.
A deep breath, like that of a man with the sort of anxiety condition that is so omnipresent that stage fright barely even registers, but who is still bravely stepping forward into the limelight, even knowing that there is a 74% chance he will flub his line.
"Hello, is this Robert... ah, Robert Grove?"
So far, so un-flubbed. The caller bravely soldiers on.
"It's Chris speaking. Chris Bean. Bean, like the legumes. We, ah, met at Sandra's party? The one last Saturday, to which she seemingly invited the whole campus. You expressed interest in joining the Cornley Polytechnic Drama Society, which is, I'll not beat about the bush, rather starved for members - we tried putting on Shakespeare's Much Ado About Nothing last season, but there ended up being so very little Ado that- er."
Chris clears his throat, embarrassed. He considers also bringing up Richard the 1/2th, or Trevor's brave attempt to build a robot female lead for The Taming of the Screw, but thinks better of it.
"So, I thought I would check in with you, see if you would still be interested with somewhat less alcohol in you. I, er, didn't get your number, because at that point Albert was doing that thing with the punch bowl and the penny whistle that- well, you must remember, you were there, and that image will be burnt as deeply into your corneas as it is etched into mine. But I managed to get your number from Denise, on the condition that I would pass on the following message..."
The crinkle of paper. Chris recites:
"'I blocked your number and threw my phone into the toilet and moved to Australia, never contact me again, you absolute'-"
He hastily breaks off. Swallows.
"...she, er. Sends her regards, I believe. After, ah, quite a number of... other... less regard-y... words. Never mind. Personal matter, not my business really. The Drama Society - if you're still interested in joining, that is, but please, please, please join - meets every Thursday at 6 and Saturdays at 3, and we'd be delighted to have you, Robert. Truly."
A pause, somehow conveying the raw desperation unique to failing thespians.
"Call me back, if you'd like more information - again, it's Chris Bean. Chris from the party. Drama Society Chris. Chris Bean. Call me back."
A shaky breath.
Then, softly, "right," and the click of a call being ended.
Beeeeep.
“Hello Robert, it’s Chris from the Drama Society. You’ve probably heard of the infectious disease found in the desserts the cafeteria has been serving - if not from the polytechnic’s mailing list, then probably from The Cornley Gazette, which is clearly having a field day with this.”
Chris sounds deeply annoyed - he is not a fan of The Cornley Gazette, in particular due to the generally unfavourable and often personally hurtful reviews of the Drama Society’s performances in the culture section.
A rustling of paper as he picks up the newspaper in question.
“I mean, really, this headline, TBiramisu at Cornley Campus - it’s childish, is what it is, don’t you think so, Robert? Worse, they’re spreading misinformation! As if our cafeteria would ever serve tiramisu - it was vanilla pudding, obviously. And, according to the official UKHSA report, it contained smallpox, not tuberculosis.”
A pause.
Then, softly, “good grief,” directed at the Cornley Polytechnic at large, and a little at himself. Chris knows literally any other school would offer a better education, as does every other student on campus. Unfortunately, that knowledge doesn’t make much of a difference, in the end.
“...anyway. Apparently, we won’t be able to rehearse under these circumstances. I did tell Hettie that we really ought to push through considering the performance is already on the 6th, but she wouldn’t hear of it. And she is the director, so here I am. Phoning everyone to let them know.”
Chris says the word “director” the way he always says it - filled with deep resentment towards Hettie’s authority, and a desperate, profound longing to wield that authority himself.
“We won’t be meeting this Thursday. Perhaps not even on Saturday. If you can, rehearse your lines alone, because otherwise the 6th will be a total disaster.”
The 6th will be a total disaster anyway. They all know this, and Chris perhaps most of all.
“And… and, Robert, if you go to the cafeteria today, for god’s sake, don’t eat any of the ‘half-price’ vanilla pudding. Remember that your understudy is Dennis, so, if you end up completely incapacitated… I don’t think I need to say any more than that. And if you have questions, well, you have my number. Call me back anytime.”
Chris can faintly be heard muttering something rather uncharitable about the cafeteria before a click cuts him off.
Beeeeep.
“Robert.”
Chris’s tone is cold and pointed.
“You are being very childish about this. You are a rather junior member of the Society, while I have been the Lead Actor and Hettie’s assistant for years. It only makes sense that I would succeed her after the mess on the 6th, and I don’t appreciate you making a fuss about it, really I don’t.”
Chris does not say this, but it’s clear in his tone that he is also a little hurt. He quietly hoped that Robert would assist him, as he himself assisted Hettie, that they could build up a solid working relationship. Robert’s outrage at hearing who the Society had chosen as its next director and president has soundly eliminated this as an option. Even if Robert comes crawling back and asks to be assistant - well, co-director, more likely - Chris will only think of the disdainful tone of his voice when he blurted out “Chris!? You’re joking!”, and refuse him.
“Call me back, once you’re ready to behave like an adult again. I’ve nearly finalised the casting for Murder at Haversham Manor, which will now be my directing debut, and I’d like you to have a look at it. Eleanor is dropping out, too, but if Max stays on and we can convince Jonathan to join, we might still be able to fill all roles.”
There is a little too much silence before the call ends this time, as if Chris was very nearly about to say something else…
But then inevitably thought better of it.
Beeeeep.
“Robert, it’s Director Chris.”
Chris has taken to introducing himself on the phone this way, perhaps in order to reassert his authority after the Haversham disaster. It will take a great deal of mocking over the coming months until he finally gives it up for a lost cause and stops.
“You are late for rehearsals. Again.”
This is said as if it is not only a serious crime, but rather a full-on affront against nature. To Chris, it just might be.
“So, in case you’ve forgotten about it-”
(Said as if this only increases the severity of the crime, and Chris intends to make Robert serve the full sentence without parole.)
“We are meeting today to do a first read-through of Peter Pan. And I know you’re still bitter about the choice of panto, but it was a group decision, and- and, regardless, I will not accept skiving off, Robert! That sort of thing might have been fine under Hettie’s directorial tenure, but I intend to run a tighter ship, is that clear?”
Chris speaks like a man who is already getting in-character for his role as Captain Hook, and is sailing rapidly towards the fate of Captain Bligh. At this point, hitting a backdrop iceberg and going down with the Cornleytanic might actually be a more merciful end for him.
“And while we’re on the topic, if you’d just answer your damn phone sometimes, or read your text messages- dear god, Robert, I can’t even be sure you check your voicemail regularly! If you want to le-”
Chris’s voice cracks very tellingly.
“Leave the Society, then I appreciate it if you’d just tell me outright, and I can stop phoning after you every second week. Come to the theatre, now, or at least call me back with a good excuse.”
(No excuse will ever be good enough in Chris’s eyes.)
Then, quickly, just before the call cuts off: “and come pick your niece up after rehearsal. Last week you forgot her, and she cried.”
Beeeeep.
“Robert, it’s Chris. I’ll be billing you for Lucy’s cab fare.”
Click.
Beeeeep.
"-ring her now! Yes, yes, absolutely, please-"
Chris's voice rings high and frantic amidst some background commotion, but then again, this is hardly unusual the closer they get to performance night. It's not his 'fire alarm shriek' - that one's reserved for when something is on fire, possibly he himself - but it sounds like it's at least a 5.5 on the Bean scale for stage emergencies and rehearsal derailments.
(Usually, on rehearsals Robert can't attend, they rarely get past a 4. Something dramatic must've happened while he was busy taking his owl to the vet for quarterly checkups.)
"Robert!"
Chris is closer to his phone now, breathless with... joy?
"Robert, oh, call me back the moment you get this, I've got fantastic news!"
...that's uncharacteristic. The best news the Cornley Polytechnic Drama Society has had in the past half year was 'we're all going to survive the ingestion of heavy metals during our production of Lead Poets Society' (though it was a close thing for Jonathan), and that was already considered an unusual windfall for the group.
"It's- it's Max, you see, you know Max, we talked about-"
Here, Chris lowers his voice briefly.
"-throwing him out of the Society because he was so utterly awful in Murder at Haversham Manor, remember, he played the groundskeeper like a common gardener, just embarrassing-"
Then, back to normal volume:
"-but, well, he just mentioned that his, er... what was it, Max? Aunt, yes, his aunt works at the BBC, rather high up, and he'd said he could call her and ask-"
Indistinct conversation. Chris falls silent for a moment. His breathing is still audible - seems like he's halfway to hyperventilating.
"She said yes!?"
Chris has never before sounded so happy about anything. Even his promotion to director and president of the Drama Society was received with the sort of restrained gravitas Chris thinks gives him an authoritative and respectable air, but really is just yet another way in which it shows that he wasn't hugged often enough as a child.
"Robert! Did you hear? She said yes, we can have a, an actual live broadcasting slot to perform our Christmas play- ah, Max says we'll have to say that it's a Community Choice Award thing-"
(No community has ever chosen anyone from the Cornley Polytechnic Drama Society for anything, except maybe Annie, whose graduating class marked her down as "Most Likely To Be On The News" in the yearbook. She's still not sure if it was a compliment.)
"-but never mind that. We'll be on Live TV! The whole nation will be able to see our Peter Pan, and this time, just this once, everything will be perfect."
(Similarly, nothing related to the Society has ever been perfect, and chances are high that nothing ever will be.)
"Which means, this will not be a pantomime, that was good enough for amateur night at the Old Cornley Theatre, but if there are cameras I want us to play this like a traditional Christmas vignette, none of that lowbrow nonsense, you hear me, Robert?"
Already, exhilarated joy is giving way to fretting and anxious over-planning. That's just typical Chris, that is.
"And, on that note, I will need you to behave for this one. We can't have anyone stealing the show this time, it'll be perfect, it'll be a team effort, and not like that fairy tale adaptation we did, and which you turned into Robertstilskin! You're not the Lead Actor, this company doesn't have a Lead Actor, and if you ruin this chance for me- for the rest of the group, I'll never forgive you!"
A pause.
"Sorry, that was- uncalled for, I think. I'm a bit lightheaded, actually, this is all such a shock. The BBC, Robert!"
A giddy laugh. It sounds strange, knowing it comes from Chris's mouth, who usually laughs exactly the same forced, uncomfortable chuckle on stage as he does off it.
"Right, I need to... to make plans, talk to Trevor about sprucing up the stage and costumes somewhat, I think Tinkerbell's outfit in particular could... everything needs to be perfect, worthy of television, maybe we can get a guest actor to do the narration... oh god, Christmas is in less than a month, so much still to organise, will we even... Robert, listen, call me back, yes? Call me back. This'll be fantastic. Oh god, us on television!"
The call ends, but the audible grin in Chris's voice seems to echo over the line for a long time afterwards.
Beeeeep.
“Robert…? Well, it’s. It’s as we expected.”
A deep sigh.
“They won’t let us come back next year. The BBC’s stage manager was particularly furious… though the fact that he and Trevor still reflexively cling to each other when they’re in the same room together seemed to take the wind out of his sails at least somewhat. Impressive, what post-traumatic stress can do. And in addition to the destruction of property and endangerment of BBC personnel, apparently there were also, er, a few complaint letters from viewers.”
(There were, in fact, many complaint letters, all of them very explicit in what they thought of the play, the Cornley Polytechnic Drama Society, their acting talents, the directorial vision, and, in at least six independent cases, exactly where Chris could stuff his prop hook.
Most insultingly, nearly all of them referred to Peter Pan as a panto.)
“I’ll officially break the news to the rest of the cast on Thursday. I suppose it was nice while it lasted, getting to work with the BBC.”
Chris sighs again, obviously crestfallen. He hasn’t been this disillusioned with the Drama Society since their conceptually-weak musical adaptation of Silence of the Lambs (90 minutes of silence with only the occasional melodic bleating), which still cannot hold a candle to the pig’s ear that has been made out of Peter Pan. And at least Chris’s- their previous failures were somewhat contained to the local Cornley area - this one has been broadcast to the whole nation. The humiliation is absolute.
“I… Robert, I’ll be frank with you, I don’t know how we’ll move forward from this. I know I have not always been, ah, appreciative of your input in the past, but… if you have any ideas, any ideas at all, I would like to hear them. Call me back.”
Click.
Beeeeep.
“Robert, it’s Chris. I’m calling to remind you that the filming for Christmas Carol will start tomorrow evening at BBC Studios, 4 p.m. sharp. Wear dark clothing, bring some rope, and it would be very helpful if you could escort Jonathan past security, it seems like his key card is the only one they bothered to disable.”
A shuffling and rustling in the background. It probably says something about Chris Bean that he doesn’t sound any more harried planning a criminal takeover of BBC Studios than when organising regular rehearsals - or perhaps it simply says a lot about the Cornley Polytechnic Drama Society’s regular rehearsals.
“Also, as it appears there’s been a bit of miscommunication regarding the casting, again - good news, Dennis is no longer under the impression that he is playing Tall Tom, Tiny Tim’s older brother; bad news, he now believes he’ll be Medium-Sized Tam, their middle sister - let me just state clearly: I will be playing Scrooge, you’re the Ghost of Christmas Yet To Come.”
(This is not the first time Chris has stressed this fact in the past week. In fact, it’s not even the dozenth time. He isn’t exactly wrong to stress it so insistently - only, Robert has already firmly set his mind on ignoring any reminders, so this will be equally as ineffective as the rest.)
“And this has been decided months ago, Robert, so I really don’t see why we must rehash it over and over again. Especially not so close to performance night. You remember what happened last time we reshuffled roles on short notice with The Scottish Play.”
(They’d been switching out double-castings and understudies pretty much right up until the curtain rose, and ultimately greatly confused the audience by having no Macbeth, three Lady Macbeths, half a Macduff, and, inexplicably, a stray Hamlet who couldn’t remember any lines of either play.
It had been a particularly dark night in the Drama Society’s history, and simply that Chris now acknowledges its existence should make clear how very terribly serious he is.)
“So: me, Scrooge. You, ghost. Is that clear? Call me back when you get this, I want to hear you say it. And don’t forget, 4 p.m. sharp.”
The call ends.
Beeeeep.
"Robert? It's Chris. Just calling to let you know that Jacobi has decided not to press charges, which is... a relief. However, we now collectively owe Dame Diana Rigg a colossal favour for talking him out of it, so that doesn't bode entirely well. Sandra says we might be allowed to pay it off by running errands and doing chores, for, er, the next year or two. Still, better than going to court. Again. On that note, if Suchet calls, don't pick up. He got his damned pay cheque, and I hope he chokes on it."
This is where Chris could hang up. Some part of him clearly wants to. Another part, the one that crouched next to an unconvincing prop grave in the fake snow and felt utterly rotten with guilt and shame, keeps the call going.
"And I... Robert, I'm sorry. I already said so to the whole Society, but perhaps you deserve an apology of your own. So: I am sorry. I was beastly to you over the past few months, and what I said about you, on the recording, that was... inexcusable. I was selfish and mean and an arse, to you more than to anyone, and you didn't deserve- well, you deserved some of it, let's be honest with ourselves, but most of it was still entirely unwarranted, and I shouldn't have... I just shouldn't have."
A sigh. Then, quietly, earnest:
"And for what it's worth... you played a brilliant Scrooge, once I finally let you. You truly embodied the role, the joy of the reformed man, the hope for a brighter future full of love for all mankind, in a way that I don't think I myself... would've been quite ready to, yet. I can now admit that you were better suited for the part - and leagues better than bloody Jacobi, obviously. I'm glad to have you as my- our Lead Actor, Robert. Truly."
Chris grimaces. He is not, partly by nature, mostly by nurture, a sentimental man, and he suddenly wishes he hadn't said this on a recording. Robert will be insufferable about it.
...on that note...
"And if- if you're still upset about, about the matter with your sister, then-! I'll have you know that she and I are our own persons and don't owe you any updates on our love lives, a-and it's all old news, really it is, all of it. That agent dropped me a month or two ago after David sodding Suchet put a few words in some ears, and Lena and I haven't been seeing each other since July, when she insinuated that I- well, never you mind what she insinuated! The point is, it wasn't any of your business, none of it is relevant anymore, and if you're going to pull this ridiculous brotherly posturing act, then maybe you shouldn't have started it by trying to court my mother!"
The last part comes out as rather more shriek-y than Chris intended it, though he thinks he can be excused for that. It remains a bit of a sore topic between them, for all the obvious reasons.
A deep breath. Chris collects himself. He's turning a new leaf, he picked up the phone in order to apologise, and if he calls Robert any of the rather rude things running through the back of his mind, that'll all be for naught, won't it.
Finally, he continues, with obvious reluctance, obligation forcing the words out through gritted teeth.
"Speaking of... of Mother. The Bean Family Winter Dinner is coming up. It's on the 28th, to make sure it has as little as possible to do with both Christmas and New Year's, since Mother disapproves of celebrating both of them. Well, she disapproves of celebrating, full stop, but never mind. She told me to, er. Invite you."
Though Chris does not say them, the words DO NOT SAY YES are somehow transmitted crystal-clear across the line.
"She also told me to tell you..." he adds, in the detached tone of someone who should really be far more used to things like this, but still feels the sting of them every time, "...that, if you'd rather not come because I, Chris, will be there, she is perfectly willing to un-invite me."
A heavy, world-weary sigh. The sound of a hand being rubbed over a face.
"God, I hate this season, sometimes," Chris murmurs, muffled against his palm. Then:
"Merry Christmas, Robert. Again, I'm sorry. Call me back."
There are about ten more seconds of silence on the recording before the call finally ends.
Beeeeep.
“Father, it’s Chris. Your son, Chris.”
Chris sounds harried, distraught, more than a little angry - accordingly, he was not paying attention to the voicemail message, and has not yet realised he got the wrong number.
“Where are you? The play will start in under half an hour, everyone is already in costume, we’re all waiting for you- Annie can do Wickham in a pinch, god knows she has done all through rehearsals, but it’s not ideal.”
(It really isn’t. Annie and Max are hard at work trying to figure out the logistics of body-doubling, and Trevor is sitting in a corner with needle and thread, trying to tailor the spare costume to fit her size. Sandra is fussing with her wig and makeup nearby, Vanessa is breathing into a bag, and Robert is at least no longer telling everyone that it’s not yet too late for him and Chris to swap roles, as he’s now busy watching a funny video Jonathan is showing him. Mercifully, he’s also totally ignorant of the call currently being recorded by his phone.)
“...Dad, you promised.”
Chris’s voice is weaker now. Plaintive. He already knows his father won’t be there in time, and he also knows that there’s no traffic jam or other emergency to blame.
If only.
“The whole cast is counting on you, I’m counting on you, and you promised you’d rehearse alone and would be there for the actual performance. We have an audience waiting, and on top of that, this is a live broadcast, for the BBC-”
Chris breaks off, remembering that his father has many and varied opinions on the BBC, all of which he has attempted to share with the editor- and readership of The Guardian. One of his letters last year included a rambling paragraph on “enabling my son’s pointless acting hobby”, which Chris knows because his mother thinks proofreading family correspondence is a bonding activity.
For a long time, the line is silent.
“Why,” asks Chris, finally, audibly on the verge of despair, “do you keep doing this to me!?”
(It’s unclear if he’s still talking to his father, or if he is now addressing a higher power. Perhaps a little bit of both.)
A deep sigh.
The call ends.
Later, Chris will realise his mistake, and firmly instruct Robert to ignore his latest voicemail message, and to ideally delete it without even listening to it.
He doesn't know if Robert followed these instructions; but if curiosity got the better of him and he listened to the recording, then at least he never brings it up, which is good enough for Chris.
Beeeeep.
"Robert, it's Chris - BBC's Health and Safety team got back to us. Apparently we can't do Fiddler on the Roof due to the high chance of it turning into, and I quote, 'Fiddler on the Floor with a Broken Neck', which, considering how rehearsals have gone so far, might be fair. We'll have to brainstorm a new pick for Play of the Week, are you free tomorrow evening? We could meet at the Indian place just off-campus, compile a shortlist for the others to pick a favourite from - I'll pay for the food if you cover drinks and dessert. Call me back, let me know if it's a da- if you can come."
Click.
Beeeeep.
The person on the other end of the line is silent for a very long time.
Until, finally, “how could you,” says Chris Bean, betrayed and hurt, quiet to start with but quickly picking up steam. “Robert, how could you! You know how much- how important- yes, Nativity didn’t go well, I admit that readily, but this- I won’t- I thought we were-!”
Silence again. Harsh breathing. The sound of footsteps, as Chris is pacing in tight circles around his room.
The footsteps stop.
The breathing slows, steadies, as if forced into submission.
When Chris speaks again, his voice is dull. All the fight has gone out of him.
“Just… don’t throw me out of the Society entirely, Robert. That’s all I ask. Give me a role in the next play, any role, and I promise I won’t interfere with whatever you have planned…”
A pause. A muffled groan, as if it’s a particular agony to tear these words out of his throat. The indignity is, without doubt, unbearable - but the alternative would be worse. Chris can’t imagine a life without the Drama Society, and Robert’s threat to suspend his membership cut deeper than any coup alone ever could.
“...Director Grove.”
Click.
Beeeeep.
“Robert!”
The smugness is just dripping from Chris’s voice. It’s frankly nauseating. He hasn’t been this happy since the one time the BBC got a letter from a viewer that called their Plays of the Week “okay” - the letter in question currently hangs framed in their rehearsal room, and Chris regularly gets misty-eyed when his gaze catches on it.
“It’s Chris speaking. You left so very quickly after the curtain fell on Summer Once Again that we had no chance to talk. How unfortunate.”
(Chris could not be more obviously conducting this entire phone call while grinning from ear to ear.)
“So I simply wanted to call and assure you that there are noooo hard feelings whatsoever. Water under the bridge, Robert, water under the bridge. We shall forget all about it and move on past this whole dark chapter in the Society’s history. On that note, you’ll be pleased to hear that I have already decided what play I will direct next, and who knows, perhaps I will even let you play a role or two in it. We shall see.”
(It is entirely clear that Chris has already made up his mind on the matter, and that revenge will taste sweeter than the unwise quantities of syrup they used for Sugar Crush, their recent attempt at a historical play which depicted the Great Molasses Flood.)
“Rehearsals will start the day after tomorrow. In the meantime, if you have anything you’d like to say to me, an apology perhaps, or a ‘thank you’ for being so gracious and forgiving even though you do not deserve it in the slightest, you backstabbing little usurper… well, you have my number, do feel free to call me back, Robert.”
Chris knows full well that Robert will do no such thing, but he feels he made his point. Even after the call ends, a smug air of superiority lingers on.
Beeeeep.
“Mr. Grove.”
Chris's tight voice puts one in mind of a very angry glacier.
“I am hereby terminating your membership of the Cornley Polytechnic Drama Society on the following grounds: embezzlement of funds intended for the Drama Festival, carrying of a firearm on stage, the resulting endangerment of your fellow actors, and-”
The glacier cracks, and white-hot streams of magma-fury come pouring out.
“-and SHOOTING ME IN THE BLOODY SHOULDER, you total- you absolute- argh!”
A frustrated half-scream. In the background, a nurse tells him to shush. Chris quietly assures her he will, before turning back to the phone and continuing in a venomous hiss.
“This is the last straw, Robert, the absolute last straw! I'm done with you. The Society's done with you. God knows it's dangerous enough on that stage, we don't need you making it worse, and sabotaging all the rest of us by hoarding three quarters of the budget for your sodding masterclass. I've got a piece of metal still stuck in my shoulder, and they already washed out my eyes here at the hospital twice to get rid of all all the residual tear gas, and I'm just-”
A sharp breath. The glacier is now melting, or perhaps Chris's eyes are still rather irritated, because there surely can't be any other reason for his voice sounding so suspiciously wet.
“I'm done. I never want to see you again. I won't press charges, and you ought to be grateful for that. Call Trevor if there's anything you need to get from our dressing rooms, and-”
Once more, the nurse says something indistinct.
“They're going to pull your bullet out of me now, I have to go. Do not call me back, Robert. Not that you ever did when I asked you to, either, but still. If you ever cared for me at all, or at least respected me as a director and fellow actor - don't.”
A pause.
Then, quietly, and even more oddly moist:
“I wish I'd never invited you into the Society. All you ever do is torment me, one way or another, for no reason I can fathom, and I'm sick and bloody tired of it.”
The call ends with an unsettling sense of finality.
Beeeeep.
“...it's Chris.”
A pause.
“Your. Hrm. Your message has been received, Robert. Your apology has been… not accepted, entirely, but noted.”
(Noted, and, quite frankly, boggled at. Robert is not the apologising sort. He stands by his actions, even the worse ones- especially the worse ones. Apologies are utterly unheard of.)
“The flowers are quite nice, though I had to give the pralines away - I shouldn't have alcoholic ones while I'm still on medication for the shoulder. And I. I appreciate the card.”
A long silence.
“You don't mean any of it, of course. Don't try telling me otherwise, I know you, Robert. You are saying and doing whatever you need to, in order to get back on the stage. I don't believe for even a moment that you're genuinely remorseful, you just want to act again.”
Oddly, this is said in a tone that is nowhere near as sharp and accusatory as it probably ought to be. Chris sounds knowing, and very nearly fond.
This, if nothing else, has always been true: he and Robert understand each other. One could even call them kindred spirits, if one wanted to gravely insult them both. Now that time and a great deal of painkillers have softened the sharp edge of Chris's anger, he can acknowledge that he felt much the same sort of desperation when he was in a similar position, earlier in the season, and would have resorted to chocolate and flowers, too, if necessary.
“But I don't need you to mean it. We're actors, we don't mean half of what we say. This is what I want from you, Robert: change. Genuine change. Work with the rest of the company, instead of against them, from now on.”
(Work with ME, Chris thinks. Please. I’ve always- I don't want anything more than that. Just work with me, please.)
“Your membership is reinstated - but you’re on probation, Robert. The other half of the Festival performances are still to come, and if you want to continue being part of the Drama Society, then prove to me, to us, that you are capable of not actively sabotaging the plays.”
A soft sigh.
“Not that we need much active sabotaging for things to go wrong, but still. It's not even… I know you probably think I've got it out for you because of this, this enmity we've slid into, but I assure you, it has nothing to do with that. I have a responsibility to the group, Robert. If you carry a gun onto the set, or commandeer an unfair share of the budget, that hurts more people than just me. Do you understand?”
(The fact that Robert shot Chris, of all people, is, actually, the only reason he is being shown leniency now. At the end of the day, Chris, who has a fascinating array of complexes across the full spectrum of inferiority and superiority, does not believe that any injury to him alone quite counts.)
“I will see you at rehearsal tomorrow. And you should know that I've unblocked your number, so you don't need to keep stealing Dennis's phone. …in case you wanted to call me back, that is.”
Click.
(Robert will in fact call Chris back, loudly and boisterously insisting that he absolutely means all of it, and that it's rather insulting that Chris considers his heartfelt and genuinely remorseful apology dishonest.
Chris, assuming that Robert is merely trying to defend his acting/lying skills, will roll his eyes, and hang up…
But when Robert remains perfectly well-behaved for the remaining Festival rehearsals, and is even oddly decent towards him specifically, Chris will at least appreciate that Robert took his words about proving himself to heart.)
Beeeeep.
“Robert, it's Chris. You-”
He pauses. Listens to someone speak indistinctly in the background.
“...and Trevor is also here.”
Another pause.
“...and he says hello. Anyway.”
(Chris is not generally a man for meaningless pleasantries, in case one couldn’t tell from the consistent lack of ‘hello’s or ‘goodbye’s in his voicemails.)
“You won't get this until… the doctors said it’ll take at least another six hours for the horse tranquilisers to wear off, so tomorrow morning, most likely. But, just to keep you updated, since you never check the sodding group chat…”
(This, as well as “you never check your sodding email/your sodding text messages/the sodding flyer on the sodding Polytechnic student pinboard” is an old and almost comfortable argument. They could be having it in their sleep - which, in a sense, Robert is currently doing.)
“Jonathan’s forcibly-solo ensemble number went… poorly. Trevor has had to reset the ‘X days since the last serious piano-related injury’ counter to zero. A shame, considering we were just getting into the double digits.”
(The last incident was a little under two weeks ago, at an early rehearsal for their upcoming Halloween murder mystery, The Tale Of The Haunted Killer Piano, Whose Title Rather Gives Away The Ending, And Is A Bit Of A Mouthful Besides, during which Vanessa suffered serious injury when she ran head-first into the titular prop piano. Due to Trevor screwing wheels onto it for easier scene changes, the rapid acceleration caused by the collision, and an inexplicably open stage door, the perpetrator remains, to this day, at large.)
“Jonathan’s fine. -ish. Nothing that won't heal in time. And leave only minimal scarring.”
(The bar for “fine” is so very low. Any mostly survivable injury would clear it, as well as a few of the quicker lethal ones.)
“And if nothing else, we’ve at least achieved some sort of personal record for Most Members Of The Drama Society Completely Incapacitated At The Same Time. If we count Trevor getting bitten by the horse, and my lingering complications from carrying six people to A&E on a recently-shot shoulder-”
(As well as the injuries to his dignity inflicted by prancing around in Union Jack boxers, though Chris is hardened against such things after years of acting.)
“-we may even be at 100% incapacitation. One of the doctors told me we were close to filling up our rewards card, and to be honest I'm not entirely sure she was joking.”
(She wasn't. One more A&E visit, and they'll get a free first-aid kit.)
“Well, we will all need some time to recover after this, I suppose. A nice, calm play, maybe. I've got some ideas for involving Jonathan even before his full body cast comes off - what do you think about ‘The English Patient: The Musical’?”
(Robert will not think well of it, but that's nothing against the opinion of the general populace, which, as ever, they will not hesitate to share with the BBC complaints desk, the internet, and, on rare and puzzling occasions, Chris's private phone number.)
“And, Robert, do please call me back once you hear this. I’d like to know that y- that everyone is alright.”
He puts down the phone, but snippets of his voice can still be heard as he and Trevor talk.
“...what? No, I jus-… that’s… -ings for Robert? Of all… -solutely not! Don’t imply…”
It takes a while until Chris notices that he hasn’t hit the “end call” button properly - but once he does, he hastens to do so without a second’s delay.
Robert curses softly, hurrying along the corridor that leads to the Cornley Polytechnic Drama Society’s rehearsal rooms - they’re located in the surprisingly spacious basement under the Arts building, just beside the boiler room, if you see a patch of mould that vaguely resembles the outline of Paraguay, you’ve gone too far - at some speed.
Not, mind, because he is late for rehearsal. Robert Grove does not care about being late for rehearsals, and has, on multiple occasions, delayed his arrival deliberately, just to goad Chris into leaving him an angry voicemail or two. No, rehearsal already ended half an hour ago - and of course, Robert was already on the bus by the time he realised he left his phone behind.
And it’s snowing outside. The one evening in the year he needs to get out of the bus and walk the way back to campus, the Cornley weather forgets that white Christmases are right out in the thirty-six-time winner of the England’s Greyest City award (it would be all-time winner, if not for the Great Paint Factory Explosion of ‘97 laying their chances at the title to ruin), and starts getting all winter-y. Bah. Robert would add a “humbug”, but much like Macbeth, The Dickensian Play is not to be referenced in December, lest it taint the Christmas production with residual bad luck.
Robert unlocks the door, eases it open. Back in the day, the sitting Drama Society President had the only copy of the key, “for security reasons”, as Chris insisted; but of course, somebody promptly stole his key the moment he received it, and distributed copies among the rest of the cast. Chris still doesn’t know who did it, and nobody in the Society will ever tell him. They all hated sitting out in the corridor and having to wait together.
As the holidays are approaching, props and set pieces for their annual Christmas play are crowding the space. This year, it will be a stage adaptation of Home Alone… or, well. To avoid copyright issues, some minor changes had to be made. Accordingly, the story is now set in a different country and historical period, following the misadventures of a young monk alone at a medieval Italian monastery.
Or, as the playbill announces, “Rome Atone”.
Robert isn’t entirely sure if it makes much sense to change the role of the mum to that of Mother Superior, and cast Sandra in it; but Max is arguably brilliant as Brother Kevinus, and as long as Annie and Vanessa survive all the rehearsals (playing the Wet Demons and evading Kevinus’s traps is quite demanding) the play might even end up being halfway decent. Not truly good, obviously - after all, Robert only has minor roles in it - but passable.
He squeezes past a half-painted monastery wall that will be transported to BBC Studios later this week, grumbling under his breath. He didn’t put his phone down for long, he doesn’t think, probably just forgot to transfer it during a costume change, or when packing up his things after-
Robert freezes.
He isn’t alone.
He should be. Nobody stays in these rooms longer than they need to, not least because of that latest rather worrying health and safety report the polytech received, which rather singled out the basements. The whole cast usually clears out within minutes.
And yet, there sits Chris, on one of the fake snow drifts for the monastery garden-
(“Wait, Chris. How cold do winters in Italy even get? Probably not cold enough for snow, right?”
“They do when we’re putting on a bloody Christmas play, Trevor.”
“Right. Got it. Snow drifts it is.”)
-and not even fussing about with a script or props. Only staring at his phone in the half-dark.
…no.
Not at his phone, in fact.
“Are you looking through my phone!?” Robert blurts out - and Chris jumps about four feet in the air, panicked to a degree which, these days, not even a fire alarm can reliably achieve.
(Most of the members of the Drama Society are surprisingly zen about loud noises, these days. Perhaps too much so.)
“R-Robert!” Chris smiles, one of his frantic everything-is-falling-apart stage smiles, nearly dropping the phone. If he cracks the screen, Robert will kill him. “I was only- I-”
“Invading my privacy,” Robert accuses, snatching the phone out of Chris’s hand and stuffing it into his coat pocket. “For shame, Chris. For shame!”
(Despite his words, Robert is visibly delighted by this development. Perhaps he smells another opportunity to stage a coup, if he makes it known that their venerable director is snooping around their devices. Perhaps he just likes Chris being so very obviously in the wrong. Perhaps a little bit of both.)
“I was doing nothing of the kind,” Chris lies. Robert, who can tell apart Acting and Not-Acting from a mile off, is certain of it. “There is a perfectly innocent explanation for this.”
“Is there.”
“Yes, well. You see, I noticed you’d forgotten your phone in your costume, as I was checking them all for bloodstains.”
(It has not been the smoothest rehearsal - but, admittedly, also not the worst. No broken bones is always a win in the Drama Society’s book.)
“And I.” Chris clears his throat, the way he does when he absolutely hates his role and is bracing himself for soldiering through his lines anyway, and continues with great(ish) dignity. “I called your mobile phone. To let you know you left it behind.”
“Ah,” says Robert - and then bursts out into laughter, because really, how could he not.
“It isn’t that funny, Robert!” Chris hisses, face reddening with furious embarrassment. “It has been a challenging and exhausting rehearsal, I was tired, I wasn’t thinking. Understandable mistake, and not funny at all.”
“It is,” Robert wheezes, doubled over, “the funniest thing I’ve heard all year! Wait, wait, Chris, how far did you get into the voicemail message? Please tell me you didn’t realise until after you actually started talking!”
(In fact, Chris got all the way to “call me back” before the penny dropped. He would rather go step into the nearby tripwire and get smacked into the face with an illuminated manuscript boo(k)bie trap than admit this.)
“I might’ve been able to tell if you hadn’t set your phone to direct all my calls straight to voicemail!” Chris argues heatedly, because he and Robert have never had a conversation they couldn’t eventually turn into an argument. Especially not the ones Chris feels awkward and wrongfooted in. “No wonder you never pick up! What if there’s an emergency? Important Drama Society business? You won’t even know I called! It’s irresponsible!”
Robert makes a disinterested sound, wiping leftover tears of laughter from his eyes. Chris, who has always been the sort of micromanaging type who expects 24/7 access to his cast members at all time, does not seem impressed by the debonair attitude.
“Anyway,” he crosses his arms, defensively, “I thought I could simply delete that voicemail recording, and you would be none the wiser. Your password was very easy to guess - Olivier, really, Robert?”
“You’ve got to keep your eye on the prize, Chris,” Robert shrugs…
And freezes. The uncaring mirth slowly fades from his face, as something approaching panic sets in.
“You went into my voicemail inbox,” he says, at a volume that is really quite unusually low for the likes of Robert Grove. But perhaps that is justified - he already knows what Chris must have found there, after all.
“I did.” Chris admits, somewhat reluctantly. “Robert, you. Er. Is there a particular reason you save all my voicemail messages…?”
“No,” Robert lies. Very badly. “I keep everyone’s messages. It doesn’t mean anything.”
“You don’t,” Chris points out, because of course he checked. “There’s about 15 from Dennis in your bin.”
Robert makes a nervous, cornered noise, a sort of “eeerrrhhh.” Even in the relative cold of the basement, he is starting to sweat.
“And mine- they go back years. I think you still have the very first voicemail I left you, after Sandra’s party.” Chris pauses. Frowns. “...didn’t you get a new mobile last February?”
“Oh, you can transfer the inbox over to a new phone, if you just forward all the messages,” Robert explains, as if on autopilot, which answers that question, and creates at least a dozen more.
“...I see,” Chris says, slowly. He doesn’t, really, but he’s beginning to cautiously hazard a guess. “Robert…”
“Well, I have my phone, now! Was nice seeing you, Chris,” Robert says loudly, and tries to back away.
“Robert,” Chris’s hand shoots out, grabs Robert’s sleeve, “why are you going to considerable lengths to preserve all my voicemail messages?”
Robert thinks. Swallows.
And says, with the sort of wide-eyed look of cornered terror one normally only sees in wild animals, or Vanessa being asked to do improv, “I don’t know, Chris. Why did you press the flowers I sent you, and put them into your rehearsal diary?”
Chris drops his sleeve as if burnt.
“Those could be anybody’s flowers,” he says, instantly, unconvincingly.
“Folded into my apology card?”
(The one you thought I didn’t mean, Robert doesn’t add.)
“Well. Er.” Chris suddenly and violently regrets multiple of his life choices, and a good number of Robert’s. “S-since when have you been reading my rehearsal notebook - it’s not a diary, it’s for Drama Society business only - anyway!?”
“Since always, Chris, obviously.” Robert rolls his eyes. How else would he be able to know what Chris really thinks about their plays, and act accordingly (or in defiance of it)? He needs that info. “But, honestly, pressed flowers. How terribly sentimental of you, Chris. I didn’t realise our director had been replaced by Georgette Heyer while we weren’t looking.”
“She wrote thrillers, too,” Chris shoots back - and, judging from his murderous glare, he’s one too-sharp prop sword away from turning this situation into one. “And you can hardly talk, Robert - those are hundreds of voicemail messages, and I’m cross with you in most of them! The flowers and card are me cherishing an uncharacteristically kind gesture, that is-”
“Is what, Chris?” Robert steps forward, aggressively. Fake snow crunches under his shoes. “What do you think it is?”
“You’re obsessed with me,” Chris accuses, taking his own step forward. His eyes are blazing with something oddly akin to triumph. Whatever else he feels at the moment - and his usual baseline of frustration and embarrassment is as intact as ever - he is clearly incredibly pleased with this fact. “I’m starting to think you always have been.”
“Takes one to know one.” Robert looks gleeful in a somewhat feral way, too… and, beneath all the bluster and aggression, almost hopeful. It does seem like the reason Chris kept the flowers is the very same which made Robert hoard voicemails, which is… fortunate.
“Oh, how very mature!” Chris scoffs. “Are we in kindergarten, Robert? Should I grow pigtails so you can pull on them?”
“I won’t if there’s a decent chance you’ll like it.”
“You’re a narcissistic, immature, insufferable arse!”
“And you’re a neurotic, sniveling, hopelessly repressed wanker!”
In the course of their argument the distance between them has shrunk to levels only relevant for purposes of plausible deniability. Heaving chests are almost touching with every furious breath. They are silent only because they’re both trying to think of some even worse and more creative insult to throw at the other’s head.
And then, gradually, eyes flicker down to lips. Hearts beat just a little faster. Anger is starting to transform into a different emotion altogether. It becomes increasingly obvious that they’re careening towards something which some people might have claimed was inevitable from the start, considering the intricate rituals of Chris and Robert’s relationship, the ongoing tension between them, and the fact that they’re both actors and everyone sleeps with everyone else in theatre.
The moment pulls, stretches…
“So,” Robert suddenly breaks the silence, audibly annoyed, “are we going to kiss, or what?”
“You-!” Chris splutters, rearing back. “Well! We certainly aren’t going to now.”
“What!? Why not? You were gagging for it, Chris, don’t think I can’t tell, you want me so bad-”
“Because you ruined the moment, Robert!” Chris snaps. “A perfectly nice moment, building tension that would eventually erupt in a perfectly nice snog, and you simply had to ruin it, didn’t you, as you always do - this is the problem with your acting too, by the way, that you never know when to-”
“Ruined the moment!?” Robert bellows furiously, over Chris’s impassioned tirade listing Robert’s various faults. “I’ll show you ruined, Chris!”
And so Robert does.
With his mouth.
Chris, who will let himself be “masked” by Robert the day Hell freezes over and gets turned into a ski resort, does not hesitate for even a second, and promptly attempts to angrily shove his tongue down Robert’s throat.
Predictably, the situation only devolves from there - though mostly in (surprisingly) mutually enjoyable ways.
Beeeeep.
For the first 10-20 seconds of the recording, nothing can be heard except faint breathing.
Then, suddenly, “oh, I need to talk!” Dennis Tyde remembers - this is a common issue with him and answerphones. And him and his lines in the scripts. And him and conversation with other people.
(On the other hand, however, he’s very good at being put on hold by helplines, and has once bravely outlasted a 78 hour hold loop.)
“Robert? Hello, Robert, it’s Dennis!”
Unseen by anyone except his mother chopping ingredients for Christmas dinner in the kitchen, Dennis is waving.
“I just wanted to let you know that mum and I are making dinner right now, and if you’d like… well, you know you’re always welcome at our place, right? Especially at Christmas. Mum says we might have enough extra food for Chris, too, if he wants to come - I know you’re busy going over everything that went wrong with Rome Atone-”
(Just as the two of them were “busy” going over the cast list, the set design, the flyers, the costume change timing, and a variety of other tasks throughout rehearsals. Dennis is very impressed with how intensely the two are working together these days. Often all throughout the night.
Dennis gathers that this has significantly influenced the outcome of some sort of Drama Society betting pool, but to be quite honest, he was never quite sure what that was all about in the first place.)
“-but I think it really wasn’t so bad-”
(It was worse.)
“-and that can wait until tomorrow, too, can’t it? It’s Christmas, we should be celebrating together! We’ve decked the halls, me and mum, so it’s time to be jolly, that’s how it works. And Sandra says that Max will be released from hospital this evening, so maybe we’ll all come to pick him up. Trevor says he’ll bring home-baked cookies.”
(Unfortunately, all traps in the play backfired on Brother Kevinus - Vanessa and Annie’s guardian angels must have been working overtime, at Max’s expense.)
“It’d be lovely to have you over for dinner, especially if Chris comes, too. I don’t think his family does much on Christmas. Don’t tell him I said that, but I think his holiday plans always sound quite sad.”
(Chris would argue fiercely against this damning judgement, insisting that Bean Christmases are perfectly acceptable celebrations that provide an appropriate amount of emotional fulfilment.
Everyone else, however, readily agrees with Dennis.)
“But he’s been looking much happier this year than the last few, so that’s great! Anyway, call me back, if you want to come, we’ll put plates out for you. Or just come over unannounced! That’s fine too. Mum won’t mind.”
(Frankly, Mrs. Tyde is just happy that her son has friends that might visit spontaneously - and she’s always been quite fond of Robert in particular, who really is a very sweet boy, and practically part of the family. And a very sensitive lov-
…though that’s neither here nor there. Old news, that.)
“We’ll be waiting to hear from you. Merry Christmas, Robert! And to Chris, too. See you soon!”
Once more, Dennis waves. His mother distractedly waves back with a half-chopped carrot from the kitchen.
Another minute of vaguely pleased-sounding breathing, until Dennis bursts out, “oh, right, hanging up!” - and so, the latest of Robert Grove’s voicemail messages comes to an abrupt end.