by JL Merrow
It was nearly quarter to eight by the time Con pulled up outside the village hall. Shit. Heather really would kill him if Tristan had flounced off in a huff because Con wasn’t there. He kicked off his boots at the door and tiptoed through the foyer in his socks.
There was definitely some rehearsing going on. And yeah—that was Tristan’s voice, thank God, although it wasn’t anything like as plummy as it usually was. He’d put on some kind of ooh-arrr yokel accent that made his “r’s” about three miles long, and was reading out a bit of Bottom’s part.
“…and tharrrr we may rrrrre’earrrrrse most obscenely and courrrageously. Take pains. Be perrrrfec’. Adieu.”
Con’s French wasn’t anything to write home about, but he was fairly sure Tristan’s pronunciation of “adieu” would have made his old French teacher cry. He crept closer and peeked around the door to see Tristan standing in the middle of the hall, everyone staring at him. He looked like he was enjoying himself.
Con smiled. No surprise there.
Heather looked like Christmas had come early. In fact, she looked like she was only a couple of minutes away from dumping Chris like a ton of bricks and demanding to have Tristan’s babies.
“Or,” Tristan was saying, “I could ease off on the country bumpkin—how’s everyone else on their accents? After all, hamming it up for comic effect is all very well, but we want these men to be plausible as a group of friends.”
The others—Chris, Gordon and the three N’s, Neil, Nigel and Norman, who were all older blokes Con didn’t know very well—gave each other doubtful looks.
“How about you try it in more of a Hertfordshire accent, then?” Heather suggested quickly. “And we’ll all read through together, so you can get a feel for how the others are playing it, yeah?”
Standing around in a rough circle, they started reading through the scene.
Con didn’t have to go to rehearsals—it was useful being there sometimes, because Heather would come up with changes she wanted made to the scenery, but most of the time he was just a spare part. It was dead interesting, though, watching how they worked out how to play the roles, and what bits of stage business worked and what didn’t. And sometimes they’d ask his opinion as a stand-in audience, and that was pretty good too.
He’d already seen some of the bits with the rude mechanicals a few times, though he was buggered if he knew why they were called that. What with there being six of them in it, plus Heather, they tended to use the hall to go through their scenes. A lot of the other scenes just had a couple of actors, so they could rehearse somewhere smaller.
So, yeah, he had something to compare Tristan’s performance to. And Tristan was amazing. Mrs. Geary hadn’t just been saying it because he was her grandson. And Con had known the rude mechanicals were supposed to be funny, but to be honest, he’d had a job seeing why before.
With Tristan, though… He was so energetic, for one thing, rather than just standing there and reading off the lines. He moved around the stage and used his arms to make big gestures, all puffed up and pompous one minute, and all ridiculous the next. And it wasn’t just him—all the others seemed to up their game or catch the energy or something.
Con felt bad about thinking it, because Patrick was a good bloke, but he hadn’t really got that Bottom was supposed to be a bad actor, until he saw how Tristan changed from totally believable to, well, really crap, when he was acting the acting bits. He’d put on an accent now that somehow managed to make him sound like someone trying to be posher than they were. The parts where he put on a girly voice or roared like a lion absolutely cracked Con up, and he wasn’t the only one. And the words Tristan was speaking, all that weird old-fashioned English, they actually made sense when he said them. It was like he was watching the film of it again—only better, because he was right there. And in the film, they’d cut it all down to essentials, whereas Tristan was giving the full speeches. Giving the full effect.
Con wasn’t the only one just staring at Tristan in amazement at the end of the scene.
“So… You’ve done this before, yeah?” Heather said at last.
“What, acted in Dream? No, no. But I’ve studied it, obviously, and seen it performed at the Globe, of course.”
Yeah, Con thought. Of course.
“Actually, there’s a few bits of stage business I rather liked from their production which we could borrow, if you wanted. Concerning Wall’s, ahem, hole. Unless you think it’d be too coarse for a provincial audience?” He didn’t wait for an answer, just grabbing Nigel’s arm. “Now, if you would be so kind as to stand here, legs, as they say, akimbo…”
Con felt safe padding into the hall now.
He might have known Tristan wouldn’t let him go unnoticed.
“Aha! Better three hours too late than a minute too soon, hmm?” Tristan bounded over to Con, clapped him on the back and beamed at him in a way that, well, did weird stuff to Con’s insides. It was the first time he’d seen the bloke smile like that—friendly, and happy, and despite his words, not like he was laughing at a joke and Con was the butt of it.
Trouble was, it didn’t last. Just as Con smiled back, Tristan’s face changed into an exaggerated expression of disgust. “Ye Gods. I realise you have to grunt and sweat under a weary life, but perhaps a tad less of the latter before going into company, hmm?”
Bugger. He’d never had that shower, had he? “Sorry if a bit of honest sweat offends you,” he snapped, hurt.
“It’s offending the rest of us and all, Con,” Heather put in, wrinkling her nose with a laugh.
“Yeah, well, I ran out of time, din’t I? Got talking to the old bloke I was working for. Don’t worry, I’m not staying. Wouldn’t want to offend anyone.” Con stomped off the best he could in his socks, knowing he was getting more worked up about it than he should—Heather teased him all the time, and he knew she didn’t mean anything by it—but he couldn’t seem to help it.
Sodding Tristan. He’d probably never done a day’s honest labour in his privileged little life. Closest he ever got to hard work was most likely lugging Fortnum and Mason picnic hampers to the opera at Glyndebourne. Con bet the only time he actually broke into a sweat was when the Oxford/Cambridge Boat Race started looking like it was going to be won by the wrong team. Crew, whatever.
Bastard. Why did he have to keep rubbing it in Con wasn’t in his league? Con knew that already.
He might be thick, but he wasn’t a total idiot.
Chapter Five
Woo Peaceably
Tristan watched Con’s exit in some bemusement. Who’d have expected the man to prove so sensitive? Tristan wouldn’t have thought he’d have the imagination. “Perhaps I should…” He gestured eloquently into the sudden silence that had fallen.
“Leave him,” Heather said firmly. “He’s just being a grumpy sod. Right, so what were you saying about Wall?”
Tristan wrenched his attention back to matters merely theatrical rather than over-dramatic, but it kept trying to wander back Con-wards. After all, the man had even managed to make stalking off in a huff look rather magnificent. In his socks.
“Tristan?” Heather asked loudly.
“Ah. Sorry. Yes. Where were we?” He forced himself to concentrate on rehearsing, which was, after all, no hardship. Yes, of course his fellow cast members were for the most part more wooden than a herd of hobby horses rampaging through a forest, but you couldn’t fault their enthusiasm—or Heather’s direction, for that matter. And yes, all right, it was exceedingly good for the ego to be looked up to as a professional. And to know that, come the performance, his would be the stand-out role everyone talked about. Despite all the self-sabotaging he was doing by helping the others with their interpretations of the roles.
The facilities here too were perfectly adequate—indeed, rather better than he’d been expecting. There was a permanent stage, with wings and curtains, at
one end of the hall, and proper lighting as well. Tristan could have made do with far less—indeed, had done so more than once in the course of his career, which had encompassed Roman-style outdoor amphitheatres, sports halls and, on one occasion, simply a large rock.
He didn’t think of Con again—well, not to the point of having to be told anything twice, at any rate—until Heather looked at the clock and told them it was time to call it a night. Tristan frowned. It was barely ten o’clock. “So soon?”
Gordon (a rather ratlike fellow with greying hair who played Quince in an acceptably downtrodden manner) clapped him on the shoulder. “Some of us have church to get up for in the morning.”
“And the hall’s only booked till ten,” Heather added. “Can you give us a hand putting these chairs back?”
As he set to with the rest of them to accomplish the minimal amount of tidying that was necessary, Tristan finally gave his attention licence to wander back to Con’s finer attributes. It promised to take some time. After all, there were so many of them. He was, he decided, not the least bit put off by what had passed between them earlier. With hindsight, perhaps Tristan had been a little thoughtless in what he’d said. It wasn’t even as though he’d particularly objected to the man’s rather musky aroma. It had just taken him by surprise, that was all. But still, he could perhaps have curbed his tongue.
Yes… Going to see Con to apologise would be entirely appropriate, he decided. Only to remember he didn’t have a clue where the man lived. Still, Heather ought to know. “Heather, darling, a word?”
“Yeah?” Heather looked up from her notes. “Actually, I meant to say, we always go down the pub after rehearsals—you coming? We can talk more there. I wanted to speak to you about Bottom’s costume and stuff.”
She was clearly taking it as read that he was going to play the part, although he was fairly sure he’d have remembered it if he’d actually agreed to do so. Tristan approved. It was exactly what he’d have done in her stead—never give the buggers a chance to back out. “Ah. While there is, of course, nothing I should like better than quaffing a pint or two of ale”—figuratively speaking, of course, as Tristan couldn’t stand the stuff; he much preferred a nice chablis—“with my fellow mechanicals and your lovely self, I feel it incumbent on me to make amends for my little faux-pas earlier. I don’t suppose you’d happen to have a certain over-large handyman’s address?”
She frowned. “Con? You don’t have to apologise to him. He’s just in a mood.”
Tristan gave her a winning smile and was gratified to see her tan skin tinged ever so slightly pinker as she flushed. “Nevertheless… After all, one must have harmony in the ranks.”
“Well, if you’re sure… He lives over the post office. First floor. Flat number’s 6a. You know the post office, right?”
Tristan nodded. “Down the hill, over the bridge, on the left. Next to the more bijou of the village’s two hairdressing establishments.”
“Something like that, yeah. You’ll find it. Tell Con to come and join us in the pub when he’s got over his grump.”
“I shall indeed,” Tristan said smoothly. It was, of course, a bald-faced lie. If he was going to beard the lion in his den, he’d be buggered if he’d let him get away that easily. This could be the perfect opportunity to put his plans of seduction into action—after all, what better way to show his apology was sincere than by making it very plain he had absolutely no objections to Con’s person, sweaty or no?
He took his leave of his fellow players—promising to attend the next pub session without fail—and strode purposefully down the hill. The sun had fully set during rehearsals, and the gentle night breeze was refreshingly cool after the stuffiness of the village hall. Actually, a little too cool—Tristan shivered, dressed only in a shirt damp with perspiration from some rather energetic stage business.
Tristan’s route took him past the village shops, and for a moment, he entertained the notion of purchasing some sort of placatory gift for Con. Most of the shops, of course, were long closed, but the off-licence was open, as was Tesco. A bottle of something, perhaps? (Not shower gel). Or a cake?
Did Con even eat cake? From the looks of him, rare steak might be more to his taste. Or Cow Pie. A bottle, then? Perhaps a nice merlot or malt whisky? They could open it together…
No. That might look like he was trying too hard—and possibly, and which was even less flattering, like he thought he’d have to get Con drunk to stand a chance with him. That would never do.
The flats, Tristan realised after a moment or two staring up at the featureless windows above the post office and its neighbours, were accessed via a squareish, drive-through archway. As he penetrated its poorly-lit depths, Tristan hoped he wasn’t about to step in anything unpleasant. Most people in the village appeared to be remarkably conscientious about picking up after their dogs, but one did see the occasional relic of over-enthusiastic consumption of lager and curry. And this close to the river, rats were always a possibility… He shivered, and hastened to the door. 6a, 6a… Yes, that was it. Tristan pressed the buzzer and waited.
“Yeah?” crackled through the tiny speaker.
Tristan placed his mouth close to it. “It’s me. Tristan. Could we have a word?”
Silence. Perhaps Tristan should have bought a bottle of something after all. He could drown his sorrows with it if Con refused to speak to him—
The door buzzed, and Con hastily pushed it open. The stairway thus revealed was ugly, but at least it was more or less clean, with a slight smell of bleach rather than the more distressing odours one often encountered in cheap accommodation. He’d stayed in worse places, both as a student and as a professional actor. “Conwards and upwards,” Tristan muttered to himself, mounting the stairs.
Con’s door was open, the light spilling out from the flat effectively eclipsed by the man himself. He stood there, arms folded and feet shoulder-width apart, the impression of tightly coiled belligerence not the least bit marred by the hole in one sock.
“What do you want?” Con growled in a low voice that rumbled deliciously through Tristan’s chest. Among other parts.
Tristan put on his most charming smile, the one with a hint of self-deprecation. “Can I come in?”
“Why?”
Tristan dialled up the self-deprecation a notch. “I wanted to apologise.”
Con unfolded his arms. His stance was still tense, but now with much less of a sense of imminent violence. “Yeah, well. Forget about it.”
“Please,” Tristan said winningly. “I’ve been feeling terrible about what I said to you.”
A hand crept up to rub the back of Con’s neck. “’S okay.”
“Then I can come in?” Tristan persisted, stepping forward. As he’d hoped, Con stepped back instinctively, and Tristan was in.
Well.
Given that Con was one of the largest people Tristan knew, the flat really was remarkably small. The front door opened directly onto a bed/sitting room, into which were crowded a double bed, sofa, television and a dining table that would just about seat one, or two if their plates were very small and they were up for a game of footsie. Two doors led off the room, presumably to some kind of washing and cooking facilities respectively.
“Well,” Tristan said, his hands on his hips. “Isn’t this cosy? May I?” He indicated the sofa and sat on it without waiting for a reply.
Con was still standing there, apparently nonplussed. He had damp hair, Tristan could see now, and had changed into a worn T-shirt and jogging bottoms. His face flushed ever so slightly under Tristan’s gaze. “Look, you don’t have to—”
“But I insist,” Tristan said firmly, leaning back in the sofa so as to be able to look Con in the eye without cricking his neck. “I don’t suppose I could trouble you for a glass of water? I came straight down as soon as the Iron Lady released us, and I’m feeling somewhat parched.”
“Tea would be splendid,” Tristan assured him. Excellent.
He spent the time while Con was in, presumably, the kitchen, having a further look around. There was a shelf unit to one side that housed DVDs, CDs, audiobooks and a photo of Con with an elderly lady, both of them smiling. Grandmother? Tristan couldn’t trace any family resemblance—for a start, the old lady was a good foot and a half shorter than her putative grandson—but that didn’t necessarily mean a thing.
“You want milk?”
Tristan startled and put the photo down hastily before returning to his seat. “Black, please. Lemon, if you have it. No? Never mind.”
The tea, when it came, was in a mug celebrating the last royal jubilee, depicting Her Majesty in a particularly unsuitable shade of lipstick. Tristan’s was, at any rate. Con was drinking out of one emblazoned with “Keep Calm and Drink Tea”. After handing Tristan his drink, he hovered awkwardly by the television.
That wouldn’t do. “Do sit down,” Tristan invited, patting the sofa cushion next to him. Apart from the bed and the dining chairs, it was the only other seat in the room. “Unless neck strain is to be my penance for offending you?”
“Sorry,” Con muttered as he sat down, elbows tucked in, presumably to avoid taking up more than his fair share of space. It was rather adorable, really—and where the hell did that thought come from? Focus, Tristan, focus. Trouble was, with the sheer bulk of Con close enough that Tristan could feel his body heat, focussing on anything but his libido was becoming increasingly difficult.
“No, no, you mustn’t apologise,” Tristan protested. “That’s my job. Which I do. Apologise, I mean.” Damn it, had he exceeded his eloquence quota for the day?
Con stared into the depths of his mug. “’Snuffin’. I shouldn’t’ve got the hump. Just, it’s been a long day and all.” He shrugged. “Which, yeah, obviously you realised.”