Stephen stared at her. Appeared to be contemplating a lecture. Then flung his hands in the air like an orchestra conductor as he settled into the director’s chair. “Right. From the beginning.”
Bree’s eyes flicked over to Theodore’s with the silent words, See? Look how critical I was. I’m upstage left, hidden behind six actors and Titania’s bed.
As much as she noticed, and enjoyed, the way Theodore’s gaze kept turning to her through the scene, other pieces of a puzzle caught her attention.
Like how Theodore was not alone.
It wasn’t easy to miss Mr. Richardson—the theatre’s chief administrator—standing behind Stephen’s chair. Just as it wasn’t easy to miss that his rare presence meant something important.
Stephen grew more and more irritable at the cast’s distracted missteps and bungled directions until finally, following Birdie’s gaze, he looked back over his shoulder. Up.
The sight of Mr. Richardson and Theodore less than three feet away startled him like a kid caught in the candy jar.
“Mr. Richardson, I didn’t know to expect you,” he said, tripping over the director’s chair to shake his hand. “So sorry I didn’t see you.”
“That’s quite all right.” Mr. Richardson gave an uncertain glance around Stephen. “Is Don here?”
“Uh, no.” Stephen scratched the back of his head. “No, I believe he’s out.”
And by “out” he meant absent for the past five years.
Don was a brilliant director, or so Bree had heard. But he’d lost enthusiasm for the long and erratic hours of theatre life after decades in showbusiness. He showed up for performances but left the actual work in the competent hands of the stage manager. For Stephen, the compulsive man who followed the “If you want something done right, you have to do it yourself” mantra to the point that it was a plaque on the wall of his closet-sized office, this arrangement worked well. The director took it easy and got credit, and the stage manager got to see the shows done precisely how he believed they should be.
Either Mr. Richardson wasn’t aware of this, or he was the good administrator they all claimed and feigned ignorance.
“You’ll see to telling him the news then, I’m sure,” Mr. Richardson said, doffing his black Stetson Chatham and taking a step toward the stage.
“Telling him what, sir?” Stephen said, trailing after Mr. Richardson as he took a few steps toward the group.
The cast gathered around.
Mr. Richardson played with the brim of his hat before raising his voice. “We’ve had a bit of a . . . a snag regarding next season’s Much Ado About Nothing. Seems somebody purchased the wrong license.”
He sent a furtive glance to Stephen, who started meticulously straightening the pencil attached to his clipboard.
“But despite that grave mistake”—again, sly glance—“this problem can be amended.” There was silence, and Mr. Richardson managed a smile. “With a little sacrifice.”
Invested despite herself, Bree leaned in with the rest of the actors.
Whereas those around her had been here for years, sometimes decades, she was nothing in this company, after all. A jobbed-in actor, not even qualified enough to get temp housing in the Barter Inn, their exclusive cast dorms. Played nothing but the backdrop fairy in A Midsummer Night’s Dream. She’d been casted for Ursula, yet another stand-by-the-main-character-nodding-and-bowing-for-three-hours personality in Much Ado About Nothing. Really, how could her part possibly get any more dull than Ursula?
“The production for the March to May lineup at Stage One will now be a musical,” Mr. Richardson continued, turning the Stetson in his hands. “And, by happy coincidence, one of my favorite musicals.” He paused momentously. “Singin’ in the Rain.”
Bree smiled as his words started to register.
No more Ursula.
No more silent, bored lady in waiting.
Now, she’d seen Singin’ in the Rain on-screen before. She just had to think.
Who were some characters in that? Some nice characters who stood beside the planters, watching Don Lockwood and Kathy Selden tap-dance into the night and applauding on cue? Oh, she’d love those costumes. Something bright and floral, the 1950s at their finest. No more sixteenth-century Renaissance clothing. No more green face paint.
“Now, what that does mean for you all, unfortunately, is a smaller cast. I’d say a loss by”—he paused, lifting his eyes to the rafters as though calculating—“Forty percent.”
Bree blinked.
Wait.
What?
Eric spoke up. “But we’ve already been cast for our slots in Much Ado.” He scratched a spot under his heavy goat’s-head wig. “What’ll happen to those who get cut? It’s too late to get in on anything at Stage Two, isn’t it?”