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“What do you mean I don’t get a refund?” the man on the phone demanded.
Grace held the receiver a little further away from her ear and wished, not for the first time, that there was some sort of automated service that would interrupt and say in a robotic voice: ‘we’re sorry, but your volume has exceeded polite limits; please try again.’
“It’s the policy for all shows, sir,” she explained in her best, most patient customer service voice. “The policy is on the ticket page, and it was also included in your confirmation and reminder emails.”
“But you’re going to go ahead and resell the ticket anyways!” he complained. (Well, duh, Grace thought.) “You’re going to make twice the profit! I want my money back.”
Grace stared regretfully at the long queue of patrons in front of her, who were beginning to stir restlessly, and glanced helplessly at her colleagues on either side, who were also busy with customers. She tried to smile apologetically to the person at the head of the line, a tall woman in a blue anorak, while she spoke.
“I’m sorry sir, but I can’t change the policy. If you’d like, you can contact-”
“I’m not asking you to change policy, I’m asking you to give me a refund!” he interrupted.
It was not that Grace felt so strongly about the no-refunds policy that she was ready to defend it til her dying breath, but she would get in trouble if she decided to break it whenever she felt like it.
Phone yellers like this never understood that.
Another blast of cold air came in and Grace shivered, cursing whoever had designed the lobby so that there was not more distance (or more walls) between the front doors and the box office.
The anorak woman at the front of the queue moved up to Grace’s right, and she was grateful for one less set of eyes on her as she kept her tone calm.
“I understand you’re frustrated, sir, but there’s nothing that I can do. You are welcome to email us your feedback and I’d be happy to share it with the box office manager, but-”
“I’m not hanging up until I get my money back!”
Grace took the only outlet available to her and gently kicked her foot against the half-wall of the ticket counter, wishing she were kicking something else. Another clump of patrons moved up to either side. At least the others were moving quickly.
She recognized the person now at the head of the queue, with his distinctive pale, feathery curls and beige tartan bowtie. The man next to him was unfamiliar, someone gangling and scowling, with dark sunglasses and all-black clothes.
The man on the phone barked, “Look here, I-”
And then two things happened at once. The patron in sunglasses clicked his fingers, and some kind of alarm or timer began beeping. For a confused moment, Grace thought the two events were connected; then she realized that the sound was coming from the other end of the phone.
The angry man swore and hung up, as if he had to dash off and get something.
Well , Grace thought, at least that's done. She took a deep breath and summoned up a slightly more sincere smile.
“Good evening, Mr. Fell. Will call today?”
“Yes, two tickets, both under my name,” Mr. Fell responded pleasantly. He was always pleasant.
As a rule, Grace didn’t really remember the season subscribers. Even though they came to multiple productions, most of them were so nondescript, and their interactions so brief, that they didn’t stand out in her mind.
Mr. Fell was the exception. He was unfailingly polite, always genuinely enthused about whatever show was going on, and extremely visually distinctive. After all, he was the only person she had ever met who wore a gold pocket watch chain tucked into a worn velvet waistcoat. And he had a knack for arriving in moments of calm; the box office was always a little more peaceful after he left.
She found the correct envelope under F and pulled out the tickets to double check their number, mentally noting the printed names: A. Z. Fell, Anthony Crowley. Crowley must be the grumpy scarecrow.
“Good seats, Mr. Fell,” she remarked as she handed them across the countertop. He always wound up with the best view in the house.
“Thank you, dear girl,” he replied happily. “And how is school?”
Grace surreptitiously glanced around, but there seemed to be a lull, no other patrons milling around waiting. With her luck, it probably meant there would be a rush later, but at least right now it meant she could spare a minute for small talk.
“My dissertation’s giving me a headache,” she admitted.
Mr. Fell nodded his head and clucked his tongue sympathetically.
“Grace is studying early modern history,” he explained to his friend.
Said friend muttered something under his breath, which was definitely about history and might have even involved the word early, but other than that Grace couldn’t make it out.
Mr. Fell made a face and said, “Do behave yourself, Crowley.”
She didn’t know what that meant either, but she could at least be polite.
“It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Crowley. Mr. Fell doesn’t usually bring a friend with him.”
“Usually?” Crowley repeated, lingering slightly on the s sound. “Does that mean he sometimes has?”
Mr. Fell, inexplicably, turned pink.
“Well, we had better go find our seats.” He fidgeted.
“Hang on a tick, angel. We need the…” Crowley gestured vaguely for a moment while Grace and Mr. Fell stared. Then he pointed to the neat little printed sign next to Grace. “The parking thing.”
“Oh, you need a voucher for the car park? Let me get you one.”
Grace pulled one from her stack while Mr. Fell asked, “Do you really need one with the Bentley?”, to which Crowley made a few more vague motions and unintelligible noises. Grace suspected communication with him was an acquired skill.
“How long have you known each other?” she inquired, thinking about the nickname angel.
“Right from the beginning. Feels like it’s been millennia,” Crowley said, which for some reason made Mr. Fell nudge him with an elbow.
He even had elbow patches on his jacket, Grace noticed. Mr. Fell dressed for an odd mix of times, but none of them were the present day.
Someone, she thought, should get him a jumper. He needed some variety.
“We really should go in,” he said firmly to Crowley, who shrugged but allowed himself to be led.
They only made it a few steps from her before Mr. Fell turned back and called out, “Good luck with the dissertation! I’m sure it will go well.”
This was paired with a meaningful look at Crowley, who did something snappy with his fingers again, and then the two walked away once more.
Grace smiled fondly as she waited for the next patron to step up. Mr. Fell was one of her favorite customers, and she was glad he had found a boyfriend, even a sullen one.
Her headache was already getting better. She thought she might even be able to get some writing done tonight.