Chapter Text
The Cornley Drama Society's performance of the Nativity was, in Trevor's opinion, one of their worst plays yet. Not only had there been mishaps with pyrotechnics, fire alarms and even a bloody sponsorship (God knows why anyone would want to sponsor them) on top of their usual chaos, but Chris had been seriously pissing off Trevor for the entirety of the build-up, Tech Run and the show itself. It wasn't like the director wasn't always a pompous twat who expected Trevor, as stage manager, to do the job of a full tech team plus costume and set design teams, but that play had taken things seriously too far.
The set was almost as complicated as the one for Peter Pan, and for that they had had a full team from the BBC putting it together, not one bloke with assorted actors coming in to "help" at times. Some of them had been genuinely good at it—Annie had been a stage manager after all and it was no surprise that Sandra had a flair for the artistic. However, Jonathan had somehow managed to get stuck in the half-built set within five minutes, and Dennis had spent more time asking questions than actually doing any work. And yet, Chris still expected fully constructed and well-painted scenery for their Christmas special. It was impossible!
When Trevor had quit that night, he had honestly thought that he meant it. But within half an hour, he'd had several calls each from Annie, Vanessa and Max, ranging from asking if he was okay (mainly Vanessa) to calling him a twat (mainly Annie) to asking him to come back (all three of them, to varying degrees). At first, he'd refused to even consider the possibility. Then when Max mentioned that Chris was pacing around the stage like a madman, raving about "irresponsible lunatics who wouldn't know commitment if it stabbed them in the eye", Trevor had doubled down. If he was such an "irresponsible lunatic", why would they even want him back? But then the next morning when Annie told him (or, more accurately, yelled at him) that the director had shut himself inside his office and was refusing to come out, Trevor did start to feel a little guilty. Even more so when Vanessa mentioned how pale and anxious he'd looked the last time she saw him.
So, albeit reluctantly, Trevor had come back. He'd even apologised to Chris—sort of. Saying "I shouldn'tve done that" counted as an apology, right? It was the best Trevor was ever going to offer, so Chris could bloody well take it.
As they moved towards finding their next play however, Trevor did notice a slight shift in the atmosphere, a hostility that he could've sworn wasn't usually there. At first he just chalked it up to everyone being a little bit pissed off at him over his stunt with the set at the end of the play. That was fair enough. He wasn't about to go around saying sorry to everyone, but he accepted that they would probably be annoyed at him for a while. And yet, as time went on, Trevor began to notice that the tension didn't seem to be dissipating as it normally did. Most of the time, there'd be a day or so of grudges, then everyone would shrug and add whatever had happened to the ever growing list of Cornley Drama Society Disasters that their future therapists would one day have a hell of a time trying to unpack. Either that or someone would start bickering with someone, who would then snap at someone else who would shout back, and so on and so forth until the entire group were screaming at each other. Eventually someone (usually Chris, or sometimes Trevor himself) would yell at everyone else to shut it and they'd all end up getting on again soon enough. But there wasn't any shouting after the Nativity. Nobody was complaining or critiquing or protesting; nobody was gearing up for a fight; nobody was even grumbling sullenly under their breath about how their talents were wasted on such a terrible society. Not even Chris was trying to get anything done; he kept on sitting in his office like a ghost. There was just a horrible stillness, occasionally broken by hurried whispering that seemed to go quiet the second anyone else realised it was happening.
After a couple of days of silence, Trevor gave up. If nobody was going to get this play started, he wasn't going to bother showing up. What was the point in being a stage manager if there wasn't anything on stage to manage? After sending a text to Annie saying just that, Trevor crawled back into bed, determined to spend a day doing absolutely nothing, without even thinking of going into the theatre.
When he checked his phone hours later and found dozens of missed messages, Trevor feared that might have been a mistake.
Annie hadn't actually given him any specific details, but her first voicemails seemed equally cautious and anxious, perhaps with a dash of hopefulness sprinkled in too. However, by the time Trevor got to her sixth one, his friend seemed to have lost any trace of the enthusiasm that had flickered so delicately in her voice. Whatever it was that was happening was apparently "a complete and utter disaster"—seemingly even more so than their typical rehearsals, which, frankly, was impressive. Or at least, it would be if it weren't so worrying. He'd never admit it to them, but Trevor did truly care about the rest of the team (even when Chris was being a total pain in his backside and calling him a moron in front of not only an entire theatre but also thousands of people watching them on screen. Thanks Chris.). If things were going worse than usual, then that could easily mean that people were getting hurt, and though the nurses at the closest hospital were always very nice, Trevor really didn't want to be in A&E again, whether for himself or another cast member. Regardless, the stage manager knew he'd feel even worse if someone did have to go and he hadn't even known about it. So, begrudgingly, he sent Annie another short text, this time confirming that he would be attending rehearsals tomorrow.
When Trevor strolled into the theatre ten minutes late (what, he said he'd be there not on time), he didn't really know what to expect. A wild image of fallen stage lights, collapsed set and unconscious actors flashed through his mind, but he swallowed it down as fast as he could, trying to ignore the way it burned his throat like cigarette smoke and left the ashes to smoulder on his tongue. He was catastrophising. He just needed to get in there, drink some coffee and have a pointless argument with Chris over whatever ridiculous thing the director needed him to do now. Everything would sort itself out soon, or it wouldn't and they'd deal with it somehow. It probably wasn't even half as bad as Annie's ominously vague voicemails had implied!
As it turned out, he was right. It wasn't half as bad. Dear lord above, it was so, so much worse.
A coup. A fucking coup. These arseholes had staged a coup and decided that, for some unfathomable reason, the new director was going to be Robert. Trevor would rather have any other person—yes, including Dennis—in charge than Robert Fucking Grove. It wasn't just that he was pompous, self-centred and generally unpleasant company, but Robert also seemed to have a complete lack of respect for any theatrical profession that was not acting. Seriously, the number of times that Trevor had had to work late into the night because Robert had "forgotten" to tell him about the latest issue with his props, costume or the set itself was astronomical. Not to mention the frankly offensive length of time it had taken for him to even learn Trevor's bloody name.
In fact, Trevor not knowing anything at all about the coup was just another mark of this. Of course Robert hadn't bothered to try and get him on side! He was just the stage manager after all, what should the actors care about what he thought?
The rehearsal was one of the worst Trevor had ever seen, and that was saying something. Chris was absent, which wasn't unexpected. A slight pang sliced through the stage manager's chest, thinking about the (former) director out there somewhere on his own, grappling with the aftermath of the mutiny and what it meant for him and his role in the CDS. Was he in his flat, sitting gauntly on the sofa, maybe clutching at a stone-cold cup of tea? Had he gone for a walk to clear his head and spend hours wandering aimlessly, contemplating the world in that strange, melancholic way that seemed unique to Chris Bean? Oh god, had he started driving? Had he taken his shitty car out onto the roads and ended up swerving into a muddy little ditch, bleeding out inside a wreck of shredded metal, with nothing but anxieties and regrets to treat the ragged pain of his wounds?
Trevor took a breath. He was just spiralling, again. Chris was fine, if a little put out. He'd be sulking for a day or two, but then he'd come back the same as ever, ready to show them how big of a mistake they had made by removing him. And, much as Trevor had complained about Chris in times gone by, he knew that this was, indeed, a mistake. As was proven by the truly abysmal warm-ups (as if acting warm-ups weren't already weird enough, why not add running commentary to disrupt exercises and shouting where shouting really should not be!) and the disastrous attempt at assigning characters. At least they actually had a play now, Trevor supposed. Still, it was hard to be optimistic when Robert had changed his mind about who was playing who three times; given Trevor absolutely no instructions for any sound, lighting or set; and chosen a play with a plotline more complicated than a soap opera. It wasn't just Dennis who was confused about the characters' relationships—in fact almost everyone was. The only members who seemed to be keeping up were Annie, Sandra and Max, who Trevor knew were fond of those convoluted dramas where one character was someone's sister and cousin and husband and stepson and neighbour and wife all at the same time. Exhausting.
The arguments that broke out were heated. Most of them were between Robert and someone else, though a few disagreements had popped up within the non-directing cast. After leaning awkwardly against a wall for an hour and a half, watching the fighting, Trevor slouched off to go and do some backstage work. There had to be something that didn't require Robert, right? Just because he and Chris had always worked together on the best part of the planning process didn't mean it had to be collaborative. It just worked better that way, if the director and the stage manager were on the same page. Still, he could do it just fine on his own.
An hour went by as Trevor sketched out a rough idea for the set, Duran Duran blasting through his earphones, loud enough that he couldn't hear the relentless, unbearable shouting coming from the actors. Chris would have told him off for it, both for being so oblivious to his surroundings and the potential damage to his hearing that having the volume so high would cause. But Chris wasn't here, and Trevor only ever pretended to turn it down anyway, so he kept scribbling away to Ordinary World, blissfully free from the scrutiny of others as he made some primary, albeit very hasty, designs for the scenery and props.
After he'd really done as much of that as he could on his own, Trevor reluctantly returned to the actors, only taking out his earphones at the very last second...
And wondering if someone had committed a murder.
The shrieking was unbearable. A half dozen voices all clamoured for attention, tearing through the air and becoming unintelligible amongst all the others doing the same. As the stage manager looked out over the chaos, he found himself seriously regretting his decision to come back. Sandra and Annie were at each others' throats (a common sight after Haversham, but one that had become rarer and rarer in the more recent months); Jonathan and Robert were yelling at the tops of their lungs; Max seemed to be trying to intervene in both fights at once; Vanessa was stood in a corner doing her deep breathing exercises; and Dennis had his hands over his ears and was looking determinedly at the wall as if it were the most fascinating thing in the world. Fucking unbelievable! He'd left them arguing, then come back to find them still at it! Right, that was it. He knew exactly the right prop for this moment.
"ALL RIGHT!" He bellowed. He knew saving that megaphone was a good idea. "THAT IS ENOUGH!"
As shock washed over the group, a blissful quiet came in its wake. Most of the faces before him were sculpted into perfect 'O's of surprise, but there was also anger from Robert, exasperation from Jonathan and something strangely like pride from Annie. Lowering the megaphone, he glared back at them, hoping all his pent up rage was really on display (God knows those idiots deserved it). Before he could say anything however, an irritatingly smug voice resumed its infuriating speech.
"Yes, thank you," Robert smiled, but it wasn't an honest one. In fact, Trevor felt rather patronised by it. "Now, as I was saying, I think we should be starting rehearsals at once. Thanks to our former director, we've lost two days. Two, crucial days. As your director, and lead actor, I know that this won't ruffle me. However, I do acknowledge that there are those amongst us who will be somewhat... Troubled by these circumstances."
Trevor rolled his eyes, returning to his earlier position against the wall. Realistically, he knew he should probably be paying some sort of attention to this, but he had never needed music to tune Robert out. In spite of the man's loud, pompous voice, letting his words fade into the background was surprisingly easy. Trevor had never needed much help to lose focus, but he did usually do better than this when Chris was giving similar speeches. Maybe that was because Chris occasionally bothered to address him during his ones, which Robert never did.
Eventually, the group dispersed, each actor poring over their script with varying degrees of intensity. Hmm. Was he meant to be doing something? Trevor wasn't entirely sure, but the lack of expectant looks going his way indicated that the answer was no. He had not been directly given a script, instead pinching one straight from the pile, which he had assumed contained nine scripts, for the eight actors and one stage manager. However, Dennis' hands were empty, and he kept looking around in confusion as if he were sure that he was meant to be holding something. Which meant that Robert hadn't bothered to print him a script—or print Chris a script either, for that matter. Christ, did he have to do everything himself? Sighing heavily, Trevor lumbered over to Robert, script tucked under his arm.
"Oi, Robert," the stage manager began in his usual semi-friendly way.
Before he could get another word out however, the other man had turned around irritatedly, before quickly snatching the script away from Trevor, ignoring the incredulous glare that he was receiving.
"Ah, yes, there it is," Robert muttered offhandedly, having already turned back to his own papers.
"Dennis! I've found your script. Somebody," he stared pointedly at Trevor. "Managed to misplace it. No matter, it's all sorted now. You won't find me starting an argument over something that's already resolved."
This was blatantly untrue, which every single one of them knew. Robert loved to start arguments, especially with anyone he deemed particularly inferior (which tended to mean Chris, Trevor, Dennis and Annie most commonly). Still, since he wasn't causing a fight right that minute, it clearly meant that Robert was a calm, collected, responsible director, yet still firm if necessary. Because apparently nobody had a memory that stretched back more than two minutes.
"Robert." Trevor folded his arms, a murderous glint in his eyes. "If that's Dennis' script, then where the fuck is mine?"
"Yours?" Robert looked like he was trying not to laugh, the git. "You're just the stage manager, why would you need a script?"
Trevor tried very, very hard not to explode. The bloody ignorance of it! As if the only people who needed to know the lines, cues and stage directions were the actors!
"I need to know when you want sound effects, unless you want the actors to make the noises themselves." A fiery edge had cemented itself in the stage manager's voice. He wished it would swell up and up, until the air around him ignited and Robert was quite conveniently incinerated. "I need to know when you want props on and off, unless you want everyone here to train as mimes. I need to know what the scenery and lighting is meant to be, unless you've decided that the absolute best thing for this play is a black backdrop and white overhead lighting."
By this point, the pair had attracted the attention of the others who, much like magpies with shiny things, flocked to drama and gossip as if it were their very lifeblood. So it was to a crowd that Robert addressed his reply.
"The sound and set is to be approved by the director," his smug voice seeped into Trevor's pores, filling him with the itch to punch the stupid smirk off his stupid face. "You can use one of these after everyone has learnt their lines. Until then, it would be a waste of company money to print a whole new copy of the play."
Trevor didn't mean to escalate things, honestly. But when Robert was being such a prick, and when he essentially handed over the perfect retort on a silver fucking platter, it was impossible to resist the opportunity.
"Right." He took a step forwards, expression thunderous. "Just like how it was a waste of company money when you nicked half the funding to pay for your lawyer in your divorce."
Oh. Fuck.
The effects were instantaneous. Robert went very very pale, then bright red with rage. A hushed silence fell over the room, before the whispering erupted. Shoulders were nudged and glances were exchanged, until, nearly in sync, the group all rounded on the director—a little poetic in a way, Trevor thought. As Robert had rallied the actors through their frustrations and made them turn on Chris, now their frustrations were directed at him. God, Trevor had been spending way too much time around Chris; he never would have thought of things as poetic a few years ago.
"Now, listen here-" Robert began.
A furious chorus of accusations cut him off. Trevor had learned during his time at polytechnic that the drama students were the most fun to wind up. They had a tendency to be very, well, dramatic about things, which was good to know when things got boring. Start a feud with an actor and they'd lament about it for days, until a different squabble caught their attention. The members of the Cornley Drama Society were no exception. Yes, these things often blew over within a week or so, but while the anger was there, it burned so hot that the BBC would set their fire alarms off over it.
The deer in the headlights expression that Robert momentarily adopted made him look so genuinely spooked that Trevor felt a little sorry for him. The divorce was a sensitive spot, which they all knew after The Spirit Of Christmas, and the stage manager knew that bringing it up had been harsh, probably overly so. But fuck if it hadn't been satisfying in that second, to see the arrogant, condescending smirk wiped so definitely off of Robert's face.
"That is enough I say!" The director exclaimed, flailing his arms around in rage. "Enough! We are all actors, yes? We all want to do this play? Then stop questioning me at once!"
He paused all of a half-second to take a breath, before rounding on the stage manager, who had been very quiet since his previous outburst.
"And you! Coming in here, acting like you're important. Stage management is a job even an idiot could do! And somehow, you still manage to screw it up! And now, when the people with real talent are trying to put on a real show, you try to sabotage us! You know, for once in his pathetic little life, Chris may have actually been right about something: you really are a moron."
It's interesting how many types of pain there are. For example, when Chris had shouted that word in a fit of rage, it had felt like a heavy blow to the chest. Hearing it repeated now was more like someone pressing on a bruise. Still, Trevor supposed they were even for the divorce comment now. He could have retorted, but a weight had settled itself on his tongue, leaving the anger to fester and burn within his stomach. He wanted to punch something. He wanted to scream. He almost wanted to cry, which would be a fate too embarrassing to even consider.
Instead, Trevor simply turned around and walked away.