Played!: The Shamwell Tales, Book 2 by JL Merrow

Author:JL Merrow
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Gay;m/m;acting;actor;theatre;dyslexia;Jewish;British;English;village;class;summer fling;theater
Publisher: Samhain Publishing, Ltd.
Published: 2015-06-29T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Fifteen

That Glib and Oily Art

Con’s first official masterclass in Bottoming wasn’t until the Wednesday evening. They’d all agreed it would be best to rehearse Con privately for the first couple of weeks, until he was a little more confident in the role.

Tristan had been a very paragon of restraint while he waited for it. He’d fairly soon prepared a CD for Con with all of Bottom’s cues and speeches recorded on it, helpfully arranged in separate tracks for each scene, but he’d contented himself with dropping it through Con’s letterbox while the man himself was out.

All right, Tristan had knocked first, ever hopeful. He was, after all, only human. But he hadn’t sat on Con’s doorstep awaiting his return like a lovesick stalker.

Now, though, he was fairly fizzing with excitement. He’d made as much space in the living room as possible by taking another trip to the charity shop—this time, parking in the car park and lugging the boxes over one by one. Well, until the last couple, when he tried to save a little time and tedium by stacking one upon the other.

Fortunately, the good weather meant the ground was perfectly dry, and several people had been kind enough to help him pick everything up and repack the boxes when the inevitable happened. One young man had even taken one of the boxes off his hands and accompanied him to the charity shop. He’d been rather good looking, actually, as well as more than helpful, and under other circumstances Tristan might have been tempted to ask for his number. But, well, Tristan had his hands full with Con. Or at least, hoped to. And the man on the street didn’t really compare, upon reflection. He’d been disappointingly short—barely half a head taller than Tristan—and decidedly lacking in the biceps department. The seams of his T-shirt sleeves hadn’t strained at all as he lugged Nanna Geary’s sensible shoes and cast-iron handbags to the charity shop.

Anyway the point was, the house was now clear of clutter; not just the lower levels, but an optimistic trail leading from the living room upstairs to Tristan’s bedroom. Not that Tristan actually thought it would be used—softly, softly, catchee monkey and all that—but it didn’t do to be unprepared. So the stage, as it were, was set.

Trouble was, it was set well in advance of the actual curtain time. Tristan had occupied himself by studying his new part, and by Skyping Amanda, having first made sure he shouldn’t be waking her from slumber.

She greeted him with a less-than-friendly, “You again? I told you you’d get bored out in the sticks.”

“Amanda, darling. Perhaps I just wanted to see your ravishing face?”

She sniffed. “Well, I’m glad you called, anyway. I wanted to remind you about posting dates.”

“A little over-anxious, aren’t we? And in any case, I thought you were planning to visit me for Christmas.” In New York. Oh God. “That’s ages off,” he said firmly, more to himself than to her.

“My birthday, however, is in two weeks.

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