Scene Change - 1. Chapter 1

Working in the theatre there’s never any shortage of drama. Sometimes it’s even on the stage and there for a paying audience to enjoy. But mostly, it’s just ego.

“Honestly darling, my life was *literally* changed forever. Forever!”

“You’re so full of crap. I bet you don’t even remember his name. And stop walking around, Max is trying to focus and that’s kind of hard if you keep walking off your mark.”

“Harsh! But maybe true. I think it began with a G, Gino, or something. Oh I’m sorry Max dear, wherever you are.”

People say things like ‘my life turned upside-down’ or ‘everything changed’ all the time, and now, whenever I hear it I can’t help thinking that they have absolutely no fucking clue what they’re talking about. OK, OK, so maybe for them it felt like everything changed, but really, did it? Or do you mean that you had to drive an extra five minutes to get to a Waitrose? Mostly I’m a kind and understanding human being, honestly, but every so often I just have enough of hearing people say stupid shit, it annoys me. A lot.

Miles looked around the theatre with exaggerated peering, but probably couldn’t see anything as the only light was focussed on him. He turned back towards me, sat in the third row, and carried on talking.

“Is he the one with the blonde hair? He’s very… well, you know.”

“Yes he is the technician with blonde hair, and you should leave him alone!”

“Oh Con, darling, he know’s I’m only teasing. Don’t you Max.”

“And I’ve told you haw many times now? He’s straight, and even if he wasn’t you wouldn’t know what do do with him, or be able to keep up. He’s at least half your age.”

The beam of light tightened up, perfectly crisp and sharp.

“OK Max, that’s great, last one is 339, it should be coming up just to your left.”

I punched in the commands on my handset and watched as the bright pale blue sharp edged spot was replaced by a soft orange glow from the same direction. Miles has wandered about four feet away, again. Bloody actors.

“Miles, for fuck sake, just fucking stand still will you?”

“I know, I know! I never feel that this scene works though darling. Does it? What do you think? You know I’m sure there should be someone to do this for me.”

“Well try and get over it, there isn’t. This is Brighton, not Broadway. And I ‘think’ that all you have to do is fucking stand still. You do that, and I’ll make the entire world revolve around you, or at least look like it does. I thought you’d be used to that by now.”

“But are you sure about this?”

“OK, come and sit here.”

“What?”

“Come on, we don’t have all fucking night. Come and watch, I’ll show you.”

A few moments later and we’ve swapped places, Miles looking up from the seats, and I’m standing on his spot. I scroll back through the programmed scenes, to the beginning of the sequence and hear the feint whirring of everything adjusting around me before the whole stage is bathed in light.

“So, you stand here, right? And literally, that’s all you need to do. It’s time travel, sort of, it’s day into night, but also decades into the future. It’s out of your control, almost out of your awareness, you can’t do anything about it, that’s the whole point of the story, isn’t? So you just stand here, looking out, staring into the distance, into the past, into the future, I don’t know, imagine you’re trying to see as far away as you can, through the auditorium, through the whole fucking theatre. There’s haze creeping in behind you. Watch.”

I push the button, knowing every tiny detail of what happens next, because it’s one of the most pivotal moments of the show and has taken me a lot of work to create. The haze drifts down, seemingly closing in on me, making the space so much smaller as the shadows move, circling me, elongating, and subtly shifting colours. I’m not quite as tall as Miles, so the effect isn’t quite as pronounced, but the shift in light sources also means that, from a distance at least, I look older, shorter, and more wrinkled. It’s all an illusion of course.

“Con… that’s amazing, how did you do that? Are you sure you don’t want to be a Director.”

“I’m very sure. Helen directs, I just have creative vision. And it’s fucking magic, now, please, just for me, stand here, and don’t fucking move!”

Miles continued talking as we changed back to our more proper places whilst the lights reset back to the last focus we needed to adjust.

“Connor, sweety, are you not getting any? Is that why you’re so touchy?”

“It’s past midnight and I’ve been here for fifteen hours. I’ll be a lot less ‘touchy’ after tomorrow when we’re open, I don’t have to see you again, and I get some proper sleep.”

“But who with? Some lucky, studly thing undoubtedly.”

“You’re a born romantic. OK, that’s great Max, thanks, now go home. Curtain is 7pm tomorrow so be here by four for last minute technical notes, but there’s no major changes that I know of. And thank you!”

Any air of magic or mystery disappears as soon as the floodlights come on, washing the entire place in their hard, flat but functional light. I can hear Max and the other tech guy making a speedy exit as Miles walked down to the front of the stage.

“Are you coming for a drink Con?”

“Yeah, maybe just one. Thanks for staying Miles, it’s really helpful to have you here for this.”

“And why would I pass up the opportunity to spend time with such a hunk? With those lovely strong arms, and such a beautiful face. I just wish you’d tidy up your hair.”

“Ha ha ha - you know that I’m just the designer, I can’t get you a better part, you need to sleep with the Director for that.”

“Ohhh, I’ll manage just as I am thank you.”

”And I’ve told you a hundred times, it’s supposed to look like this. Bitch. I’ll meet you there, I’ll just be a few minutes closing up.”

“OK sweety, see you there.”

Miles wandered off stage and I heard the stage door closing a few minutes later.

He’s a nice guy, I’ve worked with him a few times, and he’s always been a camp drama queen, but a thoroughly nice guy underneath that. I suspect he’s also desperately lonely and sad. I still remember the look on his face when he realised I was gay, not that there was ever any possibility of anything happening between us, he’s older than my Dad, but I guess the idea was still an enjoyable one for him. We’ve become sort of friends since then. I say sort-of, because this is the theatre, so nothing is real. Real friends are incredibly rare, but sort-of friends, the one’s with whom the last thing you say to each other is “yes we must keep in touch, I’ve had a great time working with you” but then months or years pass, they are commonplace. I took one last look around, paranoid that I had overlooked something in these last few days. There was still a hundred things I wanted to change, or just tweak a little to make them perfect, but I didn’t have time. Time - it always wins, there’s never enough, so ultimately my perfectionist tendencies have to be suppressed . After all, it’s true what they say, the show must go on. My obsessions about the precise angle of the light coming through that doorway that only opens once or the arrangement of the fruit in the bowl on the sideboard can remain unsatisfied. Probably. I swapped the grapes with the apples. That was better.

I picked up my bag and sorted around in it until I found a can of deodorant, which was as close to freshening up as I could manage. I was only going for a quick pint or two anyway. Flicking off the last lightswitch, I enjoyed the disproportionate power of one ordinary looking switch plunging the whole space into blackness. It was only a few minutes walk to the nearest bar, where I knew everyone would be. The place was busy as I walked in, lots of theatre types, plenty of people that I knew. And also a couple that I ’knew’ quite well. So it took me a few minutes to walk through, looking for Helen as I went. Those superficial ‘hey’, hi’, ‘yeah good to see you’ things, they all take time. Miles was already ensconced at the bar and hitting on some young kid who seemed to be happy enough with the attention. And when I say young, he was definitely younger than me. I finally saw Helen sat further back with a woman I didn’t recognise, but headed over anyway, getting a pint on the way. Helen was up on her feet as soon as she saw me, we exchanged sarcastic double air kisses and she introduced me to her friend.

“Theresa, this is Connor, my designer I was telling you about.”

Theresa was a similar age to Helen, early forties, definitely a theatre type from the way she was dressed, held herself, and spoke, probably another director or producer. She transformed in front of my eyes from slightly drunk women probably bitching about her ex-husband(s) to professional power-broker, which was slightly disconcerting, but never one to pass up potential employment I gave her my full attention, for a moment anyway. I know, but it’s like that when you’re self-employed, you can’t afford to miss stuff, or piss off the wrong people, it’s a small world.

“Hello, I’m Theresa Van-Bright.”

“Hey Theresa, Connor Featherstone.”

We exchanged cards automatically.

“Van-Bright? You do the beach festival right?”

I’d definitely heard of her, but a light ego massage never does any harm, particularly if there might be some work coming my way.

“Oh, yes, how sweet of you. Helen was telling me you freelance?”

“You know, here and there.”

“That’s bollocks Theresa!” Helen cut in, my unofficial champion.

“He’s got a show opening up in London, the West End, I’m trying my best to hold on to him for as long as I can before he moves to New York and I can no longer afford him.”

“He doesn’t look old enough.”

“I know, terrifying isn’t it. We’re all going to be usurped by twenty-somethings!”

We all laughed politely and I sat down, making a mental note to remember to expect a call from Theresa next week.

“So how’s it looking Connor? All OK?”

“Yeah Helen, looking good. Just a few tiny things to finish in the morning.”

“Actual things, or just things that you notice and everyone else will miss?”

The three of us talked work for a while, swapping stories and rumours of stories about people we all knew, it’s the way of things. I went to the bar for another round of drinks - which meant a pint of lager for me , and a bottle of wine for the two of them. Theresa launched straight into conversation before I had even sat down again.

“So Connor, Helen was telling me you’re single, is that right?”

Wow, she was drunker than I had thought.

“That is not at all what I said!”

Helen protested, whilst laughing.

“Oh, OK?”

“Theresa, we’ve worked together for what, twenty years? Trust me. You. Up. Barking. Tree. The. Wrong. Are.”

“Really? Fucking hell, I’m surrounded by them!”

She retuned her slightly drunk gaze to me.

“Yeah, we were going to mount a coup but too many people were worried about breaking a nail. Thanks for the compliment though.”

We laughed and joked, and talked for a while longer, until I’d finished my second pint. It was all pleasant enough, and I was reasonably hopeful of getting some work from Theresa, but I needed some sleep. I said my goodbyes to Theresa and Helen, and headed out of the bar. Miles was still talking to the young kid, and it looks like there was only one way that was going to end.

Fifteen minutes later and I’m walking in to my flat, out towards the edge of the city centre. Two bedrooms but it’s hardly big, just the best I could afford when I first moved down here. I was 18, determined to prove my parents wrong so not asking them for financial help, and only just starting to get regular work. Four years on I could probably afford somewhere much nicer, but the area was good, and I kind of liked the place. I threw my clothes in the laundry basket as I took them off and headed for a shower, I sleep better when I’m feeling clean. The alarm was set for 10am, and sleep was quick in coming. Unfortunately, so was 10am.

Dressed in black jeans and red T-shirt, I picked up a smarter shirt for later. It’s difficult to have any kind of professional credibility if you don’t look the part. Heading straight out, I stopped for breakfast on the way. A quintessential ‘great little place I know’ which was more or less on my way to the theatre.

“Hey Georgio.”

“Connor, hi!” His hands held up in the air as if greeting a long lost friend.

“So what’s good for breakfast?”

“Green tea and a full stack bagel, how’s that?”

“Sounds great. Thanks Georgio.”

Which was just as well, it’s what I ate every morning. Things went well at the theatre, within a few hours I’d been able to change all of the tiny things I wanted to change, and then change a few of them back. Some last minute cue alterations with Helen and everyone was set. Both the best and worst part for me, my work being over now, all I could do was wait, sit back, and watch the show. Trusting that everyone else would execute my plans perfectly. It’s a tough job for a control freak.

Helen and I had a tradition of watching first nights in one of the control rooms, away from everyone else, in our own sound-proofed room, mostly so that no-one else could hear us shouting and swearing when things went wrong. More often than not we did this with a bottle of wine and the back-stage intercom on speaker. We could talk to people if we really needed to, but unless things were catastrophic, we didn’t intervene. It also gave us plenty of time to talk, because after all, we’d already seen the show enough times.

“You look tired Connor, are you OK?”

“Yeah, you know how it is, could do with some time off.”

“Anything planned?”

“No, but I’m almost done with the designs for the London job, so I’m going to go on holiday after that while they build the set, a few weeks away maybe, somewhere hot.”

“On your own? Or with someone special? What happened to that dancer? I haven’t seen him around recently?”

“Helen, I wish there was someone special to take! And no, he hasn’t been around. But hopefully there will be plenty of fit guys on holiday, looking for some fun. I seriously need to get laid.”

“Do you?”

“Hell yeah, all I’ve done is work here for three weeks now!”

“No, not that, you always want that. Do you really wish there was someone special?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Oh come on. You’re like a walking definition of ‘work hard, play hard’. I’ve known you long enough, you’re not the settling down type are you?”

“Maybe not, I don't know. It would be nice to have the opportunity though.”

“Bollocks.”

“It would!”

“Yeah it would, but you could if you wanted to. You’re good looking, and I know you have no problems meeting interested guys, so don’t give me that.”

“That’s different. And don’t say it like that, you make me sound like I sleep around.”

“Whereas actually you only ever sleep with them at your place?”

“Fuck off, and pour me some more wine.”

We paused our conversation briefly to watch one of the more critical moments of the production, hoping it would go smoothly. It did.

“I’ve just never met someone, you know, that would be settling down material. It’s tough, doing this as well, the stupid hours, I only ever meet people in the same tiny world as me.”

“So there’s no technical wizard type waiting to sweep you off your feet huh?”

“Are you joking? Have you *seen* the tech guys we work with? Most of them are at least twice the weight they should be and wearing band t-shirts at least ten years too late.”

“Fair point. I just think you should be happy.”

“I’m happy!”

“Whatever, I mean properly happy.”

“Helen, I am, seriously, I have a good life. Settling down can wait, you know, until I’m old, like 25 or something!”

“Fine. It’s nearly the interval, are you coming to the bar? We need more wine to get through the second half.”

“Sure, just let me change my shirt.”

I stripped off my T-shirt and was still buttoning up my smarter option, long sleeves and a silver/grey colour.

“Jesus Connor, could that be any tighter?”

“What? It looks alright doesn’t it?”

“It looks great, meeting someone?”

“Not that I know of, but you never know. Come on, I need alcohol if I’m going to mingle.”

And mingle we did, professionally. It’s a useful skill to have. Of course most people want to talk to Helen because she’s the Director and don’t know who I am, which suits me fine. Even when they assume I’m some sort of toy-boy. That’s just funny.

Back in the safety of the control room we continued chatting as we watched the show. It was going well.

“So do you want to do lunch next week?”

“Yeah Helen, sure, what day?”

“Wednesday? How’s that?”

I took out my iPhone to check my diary.

“Errrrrrr, no, can’t sorry, I’ll still be up in London, but Thursday?”

“Sure, where do you want to go?”

“Some place nice, just text me where.”

The rest of the show went without major incident, and the after-show party was as you’d expect, lively, and with too much alcohol. I made my excuses fairly early and headed home. Most of Sunday was spent reminding myself of what I was doing on the London work, or rather, what I was waiting for other people to do. In the end I decided to stay over up there for a few days, it was easier than getting the train every day, or driving, and half decent hotels were cheap enough, and could go on my expenses. Unfortunately there was more work than I had hoped and I didn’t get the chance to go out in London, so lunch back in Brighton with Helen was my first ‘down time’. She had chosen a place I hadn’t been to before, I think it was new, but nice enough, good food, great wine list. It would be good for a date, I made a note to remember it. After finishing the second bottle we decided to move on to another bar. We were sat there chatting, getting drunk, laughing, having a good time. Things couldn’t really have been more normal.

My phone rang, an area code I didn’t recognise. I internally debated if I was too drunk to answer it. I use the same phone for work and for life, but it wasn’t anyone I knew, otherwise their name would have been displayed. So it could be work. Yeah, I was probably OK to take the call.

“Hello, Connor Featherstone.”

“Sorry, who?”

“I don’t know anyone…”

“Who?"

“Wait, is this some kind of joke?”

“Fuck.”

“No, I mean, I don’t know, how can I know that?”

“Well it was five years ago!”

“Look, can I call you back in a bit? This is messed up.”

“OK, yeah, OK. On this number?”

“Sorry, just tell me again.”

“No, I’m not at all sure I do.”

“Yes, OK! You don’t have to keep telling me how important it is!”

“Sure, I’ll erm… I’ll talk to you in a bit.”

I ended the call and put my phone back in my pocket, feeling much less together than I did five minutes earlier.

“Connor? Is everything OK?”

“I have no idea. Maybe not. Look, sorry Helen, I’ve got to go sort this out, I’ll catch up with you later yeah? When I know what the hell is going on.”

“Who was that on the phone?”

“I don’t know. I have to go Helen, I’ll fill you in later.”

“Sure, give me a call.”

I left the bar, my head spinning, and not from the alcohol.

I went home and made some green tea before sitting on the sofa and pulling out my mobile. I’ve had the same phone number, email, and online accounts forever, so it was easy enough to scroll back through my calendar. Although I wasn’t usually scrolling back years. I got that Simply Red song stuck in my head, Scrolling Back the Years. Nervousness can often lead me to inappropriate humour. Fuck, I couldn’t work out if it was possible or not. I hit the recent caller list and waited as it rang, as that sinking feeling developed in the bottom of my stomach. Have you ever played Mousetrap? I felt like the mouse. I can’t work out exactly how, and it looks long and complicated, but somehow, this is going to end badly for me.

“Hello?”

“Yeah, it’s Connor Featherstone.”

“OK, so tell me again.”

I listened, and drank my green tea.

“Fine, yeah, that’s me.”

“Leanne? No, I don’t think so.”

“Look, I really don’t think…”

“No, there’s no way…”

“But that’s years ago.”

“Of course I’m fucking sure.”

“Yes, of course it’s serious, but…”

“A warehouse party? Oh fuck… You mean Alena?”

“I don’t know. It’s possible. I was there. But we’re not exactly close, it lasted about a month.”

Suddenly the green tea wasn’t enough. Can you buy Valium tea?

“Yeah, yeah, no I realise that.”

“A meeting?”

“Whoa whoa whoa, slow the fuck down. I can’t do that.”

“You want a list? I don’t even know him. This is crazy.”

“How urgent?”

“Fucking hell. Do you have any idea how much of a head-fuck this is?”

“Yeah, I know, sorry, I’m trying to but this is really messed up.”

“And what happens then? If I don’t?”

“Awww fuck, no.”

“OK, OK. Look, I’ll think about it.”

“But that’s today! You can’t be serious.”

“No way, I live in Brighton, that’s a two hour drive, I’ve been drinking. There’s no way I can.”

“Because it’s my first fucking day off in three weeks, alright?”

“No, it’s the same on the train, I just can’t be there that quickly.”

“Well I’m not the one suggesting this am I?”

“Tomorrow, jesus, yeah OK, I can do that.”

“No, it’s fine, I can be there for nine in the morning. Can you text me the address?”

“Questions? You’re joking right? I need to get my head around this first.”

“Yeah, tomorrow then. Bye.”

I poured myself a large vodka and tonic, heavy on the vodka and easy on the tonic. This was going to be weird, at best. Then I remembered that I’d already had way too much to drink and was now out for an early start driving tomorrow, and poured it all down the sink. Water would have to do. The rest of my life had just started, and it wasn’t anything close to what I’d ever imagined. I'm not sure what I did for the rest of the afternoon, it's a bit of a blur, and that night, sleep was not restful.

The drive in the morning took longer than I had hoped due to the rush hour traffic, so I only had five minutes to spare as I walked in the front doors. West Sussex Social Care occupied a particularly austere building, presumably from the 60’s. I spoke to the woman on the only desk I could see and she directed me down a corridor to wait. For a receptionist, she lacked charm. She was the kind of receptionist that probably trained new door supervisors in her spare time. There was no-one waiting for me, no-one to talk to me about what the fuck was going on. Eventually someone, the woman I had been speaking to, arrived and told me to follow her into the meeting room. I regretted being on my own, feeling immediately outnumbered and out of my depth.

What followed was two weeks of lots of meetings. And I mean, a lot. Confusing, awkward, and overly emotional meetings. Things were moving quickly, and feeling beyond my immediate control. I was constantly realising that I didn’t know enough, having to learn things that I never imagined I would need to know. And then things reached a premature crescendo, the moment that has forever changed my world, finally decided by my signature and the opinions of half a dozen people I’d barely met. This is a really shitty system. Yes, of course technically, this situation has existed for some time, but it’s hardly the same when neither of us knew the other existed. But now, I have a son.