This isn't specifically anything to do with The Gingerbread Series, but it's the sort of the one-shot I originally intended the series to be made up of (well, perhaps not all as smutty as this, heh!). You can decide if you want to think of it as happening somewhere in that timeline or as something totally seperate, but I couldn't not write it!
I was absolutely blown away by The National Theatre: 50 Years on Stage on Saturday evening, and all I could think about afterwards was this. Well, this and how I want to quit school and run away to the theatre, but that's not an option so you'll have to humour me. I also realise that Ben had changed out of his stage outfit by the curtain call, but I hadn't noticed that when I started writing (I may have spent my evening at work re-watching NT50 on iPlayer and writing smut... oops). Anyway, without further ado...
- - - - - - - - - - -
"Plays radiant, plays rotten... But plays persistent. Plays, plays, plays."
As she closed the Epilogue, Frances de la Tours' last words faded, only to be joined by a multitude of voices quoting some of theatre's most loved lines. These in turn are drowned by riotous applause. The entire theatre erupts with a noise that belies the number of spectators. It's a cheer of ten thousand, from only a thousand ecstatic faces in the crowd. Tonight, history had been made.
But The National Theatre has been making history for the last 50 years, this evening intended as a glorious testament to that. An exhibition - a tour de force - the Who's Who of the British theatrical elite spanning five decades. It was spectacular; and you had joined millions held in rapture as it was broadcast live to the nation (and beyond)... but with one magical twist - you were fortunate enough to be there in person.
Your heart was in your mouth as the lights came up on the second vignette; the first live performance of the night - a scene from Rosencrantz and Guilderstern are Dead, featuring Kobna Holdbrook-Smith and your boyfriend, Benedict Cumberbatch.
Socialising in the bar with his parents before the show started, you'd spoken to Benedict shortly before his half hour call, wishing him luck and playfully reassuring him that you'd still love him even if he forgot every line. He'd sounded nervous; performing on stage terrified him, and although he hadn't admitted it, you were sure he'd made himself sick with anxiety. But it was in his blood, and it was what he loved; the stress and nerves were the payoff for the thrill of the curtain call.
Though the show is over, the entire auditorium continues a clamourous standing ovation. To your left, Timothy, Benedict's father, raises his fingers to his mouth and lets out a piercing whistle, though it's lost to the din. Both he and Wanda, Benedict's mother, wear matching grins of unadulterated pride; joy that they are part of this, an extended family of talent and friendship, both through Benedict and in their own right - between them, they probably know most of the cast (Dame Judi Dench had given Wanda an enthusiastic wave as she'd slipped through a side door before you'd taken your seats).
"Come on, love," Timothy addresses you in a fatherly manner. People are beginning to calm down and file from their seats, chattering excitedly about the performance. You follow the flow of bodies down to the exits, expecting to regroup in the bar again to wait for Benedict. As you reach floor level, Wanda takes your hand with a conspiratorial grin, leading you through a fire door to one side. Although the noise of the crowd is still audible, you're suddenly in a much quieter concrete corridor.
"Oh you naughty girl!" Timothy admonishes Wanda playfully. She gives an airy chuckle.
"Well, what's the point in having insider knowledge if you don't use it?" Wanda winks at you, leading you down the corridor. Timothy follows obligingly. You approach a door, from behind which you hear more whooping and cheering. Wanda gives it a sharp push and you find yourself definitively backstage. The corridor is filled with stagehands dressed in black, milling around jovially, plastic glasses of champagne in hand. No-one questions your presence, everyone beaming widely at you as you pass. Dressing rooms open off to the left and right, some empty but most occupied with the crème de la crème of theatre in various stages of de-frocking, de-wigging... and drinking; not one amongst them is missing a glass of champagne. The atmosphere is electric.
