The Captain and the Theatrical
Page 23
“Sit down,” the lady hissed, patting Simeon’s arm with her rolled program. The interloper in his seat reached out one hand and tapped his finger on the empty seat beside him. His seat, the seat he should be in, not Simeon’s central seat.
“Sit down,” the man echoed in that same plummy whisper, dismissive and disinterested. “I’m in my seat.”
Simeon sighed in annoyance. “You’re not—you’re in mine! I chose it on purpose, and you’re sat in it!”
“What number seat are you looking for?” He asked it as though Simeon was the most unimportant creature in the universe, with the same throwaway condescension of his worst undergraduate professors. His hand remained on the empty seat and he said, “This is seventeen.”
“Yes—seventeen! That’s my seat. Look—look at my ticket, for heaven’s sake!” Simeon held it closer to the man’s face.
His nemesis tapped the empty seat again and he told Simeon, “This is seventeen, I’m in sixteen and—”
“Fifteen,” the woman snapped, patting him a little more forcefully with her program. “Now sit down, you bloody hooligan!”
Simeon popped forward the collar of his denim jacket, a move he had learned long ago from old films. “Hooligan? I merely wish to sit—”
Shit.
Simeon dropped down into the empty seat and looked at his ticket again. His was seventeen, and that was definitely the empty seat.
“Sorry,” he whispered. “How embarrassing—but it’s so dark, I…”
Yet his neighbor didn’t offer him so much as a glance, merely gesturing with one hand, a flick of the wrist that commanded silence. A faint glare of light reflected for a moment from the jeweled cufflink that peeped out from beneath the sleeve of the man’s jacket, then Simeon’s attention was caught by the curtain which, thank God, was finally beginning to rise.
This isn’t going to be an awkward three hours at all, is it?
Not at all.
Simeon was soon carried into the play. The scenery was gorgeous, and he overlooked the unimpressive acting because whoever was playing Theseus—if only Simeon had had time to grab a program—was a thoroughly delicious silver fox. As he settled into seat seventeen, Simeon became aware of a scent from somewhere nearby—a very pleasant cologne. The kind that Theseus would wear, in fact. Manly. Distinguished. The cologne of a mature man, who—
Christ, it isn’t the grumpy sod sat beside me, is it?
Simeon peered at him from the corner of his eye.
It wouldn’t be him. He had the voice and manner of an old-school toff. Lord knows this city has enough of them, and none of them wear cologne like that. Oh, for his own Theseus wearing that cologne.
Simeon forced himself to concentrate on the play, even though the energetic young actors didn’t hold much interest for him. But with any luck, Theseus would turn up again as Oberon, King of the Fairies.
A man can dream.
Before Simeon had time to lament the departure of Theseus too much, the curtain fell and the house lights came up. The interval. He really could do with a drink. Perhaps he should do the decent thing and apologize to the man who hadn’t been in his seat?
“Look, sorry—I don’t suppose you’d like to—?”
He glanced round at the man who’d sat so quietly beside him in the dark and held his breath as he looked at him.
The woman who had weaponized her program shot Simeon a pointed, disapproving look before bustling from the row. It was only then that he realized the couple weren’t together at all. In fact, as the woman departed, the man in seat sixteen was gazing fixedly at his program and clearly trying to pretend that Simeon didn’t exist.
Bloody hell, how could I have been so stupid?
The man in seat sixteen was gorgeous.
A head of thick blond hair, stranded with silver, and a strong jaw. Tall. Nicely dressed—far more nicely than Simeon. The man in seat sixteen seemed to have made an effort for going out to the theater, with a shirt and tie and three-piece suit.
And he was wearing that damn cologne.
Simeon turned in his seat and grinned him. “Mate—look, I’m going to grab a drink. Do you—can I get you something by way of apology? Least I can do.”
Seat Sixteen lifted his gaze to meet Simeon’s and blinked the brightest blue eyes he had ever seen. He looked momentarily bewildered, as though he wasn’t entirely sure that Simeon was addressing him, then spoke.
“There’s really no need.” Seat Sixteen smiled—a friendly, apologetic sort of smile that crinkled his eyes. “These things happen in the dark.”
“Yeah, I know, but…” Straight. He has to be straight. Not that it mattered—Simeon was only offering a drink to the man because he wanted to apologize. Not because he was even more attractive than Theseus. “Come on—what do you drink? Whiskey? Gin? Maybe a chilled white wine. You’ve got to be quick though, the interval won’t last forever!”
“I couldn’t possibly ask you for a rich red, it just wouldn’t be the done thing,” his neighbor told him, mischief sparking in his blue eyes. “But if you insist, I’m not so impolite as to refuse.”
“Good chap!” Simeon raised an eyebrow. “A rich red, eh?” He could well imagine this gent seated by a roaring fire sipping a fine wine. Although he’d now have to sip it in the cramped seats of the auditorium. Simeon gave the man a wink. “I’ll be back in a minute—a friend of mine works behind the bar so I won’t be long.”
Simeon patted Seat Sixteen on his broad shoulder as he went past.
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About the Authors
Catherine Curzon
Catherine Curzon is a royal historian who writes on all matters of 18th century. Her work has been featured on many platforms and Catherine has also spoken at various venues including the Royal Pavilion, Brighton, and Dr Johnson’s House.
Catherine holds a Master’s degree in Film and when not dodging the furies of the guillotine, writes fiction set deep in the underbelly of Georgian London.
She lives in Yorkshire atop a ludicrously steep hill.
Eleanor Harkstead
Eleanor Harkstead often dashes about in nineteenth-century costume, in bonnet or cravat as the mood takes her. She can occasionally be found wandering old graveyards, and is especially fond of the ones in Edinburgh. Eleanor is very fond of chocolate, wine, tweed waistcoats and nice pens. She has a large collection of vintage hats, and once played guitar in a band. Originally from the south-east, Eleanor now lives somewhere in the Midlands with a large ginger cat who resembles a Viking.
Catherine and Eleanor love to hear from readers. You can find their contact information, website and author biographies at https://www.pride-publishing.com.