Winifred Portley-Rind paced in front of the first row of seats in the newly built Cheesebridge theater, one hand behind her back clutching a rolled up script and the other hand pinching the bridge of her nose in frustration. Her father had just used the latest fundraising money to build a proper theater for her and all the other thespians and musicians in Cheesebridge to perform in, rather than that little wooden stage in the market place that was becoming more unsteady by the day. Winnie was going to be the first person to open a show in the new building, one she wrote herself about an man who was hired to kill people but eventually ended up being hired to kill the love of his life's family, including her. A psychological thriller, much to Winnie's delight. Her cast was small, only a few people were needed. She had cast Molly as the leading lady, Elizabeth Jones, and Mr. Pickles as the lead role of Sir Bartholomew Angsteen. She casted them in particular because those two characters had a kissing scene, and she knew she wanted Molly for Elizabeth, but she did not want any other man but Mr. Pickles to kiss her, even though they weren't officially together they were still head over heels in love with each other. Unfortunately, Mr. Pickles was failing to meet the expectations of the role.
Mr. Pickles stood on stage, fiddling with his scarf and waiting for the director to calm down. He looked over at Molly every few seconds, and she would give him a reassuring smile. Although she and everyone backstage knew exactly what Winnie was going to say. "You stink of illiteracy! Murder! Betrayal! Don't you know anything about romance!?" Winnie yelled, staring the tall man down. She then looked from Pickles to Molly and rolled her eyes, "Of course you don't, why would I ask that?" she mumbled to herself. Another moment of silence came before she finally spoke again. "Mr. Pickles, do you realize that we open this show in a week, and you still say these lines as if you're reading a text book! Where's your passion? Where's your sorrow? You're about to kill the woman you love, don't you feel any regret? Remorse? Anything?!"
"I- I feel… Sad." he piped up.
Winnie threw her script onto the ground and balled her hands into fists, "Then ACT like it!"
She heard a throat clear from the side of the stage and looked over to see Herbert Trubshaw poking his head out from behind the curtain. She groaned as she waited for the inevitable. "Uh, Winnie- I mean, Ms. Director Ma'am. Perhaps what we need is another character to come in and-"
Winnie began, calmer than she had been with Mr. Pickles, "For the last time, Herbert, there are no other characters for you to play. You are in charge of special effects."
The man nodded his head quickly, leaving them Molly and Pickles alone on stage again,"Righto, sorry. Carry on."
Winnie took a few deep breaths to calm herself down. "Alright, we're going to do this scene again. This time I want you to do it as if it were real, Mr. Pickles." She bent down to pick up her script and flip to the proper page.
Mr. Pickles looked down at his feet, "Oh, but I would never hurt Ms. Molly in real life." He peeked back up at Molly who giggled and turned away, trying to hid her blushing cheeks. Winnie wanted to gag, "Well, in this reality you do. ACTION!"
Mr. Pickles walked off stage right to make his entrance. He took a deep breath and a gulp before stepping out and beginning. "Elizabeth, dear? Are you here?" He entered onto the stage that looked like a lady's bedroom. Molly at a vanity fussing with her hair. She turned quickly, surprised to see him, "Bartholomew? What are you doing here?"
He stepped center stage, and shakily began his next line, "I- I came to finish what I started." He stood tall, but you could tell he was nervous underneath all that height.
Molly stood up and approached him, "What do you mean?"
Mr. Pickles sighed and looked down. Molly stood up and approached him. He took her hands and looked her in the eyes. As sincere as he could, he spoke, "Elizabeth, you know I love you with all my heart and soul. I would marry you if I could, but…"
"But what? With my father gone we can finally have the life we wished, and we have the money to do it-" Molly interrupted him, but was then cut off by Pickles. "No. We can have the life that you wished." He let go of her hands and stepped away from her.
Molly took a step towards him, attempting to put a hand on his shoulder, but he shook it off. "Bartholomew?"
Mr. Pickles turned back towards her, pretending to take a knife out of his jacket and stepping towards her, "I'm sorry, but a man has to do what a man has to do." As he approached her, she backed away, "Bartholomew…" She eventually backed into the vanity. Mr. Pickles went to strike with his invisible prop, but stopped midway through and turned out to the audience. "Alright, how was that? I felt good that time, I felt there." he shook his arms out, a proud smile on his face. Molly stood beside him and beamed. It was better than he had done before.
There was no response from the director for quite some time. Mr. Pickles held his breath as he waited. A moment later she finally gave feedback. "Better." Pickles gave a sigh of relief. "But it's still not my vision. Keep on practicing and maybe you'll get a third of the way there." She stood up from her seat and began gathering all her notes and papers together, "That's a wrap for today, see you all again on Monday. Where's the stage manager?" As she asked the question, Fish popped his head out from behind the curtain backstage, ran around it, and jumped down to the audience where she was.
Everyone backstage bustled about to get ready to head home. Another long week of rehearsals was finally over, and the cast and crew had the whole weekend to recuperate before hell week began on Monday. Hell week is the week before a show opens when the actors and crew have to run the play cue-to-cue with lights, costumes, hair, makeup, set changes, effects, and everything in between to find out what needs to be changed, fixed, and polished before the show opens.
Mr. Pickles felt fine about it all really, he had his lines memorized, his costume fit perfectly, he didn't have to worry about doing his hair since he had none. His only fear was that he would slip up on the acting itself. It was a stretch for him to play a character like Sir Bartholomew Angsteen. He was a ruthless killer while Monty Pickles would never hurt a fly. Especially a fly who was Ms. Molly Monte Cristo. Winnie was asking for some pretty brutal stuff in this play. He had to grab Molly by the arms, stab her, kiss her, and hold her by the waist. He could barely do any of that in real life, what made Winnie think he could do it on a stage?
As he thought about all the week's work he had done, he saw that Molly stopped by with some of the backstage crew before leaving. Trubshaw, Hamilton, and Ms. Bonaparte, the town seamstress who was doing costuming for the play. Molly chatted with them about the rehearsal, "I think it went pretty smooth. Not nearly as bad as the time Mr. Pickles dropped me on stage anyway." she rubbed her arm a moment, "I'm still a bit sore from that…" she commented. Mr. Pickles stood where they couldn't see him, but where he could still listen.
Hamilton scrapped a spoon inside a jar of almost empty peanut butter. "Well I don't think Pickle-Boy is getting any better. We've been doing this play for a month now and he still does his lines like he just read the script for the first time." He took the spoonful he could scrape out and shoved it into his mouth.
Molly pouted, not sure how to argue. He wasn't wrong necessarily. "He's trying." she retorted weakly.
Hamilton popped the spoon out of his mouth and spoke while still chewing, "And he can try all he wants, but what he lacks is the raw, natural, talent." He stood as tall as he could, but was still the shortest one in the group.
Mrs. Bonaparte chuckled as she shadily commented, "Ah, like the talent you have when you come out on stage with a spoon of Peanut Butter in your mouth?" Trubshaw and Molly couldn't help but crack smiles and giggle. Hamilton side-eyed her, and shoved the spoon back into the jar to scavenge for more PB. He mumbled to himself as the rest mocked him, "Exactly. I can act better than him with a mouthful of peanut butter."
Mr. Pickles stepped out from his spot and cleared his throat. They all turned to him, unsure how much he had heard. Hamilton spoke up first, "Great work today, Pickle-Boy." Mr. Pickles' face couldn't help but fall a bit, knowing he was lying straight to his face.
"Yes, well done. You are improving." Mrs. B patted him on the back as she walked past him, ready to head home. Hamilton and Trubshaw did the same, leaving just Molly and Pickles backstage. The two looked at each other for a moment. Molly sighed, "How much did you hear?"
He rubbed the back of his neck, embarrassed he had been listening at all. "I- I'm pretty sure all of it."
"I'm so sorry, Monty." she walked up and hugged him. He was surprised, but hugged her back. He needed it. They began to walk out the backdoor, out into the alley, then out to the street. "You really are getting better, you know? I mean it, I actually felt scared today." she giggled nervously, hoping she was cheering the poor man up.
He sighed, "You don't have to lie to me, Ms. Molly. Hamilton was just being honest. I'm not as great an actor as my resume says. I don't know why Winifred even casted me as this part in the first place." He watched his shoes as he walked down the cobble street.
Molly put her hand on his arm sympathetically, "Because she saw your potential. She knows you can do it." He looked at her, and she smiled at him hopefully.
"You sure about that?" he asked, uncertain.
She nodded, "I am." She felt a lightbulb flash above her head as an idea popped into her mind, "How about you come over to my house tomorrow afternoon and we can run some lines together. Maybe in a more private and less stressful setting so you can get into character better." she looped her arm into his as they walked, hoping to be helpful and also a bit flirty at the same time.
Flustered by her offer and the touching he graciously accepted, "Th- That would be l-lo-lovely." he managed to speak with a goofy grin across his face. They approached the front door of Molly's house and bid their goodbyes. Mr. Pickles walked down the street back to the factory as the sun set on the horizon. Rehearsal may not have gone too well, but he knew tomorrow would be a better day.