The florescent lights of the Stanislavski-lite Acting Conservatory hummed with the same weary resignation that settled over its student body. Amongst them, perpetually perched on a stool too small for his lanky frame, sat Arthur Penhaligon. Arthur, despite dedicating every ounce of his tall, slim being to the craft, was, to put it mildly, a disaster on stage. His dramatic pauses stretched into awkward silences, his emotional outbursts felt like sudden sneezes, and his stage combat resembled a startled heron trying to escape a fishing net.
Across the room, attempting to channel the raw power of a distressed rhinoceros (a role she'd been assigned in a particularly baffling exercise), was Bethany 'Beth' Croft. Beth, short and undeniably more substantial than graceful ballet dancers were typically portrayed, had an enthusiasm that dwarfed her actual talent. Her monologues tended to escalate into shouting matches with inanimate objects, and her attempts at brooding intensity often came across as though she'd misplaced her car keys.
Their acting instructor, the formidable Agnes Crumplebottom, a woman whose cheekbones were as sharp as her criticisms, had long since given up hope on Arthur and Beth. Their lack of aptitude was legendary within the Conservatory's hallowed, slightly mildewed, halls.
One wet Tuesday morning, a limousine the size of a small bus idled outside the Conservatory. From it emerged none other than global cinematic icon, Reginald 'Reg' Thorne – the kind of actor whose mere eyebrow twitch could win an Oscar. Reg, for reasons that remained utterly inexplicable, had decided to visit his old acting school. Agnes, normally a picture of stern indifference, practically fainted.
After a perfunctory tour of the depressingly familiar facilities, Reg found himself observing Agnes's most advanced class, which, unfortunately, included the spectacle of Arthur attempting to embody a wilting orchid and Beth portraying a vengeful garden gnome.
To Agnes's utter astonishment, and the collective gasps of the other students, Reg leaned over and whispered, "Agnes, these two… they have a remarkable, almost perverse, talent for the truly unexpected. It's not traditional, but it's… something."
Agnes, normally stoic, actually snorted. "Reginald, are you unwell? They couldn't act their way out of a paper bag filled with stage fright."
Reg chuckled, a deep, rumbling sound that made the cheap theatre seats vibrate. "A bet then, Agnes. A simple scene. You choose the scenario. If they can convince me, even for a fleeting moment, that they're these characters, you admit you were wrong. If not, I'll donate enough to replace those ghastly curtains." The curtains, a faded maroon monstrosity, had been a sore point for years.
Agnes's sharp eyes narrowed. The thought of new curtains, and perhaps more importantly, being proven right, was too tempting. "Very well. A funeral parlor. You are assassins, operatives, hiding during a job gone wrong. A client arrives. Incorporate… cake. The scene starts now."
Arthur and Beth exchanged terrified glances. Funeral parlor? Assassins? Cake? This was a level of bizarre they hadn't anticipated, even for Agnes.
They were standing awkwardly in the Conservatory's small, unused prop room, which, with its dusty tarps and shrouded furniture, served as a surprisingly effective, if unintentional, stand-in for a neglected funeral parlor. Arthur, trying to blend into the shadows, looked more like a very tall, very nervous scarecrow. Beth, attempting to project an air of ruthless competence, mostly looked like she needed a snack.
Reg Thorne watched, an inscrutable expression on his famous face.
Arthur, drawing on some desperate, untapped well of inspiration (likely fueled by pure panic), straightened his already unnaturally straight posture. He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper that somehow managed to carry across the room. "The drop was supposed to be clean, Eleanor. Just the plans, the cash, and a quiet exit. Who brings a damn cake to a handover?"
Beth, who Agnes had inexplicably renamed Eleanor for the scene, glared at a nonexistent object in her hand. "It was a diversion, Silas! A very poorly executed one. Apparently, Mrs. Higgins insists on celebrating her late husband's love of lemon drizzle, even if he's in pieces in the freezer."
Reg's eyebrow twitched. This was… not what he'd expected.
A beat of silence hung in the air. Arthur, as 'Silas,' slowly turned his head towards an imaginary door. He adopted an expression of forced pleasantness that was more unsettling than outright menace. "Client's here. Remember the briefing, Eleanor. Professional, discreet. We're grieving friends. Friends with… very peculiar tastes in grieving accessories." He gestured vaguely at the imaginary, cake-bearing accomplice.
Beth, as 'Eleanor,' smoothed down her imaginary dress. "Don't worry, Silas. I've got this. I can look sorrowful enough to make a statue weep. Especially if there's still some of that lemon drizzle."
The imaginary door creaked open. Arthur stepped forward, his long shadow stretching across the floor. He greeted a non-existent client with a somber nod. His voice, while still attempting a sorrowful cadence, had a chilling undertone.
"Ah, Mr…." Arthur paused, clearly struggling with the imaginary character's name. He landed on one that felt suitably funereal. "...Mr. Gasket. Thank you for coming. It's… a difficult time." He glanced back at Beth, a flicker of desperate improvisation in his eyes. "We were just… discussing arrangements. And a rather… unique floral tribute. It involves… confectionery."
Beth stepped forward, attempting a mournful sniffle that sounded suspiciously like a suppressed giggle. "Yes, Mr. Gasket. It's what he would have wanted. He had a… profound appreciation for the finer things in life. And cake."
Arthur turned back to the imaginary Mr. Gasket, his expression hardening slightly beneath the veneer of sympathy. His voice dropped, becoming dangerously low, almost a purr. "Before we… finalize the details for your… loved one's farewell," he said, his eyes lingering for just a fraction of a second on something only he could see, something clearly related to the botched deal, "I would really hate to have to bury my friend over a misunderstanding about… portion sizes."
He held the imaginary client's gaze for a moment, the air thick with unspoken threats and the scent of imaginary stale cake. Then, with a smooth transition, he turned away, his demeanor shifting instantly back to the solicitous funeral attendant. "Now, about those hymns, Mr. Gasket…"
Beth, meanwhile, was subtly (or perhaps not so subtly) miming scooping icing off an imaginary cake with her finger.
Silence descended as Arthur began discussing fictional burial plots with the air. Reg Thorne was motionless, his famous face a mask of contemplation. Agnes Crumplebottom, leaning against the doorframe, looked utterly bewildered.
The scene ended. Arthur and Beth stood frozen, chests heaving, waiting for the inevitable tidal wave of Agnes's criticism.
Reg Thorne slowly clapped, a measured, thoughtful sound. Agnes stared at him, her mouth agape.
"Agnes," Reg said, his voice quiet. "They were… they were utterly captivatingly dreadful. And yet… there was a spark. A weird, unpredictable, utterly compelling spark." He looked at Arthur and Beth, a genuine smile spreading across his face. "The sheer audacity of incorporating a cake into an assassin's hiding place, the terrible dialogue with a touch of genuine menace, the sniffing for icing… it was a train wreck, yes. But I couldn't look away. It was… entertainment."
He turned back to Agnes, his smile widening. "New curtains, Agnes. And perhaps… some classes on utilizing terrible ideas to brilliant effect."
Beth let out a small squeal of delight. Arthur, for the first time since arriving at the Conservatory, looked faintly proud.
Agnes Crumplebottom stood speechless, defeated not by talent, but by a remarkable, almost perverse, lack of it that somehow, against all logic, had managed to momentarily convince Reginald Thorne. And as for the cake, rumour had it that a mysterious lemon drizzle appeared in the Conservatory staff room the very next day, its presence as inexplicable and strangely compelling as Arthur and Beth's performance.