hare brained.

You weren’t that much of a talker so you didn’t know why you kept agreeing to all these press nights at the theatre. Well - you did. You really loved going to the theatre, so who were you to say no to a free ticket and an invite to an after party? You did have a few friends in the so-called ‘theatre influencer’ space that would also pop up, but most of them lived on the fringes of London and couldn’t justify attending as many of the press nights as you.

Meanwhile, you were about twenty minutes on the Northern Line - a direct line to Leicester Square. Living in Tufnell Park definitely had its perks.

It was all the same: arrive, your name was on a list or you had the tickets in your inbox, you’d go queue up for a press photo against the fancy backdrop, maybe do a clip for the show’s social media, head inside for a couple of hours of beautifully crafted theatre, and then get carted off to some pub or bar in Soho just up the road. That was when you’d have a proper giggle with the mates that could make it, and maybe fangirl over actors and writers and cast members that you all particularly loved.

Quite often you’d see the same celebs over and over, not that you’d always talk to them, but sometimes you did. It could be awkward, trying to explain yourself as someone with a large enough social media following because you were an absolute theatre geek, because they’d either find it endearing (the better outcome) or weird (the not so good outcome). You kept to yourself for the most part because of this unless you were with friends. The free ticket and free drinks were always worth it regardless.

They usually ran smoothly pre-show, until one September evening had you really wondering why you ventured out on your own.

Security was a shambles, the guest list wasn’t up to date, and you were stuck between two men in the queue. Great. When the queue came to a standstill for at least ten minutes, you couldn’t help but let out quiet: “fuck sake, did someone die or what?”

A snort in front of you had you turning red. Not quiet enough.

“Probably. And all they’d do is get the understudy on,” he remarked, turning round with an amused look on his face.

You balked and tried not to absolutely fangirl over the fact your dark comment had grabbed the attention of Reece Shearsmith because of course it fucking did. He was dressed up in beige trousers, a light blue shirt, and a navy jacket. Hair coiffed back and glasses slipping to the end of his nose; he pushed them up with his middle finger.

“I’m glad I’m the kind of person who gets to the theatre early,” you ended up saying, ignoring the fact that one of the guys who invented The League of Gentlemen was in front of you. “Didn’t think the press line would be so rubbish for this one. Then again, I’ve never liked the Pinter.”

“Poor Pinter.”

“He’s dead, I don’t think he’d care,” your tone was dry, and you wondered where the confidence had come from. Was it because The League of Gentlemen man was talking to you? And he found what you said funny?

The conversation didn’t go further than that as the line started to move at top speed again.

You skipped the photo and went straight inside once your name had been checked off the list, electing to film the interiors and snap a few photos for your Instagram before the show started.

You didn’t see Reece Shearsmith again that night. You skipped drinks this time around because it had been an utter shambles anyway.

Two days later you were at the Almeida with a friend in tow which made things much more fun, and you were both able to have a bit of a giggle during your celebrity spotting. Which could have ended terribly when your friend pointed out Reece Shearsmith in the row in front but a few seats down (with his wife this time) and he overhead.

He looked back with a frown that turned to recognition when he saw you.

“Nobody died today!” he called over to you.

“Thank god!” you laughed back, and he turned his attention back to his wife, who ended up looking back at you curiously. “Christ…”

You sank down in your seat whilst your friend was gobsmacked that Reece Shearsmith clearly knew who you were. Thank god you’d both already filmed your content before the encounter.

“Did you have banter with Reece Shearsmith the other night?” she asked, buzzing with excitement.

“Oh yeah, I forgot to say: he overheard me make a snide remark about why the queue at the Pinter had come to a standstill. Never got to tell him my name though.”

“Find him after and introduce yourself!”

“God no,” you scoffed. “I can’t tell Reece fucking Shearsmith who I am and what I do.”

“Come on…” your friend encouraged. “I bet he’ll be at drinks.”

You perked up a little at the thought of drinks after the show. “True. I’ll think about it - he’s with his wife tonight, maybe they’re treating it like a date.”

“Oh yeah, good point…”

As it so happened, Reece and his wife weren’t at the after party anyway, so you were safe for now.

The night after, you encountered Reece on his own in the queue outside Wyndham’s Theatre.

“We really must stop meeting like this,” his dulcet Northern tones came from behind you. You jumped and faced him. “No friend tonight?”

You shook your head. “Nah. A lot of my friends live in East London so it’s a bit of a trek for them to come to these so frequently…” you mumbled. “I’m only about twenty minutes away.” You stuck out your hand and hurriedly introduced yourself.

“I’m Reece,” he said politely in response, even though he was fully aware you knew exactly who he was. “Nice to finally meet you. Where are you sitting?”

You pulled out your phone to check the details of your ticket. “Circle M14. You?”

“Circle M15 - right next door,” he said, a slight jovial tone to his voice.

“Oh good, it’ll be nice to have some company. Shockingly, I hate talking to people when I’m on my own.”

“Hmm. I get that. You’re not an actor though, so-”

Reece was abruptly called away for his press photo. You followed right after, and he politely waited for you. You couldn’t help but notice the strange look he gave as you handed someone to take footage and photos on your phone as well. Oh god, you were going to have to explain the whole theatre influencer thing to him. The man was in his fifties! You can’t be explaining that to a fiftysomething!

You sheepishly walked up to him and the pair of you went inside. “Look, it’s a hobby for me. I make videos about the theatre. Some of them went viral. Now I get invited to things. Can’t really say no to a free show, can I?”

“I see…” he was mulling it over in his head. “So you’re an-”

“Don’t say it…” you sighed. “It’s weird if you say it.”

“Right. Well…” Reece cleared his throat awkwardly and you inwardly winced. Especially because…

“Can I be a pain and ask you to take a video clip and a picture of me once we’re in the theatre?” You could feel your face growing redder by the second.

He was clearly holding back some kind of joke or snarky remark about it. “Since you asked nicely… of course.”

And he did. You weren’t picky with it and just let him get on with it. The photos and clips of you didn’t even turn out half bad and you figured it’d make an interesting anecdote to drop a ‘thanks Reece Shearsmith for taking some of these videos!’ in your caption later on.

As you settled down into your seats, you still didn’t put your phone away. There was one thing you really wanted out of all of this now, and you were almost too frightened to ask. You had barely spoken with Reece across the last few nights and you had been thrust into it together today so it felt weird to-

“Can I grab a photo with you?” you blurted out.

Reece smiled at you. “Yes. I was wondering when this would happen…”

“What do you mean?”

“When your friend more or less shouted my name across the theatre the other night,” he chuckled.

“Sorry about that.”

He waved it off. “It’s fine. Come on.”

You opened up the camera app on your phone, switched it to the front camera, and snapped a couple of pics of yourself and Reece quite happy in your seats. Soft, shy smiles from the both of you, as if two introverts had realised that they needed to document the social situation they had been a part of. Even if you were chattier than most introverts.

“Thanks,” you said sheepishly, taking a quick look at the photos. “It’s like I’ve taken my uncle out or something.”

“Uncle?!” Up an octave.

“Hey! You’re lucky I didn’t say dad!” you laughed. “You’re too young to be my dad.”

“Normally I’m old enough to be someone’s dad.”

You wondered if he spent a little too much time on the internet between writing award winning television shows.

“Take the joke,” was all you ended up saying.

“Yep. Right.”

The show started not long after that.

Two and a half hours later, you both shuffled out the theatre amongst the crowd and you just about convinced Reece to come with you for one drink at the after party. Granted, you’d both been having a pleasant evening in each other’s company so it wasn’t difficult to sway him.

“One drink,” he emphasised. “And it’ll be the glass of champagne we get at the door.”

“No more than five minutes?”

“Course not!”

You laughed, wrapping your blazer a little tighter around you against the sudden chill in the air. Autumn was well and truly making its way to London, only to be felt late at night when the sun set at eight o’clock, leaving theatregoers to be surprised by how dark it suddenly was at nine thirty.

The bar that you were heading to was about a seven minute walk away in the heart of Soho. You used to find it odd that the venues would be so far from the theatre, but you soon realised it meant the overzealous fans would never find out where the after party was until the official images were released on getty as festivities were wrapping up.

Despite the gag that you wouldn’t be there for more than five minutes, Reece didn’t rush to get out of conversation with you. By the time it was ten o’clock and you’d been there at least twenty minutes, the pair of you had slowly, finally, worked your way through your respective glasses of free champagne. You grabbed a refill. Every now and then Reece would see someone he knew and bring them into the conversation with the pair of you, but you were more than happy to simply listen and not contribute.

By all accounts you were technically an overzealous fan, you were just lucky that a corporate job grounded you and a few viral videos as a hobby meant you could appease your inner fangirl with nights like this. You felt grateful to even be offered conversation with half the people that Reece chatted to, despite feeling too out of depth to participate. Still, you really didn’t mind it at all. Nor did you mind when Reece excused himself to use the bathroom.

Until, of course, it all went wrong shortly after that point.

As with every type of job there came people you didn’t like or just didn’t gel with at all.

You were spotted by one such theatre influencer, who came over to poke the bear. He wasn’t a particularly nice person in general and you and your friends often avoided him, but you didn’t expect him to pick a fight with you at an after party.

“He won’t sleep with you, you know,” the prick said to you.

“Go away.”

“He’s married.”

“I know.”

“You women are all the same when it comes to him.”

“Please leave me alone,” you sighed. “It’s none of your business.”

“How’d you manage it? Swinging a conversation with the Reece Shearsmith?”

“Got talking in the queue,” you shrugged, hiding your now shaky hands behind your back. “Like I said: none of your business.” Your voice quietened as it began to waver. You peered over the guy’s shoulder to see that Reece was weaving through the crowd to get back to you. 

He scoffed. “Sure. You girls love to fawn over him. I bet you haven’t even watched half the stuff he’s been in!”

“That’s unfair. I know Reece’s work - I know it very well. Please leave me alone.” You hated confrontation like no other.

“Where is he anyway? Did he realise you have a little crush and that’s all you care for and he-”

“I think that’s enough,” Reece said calmly. “She asked you to leave her alone. Leave her alone.”

The guy faltered. He didn’t say anything else and wandered off ashamed.

“Thank you,” you said, straightening out your jacket with shaky hands. You avoided Reece’s gaze as you took your phone from your bag to check when the next tube would be.

“Are you alright?” he asked quietly. He was watching you like a hawk, and you hated it. You wanted to leave in peace and not cry in front of the guy who helped create some of the best British television over the years.

“Yep,” you squeaked out, rapidly blinking back tears.

The room felt much stuffier than it had about ten minutes ago. You wanted to take your blazer off but you knew you’d be stepping into the cool London air to make a hasty exit home. You risked a glance at Reece across the standing table to see he was concerned, his brow furrowed and lips ever so slightly poured. You tried to shoot him a reassuring smile but all it did was make your face crumple.

To save yourself any further embarrassment, you necked back the remainder of your drink and sniffed, wiping away the stray tear that had fallen. Cheeks aflame you stuck your hand out for him to shake.

“Well! I think - I think that’s my cue to go,” you said. “I don’t know if you’re going to the show at the Palladium next week-”

“You can’t go home in a state.”

You balked and dropped your hand. “I’m not in a state.”

“You’re about two sentences away from it.” Reece paused. “What’s your way home?”

“Um… Northern Line. I’m in Tufnell Park.”

“I’m done here for the night anyway, told you I don’t usually stay this long when I do come to the afters…” Reece started to manoeuvre his way through the right crowd, gently taking hold of your cuff to pull you along with him. “I’m not letting you go home in a state, alright?”

“Okay…” you murmured, keeping your eyes down as various other actors and producers and writers trying to grab Reece but he politely brushed them off to say he had something to attend to at home. You marvelled at his polite yet firm delivery that had nobody trying to convince him otherwise, and soon enough you were out in the middle of Soho with the pair of you trying to get your bearings.

“Leicester Square?” Reece asked politely.

“Tottenham Court Road is quicker from here…” you mumbled, shoving your hands into your pockets against the bitter chill that had picked up. 

“Right! Yes…”

Reece let you take the lead up Dean Street and towards Oxford Street. It was late enough that there were no more tourists as you took a sharp right towards Tottenham Court Road tube station. The street wasn’t as crowded and Reece easily fell into step beside you.

“I know you’re a grown woman and you can handle yourself-”

“But you’re a father at the end of the day,” you cut across him softly. “I get it. I can only hope my dad would do the same thing for your daughter.”

“She’s not much younger than you, actually.” He was trying to pick up the tone. “How old are you again? Late twenties?”

You side eyed him. “Early thirties.”

“Okay, maybe she’s a bit younger than you. You’re making me feel old.”

“You are old,” you replied with a cheeky smile and a gentle nudge to his arm with your elbow. “It’s probably what makes you so alluring to us young ones. My friends are going to have a fit about the fact we spent the whole evening talking.”

Reece groaned. “I’m just a man-”

“Who wrote at least two of the best TV shows of all time-”

“Two?!” his voice went up in pitch.

“I didn’t fuck with Psychoville, sorry!”

He groaned again as the pair of you entered Tottenham Court Road tube station and made your way down to the barriers on the escalators. “Always one, isn’t there?” was his only response.

“I’ll hand it to you about the clown though: he was great fun.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah!” you paused for a moment, trying not to laugh about the reams of fanfiction you were aware of about the fact people wanted to fuck the clown from Psychoville. Reece caught onto the fact you were holding back something as you stepped off the escalators and headed to the barrier. You tapped in and got onto your next escalator down into the depths of the Underground.

“What is it?” he was prying now, too curious for his own good.

“Nothing…”

“You can’t have that look on your face and not say anything!”

“It’s not appropriate-”

“Fuck’s sake. Do people want to fuck Mr Jelly?” he reeled off. You weren’t at all surprised he caught on that quickly.

“There’s fanfiction.”

“‘Course there is,” he scoffed.

He’d stepped onto the escalator behind you, so you turned to look up at him with a frown. “Something tells me you like to lurk on the internet too much.”

“I’ve got better things to do with my time,” he replied with a proud, cocky head tilt to boot, a half smirk on his lips.

“Yeah, you totally spend too much time lurking on the internet,” you chuckled.

Reece didn’t argue with you on that front. It was a fruitless mission.

The Northern Line was a loud beast so conversation died down until Tufnell Park, but you were grateful for the chance to properly recompose yourself. It wasn’t until you were about to tap out of the tube did you realise Reece really was escorting you all the way home.

“You don’t have to come all the way to my front door…”

“I don’t mind,” he paused as you both stepped out into the street. “What was he saying to you?”

“Doesn’t really matter. That guy’s a bit of a sexist anyway - he was trying to get a rise out of me, that’s all. Thanks for stepping in before he could,” you said. “Let’s just say I think League has a few male fans that don’t like it when women like you guys.”

“Ah.”

“Yeah…”

“Are you alright now?”

“Yes,” you shot him a genuine smile. “Are you gonna be at the Palladium next week?”

“I should be… Steve’s coming too.”

“Oh!” You tried your best to hide the giddy excitement that had bubbled up in you. “I’ll - I’ll see you both there, then. I’ll have a friend with me too.”

“Lovely.”

A few more minutes of silence later, you slowed to a stop outside a Victorian house conversion. “This is me,” you said. “Top floor. No elevator. Thanks for getting me home. I… hope it wasn’t too out of your way?”

“Doesn’t matter,” he shook his head. “I’ll um… what’s uh… shall I drop you a message about next week?”

You were taken aback. He looked just about as awkward as you felt about it.

“Uh… sure! Um…” You held your hand out for his phone. “Just message me on instagram…”

“Right.” Reece quickly unlocked his phone and allowed you to type your handle in, wherein he pressed the ‘Follow Back’ button. Seemed less weird than giving him your mobile number. “There we go!” He beamed at you as he popped his phone away. “Catch you next week.”

“Yeah! Next week… oh my friend - it’s the one who blatantly called you out the other night at the Almeida. She’s chill. Into horror. Loves a film with loads of killings.” You even did a terrible Northern accent for the reference.

Reece chuckled. “I’m sure we’ll get on just fine. Good night.”

“Night… Let me know when you’re home!”

Not that you expected him to do that.

You waited for a moment, watching him head back the way you had come. You wondered where he lived if not nearby. A question for another day if you ever got to chat to him more outside of the theatre space, which seemed like you might now that you had each other on instagram.

Once you went into your flat and started getting ready for bed, you were surprised to see that he messaged you just after eleven o’clock.

Reece Shearsmith: I’m home now.

You: Nice. Sleep well!

You settled down and didn’t think much of the social media link you now had with him.

Until of course the next morning before work, your friends had utterly blown up your phone. Lots of ‘why does Reece Shearsmith follow you?’ and ‘how do you know Reece Shearsmith?’ You were vague in your responses, and even more vague when putting together the reel about the previous night’s show for Instagram: a sly tag of Reece on the video, leading to a like and comment from him.

@reeceshearsmith_: Great night and great company!x

@Y/N_Y/L/N: Couldn’t agree more! :) 

The next few days passed by with more questions and even fewer answers. It was nobody’s business except your own. 

You and your friend were excited as anything to meet up with those two old men who created Inside No. 9 at the Palladium, so it felt like agony waiting for it to roll around. But roll around it did.

The evening was much chillier than expected and you met your friend at the Argyll Street exit of Oxford Circus, linking arms together against the cold as you marched on down towards the Palladium, nattering away about what you thought the show was going to be like and if you’d run into that twat again.

You ultimately ended up meeting Reece and his good friend Steve Pemberton once you and your friend were inside the theatre after the usual queue and press photo. What surprised you was Reece greeting you with a hug.

“We hug now?” you asked him.

“Why not?” he shrugged in response. “Looks like it’ll be a good evening though.” Mischief danced in his eyes and you frowned.

“What do you mean?”

“Let’s just say that cunt from the other night won’t bother you again. Or have his presence grace a press night again.”

You and your friend’s jaws dropped.

Reece and Steve laughed, then the four of you went in to take your seats.