The Greatest Showman - Chapter 800: Teacher Award
Walking through the backstage passage and stepping outdoors, the freezing wind and chill of the night air slammed against his face. The brief warmth from the stage dissipated instantly, his limbs stiffening in response. He methodically put on his jacket, wrapped a scarf around his neck, and slipped on his gloves before leaving the alley and returning to the main street. His mind still lingered on the audition he had just completed. Lost in thought, he paused, shivering as he snapped back to reality.
Glancing left and right, he pulled his phone from his pocket, about to call Nathan, when a familiar voice called from the theater entrance.
"Renly?"
Dena's old-fashioned figure appeared—wrapped in a dark blue trench coat, a beige checkered scarf draped loosely around his neck, and a tan peaked cap spinning idly in his hand. As he quickly descended the theater steps, his greeting was both warm and familiar.
Time seemed to rewind, taking Renly back five years to his days at the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art. John Codd had looked exactly the same back then—winter after winter, wearing the same trench coat, scarf, and hat. The tall, thin silhouette in dark blue had led them tirelessly between the academy and the stage. And now, standing before him, it felt as though nothing had changed.
"How is it? Getting used to London's winter yet?" John asked. Complaining about the weather was the customary greeting among Londoners. As he adjusted his scarf casually, he added, "I can guarantee you, the weather in the States is never this bad."
"The U.S. isn't just California," Renly countered. Having survived New York winters, he was well aware of the biting cold across the Atlantic. "What brings you here today?"
Renly glanced back at the theater behind him. Today had been the audition for the film adaptation of Les Misérables. If he wasn't mistaken, it was a closed audition—outsiders were not allowed.
"I snuck in, of course. This isn't Buckingham Palace," John dismissed the notion with a wave of his hand, as if sneaking into a major audition was the most natural thing in the world. Then he chuckled. "But honestly, I don't see the difference between this Hollywood adaptation and the West End version. I sat through hours of it and still don't get why they need a movie. Wouldn't it be better to let people just come to the West End or Broadway?"
A true theater purist—John had always been wary of film adaptations, believing in the irreplaceable magic of live performances.
"Money," Renly said simply, snapping his fingers. Plays are confined to physical locations, but films can reach the entire world. The straightforward answer left John momentarily speechless before he shook his head with a helpless laugh. "Yeah, who can resist the allure of money? I certainly can't, so I'll keep my mouth shut."
As they spoke, a light drizzle began to fall. Droplets clung to their faces, the chill creeping under their coats. Yet, Londoners carried on as if nothing had changed—no one rushed, no one opened an umbrella. They merely fastened their jackets and continued their way down the street at the same leisurely pace.
John tilted his head toward the overcast sky before nudging Renly with his elbow. "This weather calls for a proper afternoon tea. Care to join me?"
Renly smiled knowingly. John's presence at the audition had not been a coincidence, and this invitation was anything but casual. "My pleasure," he replied, falling into step beside him. "Is that tea shop on the next street still open?"
London's West End, despite its name, sat in the very heart of the city. A short walk could take you to Oxford Street's bustling shopping district, Buckingham Palace, Regent's Park, or Westminster Abbey. The area was a mix of lively tourist hotspots and hidden gems known only to locals.
"Which one? The French place?"
"No, the Indian one."
"Jesus Christ. You actually like that place?"
"Not exactly. Their scented tea was terrible—an unforgettable mistake. If we're going there, I'd recommend grabbing a takeout from Costa first."
Costa, like Starbucks, was a major coffee chain, though its Italian origins gave it a superior reputation in Britain. For traditional tea-drinking Brits, neither was the proper way to enjoy a hot drink. Renly's remark was all the proof John needed to confirm his disdain.
"If that were my only option, I'd rather die," John declared with theatrical flair. "The Indian place is gone—closed down. But there's a new tea shop near Piccadilly Circus. More modern, but the refreshments aren't bad, and it's quiet."
Braving the wind and rain, they walked on, embracing the very essence of London's dreary charm. When they finally stepped inside, the warmth enveloped them once again. Coats came off, raindrops were shaken away, and as they sat down with their tea, comfort seeped back into their bones. Outside, the city hummed with life, but within these walls, peace reigned.
"Sugar?" Renly asked. John had always taken his tea with a single sugar cube and milk.
But this time, John held up two fingers.
Renly raised an eyebrow but complied, dropping two cubes into his cup. "Getting a sweeter tooth with age?" he teased.
John shrugged. "As you get older, your tastes change."
"It was only three years ago that you took just one," Renly pointed out.
"Three years is nothing to a young man. To an old man, it's an eternity."
Renly smirked. "I think you have that backward."
John merely rolled his eyes, deflecting the jab as he stirred his tea. Then, with a deliberate shift in tone, he observed, "Your performance today was solid. Your basics haven't slipped."
Renly chuckled, catching on immediately. Just months ago, John had been quick to criticize his shift to film, lamenting the loss of his theatrical foundation. "But?" Renly prompted.
"Your expressions are still too subtle—too cinematic. That style doesn't translate well to the stage."
"The audition was for the movie," Renly explained. "They were recording everything on camera. I had to adjust my performance."
John nodded, understanding dawning in his eyes. "I have to admit, I didn't expect Hollywood to teach you anything worthwhile." He took a sip of his tea, then fixed Renly with a serious look. "The role of Enjolras doesn't challenge you much. Your use of stage space, your command over the audience—it's all good. But are you ready for something more difficult?"
"Macbeth? Or Hamlet?" Renly guessed with genuine curiosity.
Every British actor dreams of tackling Shakespeare, but the theater industry had been struggling, and opportunities for such roles were dwindling.
John's lips twitched in amusement. "Jean Valjean."
Renly's heart skipped a beat. It was the role he longed for, the challenge he craved. The mere suggestion was enough to electrify him. But before he could answer, John added with a smirk, "Of course, I still need to convince the creative team and the sponsors. But first things first—are you interested?"
Interested? There was only one possible answer.
Renly smiled. "Absolutely."