fine.
Remy felt like he always felt after rehearsals -- vindicated and altogether pleased with himself. Then again, he also felt like that before rehearsals. And during rehearsals. And just about all the time, these days. Since joining the Opera Populaire, all of his dreams were realized. He proved himself worthy of his place, of all the adoration. He proved himself better than the family that didn’t want him and the former employers who scoffed at him. Why shouldn’t he feel pleased with himself?
But as he checked the schedule on his phone, some of his happy feelings disappeared. He was to stay after for a photo shoot with his leading lady -- or whatever she was calling herself these days -- Camille. Although they played off of each other well, there was no love lost between the two. Perhaps the passion that they often carried on stage was just a manifestation of the loathing they had for each other.
Straightening his costume, he walked back out on stage to see the cameras already setting up -- and Camille already sitting on one of the prop chairs. “Well, this should be a bit more bearable than acting with you,” he drawled in way of greeting. “At least in a photo shoot, you don’t have any lines to forget.” He couldn’t help criticizing every mistake she made harshly. She didn’t have to work from her position. She was born into it, practically. She had it all -- the famous father, the intrigue that came from her revealing herself as a girl later in life -- and she had never known want, or even disinterest. She didn’t know what it was like to play before a crowd of bored simpletons. She didn’t know what it was like to be hated by her own family. She didn’t even know what it was like to be hungry. Her position in the Opera was given, not earned.