"Of course," Naminé agreed easily. She could listen and sketch at the same time, and she was used to Valentine's frequent rants. "Daft, and thoroughly incompetent. One wonders how he was hired to be the director at all."
If there was the very slightest hint of teasing to her voice, Naminé was certainly unaware of where that might have come from.
"One does," Valentine insisted, nodding at a generous American who was more than happy to give him a few coins. Possibly just to shut him up. That would never really surprise Valentine, melodious though his voice might be. "He can't make up his mind about any single thing. The stage manager is the only one who can tolerate him, I think, and I have my suspicious as to how she got that job in the first place."
"She likely employed her feminine wiles," Naminé said, glancing up at Valentine from over her sketchpad. "Winked, and teased, and flirted. You know how we young ladies can be. The director incompetent, and the stage manager a cheap floozy: who else is unsuited for their position?"
"We have no props manager," Valentine continued. "He stormed off in a fit. The director wouldn't give him a props list. Or keep the script the same, for that matter. Even if he had gone through the script page-by-page to see what he needs to round up, it would be different again by this time tomorrow. The man's a lunatic, Naminé, plain and simple."
Clearly, if Valentine thought someone was insane, they would have to be good and batshit.
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If there was the very slightest hint of teasing to her voice, Naminé was certainly unaware of where that might have come from.
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Clearly, if Valentine thought someone was insane, they would have to be good and batshit.
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