Years marched on, each one leaving its mark like a heavy-handed makeup artist. Amanda, no longer a wisp, had become a substantial presence, a veritable galleon in a sea of supermodels. Her hair, once the colour of spun gold, was now a wispy grey cloud framing a face etched with the stories of a thousand unbaked cakes. She was a fixture of the local theatre, a grumbling, generous, talented old soul. Her backstage pronouncements were legendary, her on-stage presence undeniable. She may not have been a star, but she was, without a doubt, a force of nature.

And why wouldn't she be? After all, she owned the theatre, having inherited it from her father, a renowned pastry chef who, in a stroke of genius, had invested all his profits into the building. The stage was not her passion, rather, it was her inheritance, but the pastries she sold at the intermission allowed her to fund her true love: the creation of even more delectable treats!

Beatrice Bumblebee adored Art. Not in that stuffy, gallery-going, sherry-sipping way, mind you. Oh, no. Beatrice loved Art with the fervent passion of a lovesick baker for a perfect crème brûlée. She haunted theatres like a persistent ghost, consumed plays like a starving man devouring a five-course meal, and practically lived in the velvet-lined world of musicals, humming along just slightly off-key. She declared each performance “utterly devastating,” “breathtakingly poignant,” and “worth more than its weight in gilded doorknobs.”

One Tuesday, mid-intermission of what Beatrice declared was “a particularly moving tragedy about… well, something with emotional baggage,” she found herself chatting with a bewildered-looking gentleman struggling to navigate the overflowing throng. He was, as far as Beatrice could tell, quite taken with her enthusiasm. So, naturally, she launched into a dazzling, breathless monologue about the current season. “Oh, darling, have you seen the one with the, you know, the thing? The one with all the… feelings? Simply divine! And then there’s that other one, with the chaps, the costumes, and the, ah… you know… theatrics! Positively splendid!”

The gentleman, a kindly soul named Mr. Plumson, raised a curious eyebrow. He’d been attempting to figure out which play he was even at. “Indeed,” he said, stroking his chin. “And what did you think of Lady Bracknell's delivery in… ah… that one?” Beatrice blinked. Lady… what-now? She tilted her head, the picture of thoughtful contemplation. “Oh, she was… simply marvelous! Absolutely riveting! The way she… well, the way she… did things! Truly unforgettable!” Mr. Plumson leaned in, a twinkle in his eye. “And did you find the subtext particularly resonant, considering the playwright's… shall we say… complex relationship with… his muse?”

Beatrice beamed. “Oh, absolutely! The… the resonances! So… resonant! You see, that's what I adore about Art. It's so… you know… arty!” Mr. Plumson, suppressing a chuckle, finally cleared his throat. “And of course, you're familiar with the author's other works, such as… ah… “Whimsical Wanderings in the Wisteria Woods”?” Beatrice paused, a flicker of panic in her eyes. She knew she was cornered, like a butterfly in a very elegantly decorated net. “Oh, well, you see,” she confessed, her voice suddenly small, “I've never quite been one for… names. I just… love the experience! It's all so… so…” She spread her arms wide, a gesture encompassing the entire theatre, the entire idea of Art. “So… performance-y!”