NOTE: This is my first Phantom of the Opera story, although I've read plenty of "phan fic" on this site. Christine Daae will make an appearance in this story, but she won't be the main character - that would be too easy.
This chapter contains a lot of exposition, in order for us to get to know Maya. The plot will pick up in the second chapter and Maya will meet Erik quite soon, I promise.
A quick warning - this hasn't been beta-edited, so if you spot a typo, let me know and I'll fix it or address it in the next chapter. Enjoy.
The things I do to get a story.
Ever since I'd beaten my editor to the punch with last month's story on the widening ratio of female to male city councilors, he'd taken delight in sending me out to cover the flimsiest stories he could come up with. Last week, I'd covered the "launch" of a new lip gloss whose profits went to a children's charity, an over-hyped snowstorm that hadn't happened, and the opening of a luxury bowling alley downtown.
As an entry-level general assignment and freelance journalist, I had to take what I could get. At 24, I was lucky to have a paying gig at all. Many of my university classmates were still working as interns (read: slaves) or else had sold out and taken jobs at public relations firms. One of the lucky ones, I'd interned at the Toronto Journal for six months before been hired as low-level staff writer.
Most days, I loved my job. I had Being a journalist means knowing your city better than most politicians. Most of the stories I pitched were Toronto-focused pieces on the ailing public transit system, city council, or on urban lifestyle topics. I shied away from fashion, beauty, business, and sports whenever possible. Sometimes I got to write the stories I pitched. More often than not, they ended up in the hands of a more senior reporter.
Last month, I'd taken a risk and decided to write the story I'd pitched on the dismal number of female city councilors (when compared with other world class cities) even though it had been assigned to David, my editor. My piece had turned out to be better than David's and the senior news editor had run it instead. In revenge, David had relegated me to making stories out of the press releases sent to us by press-craving public relations agencies.
Today, I'd been sent to find out if a new matchmaking service was worth the hype it was getting online. David had asked me to sign up for the three-date program, charge the cost to the newspaper's account, and write a lively (and preferably explosive) piece on the experience.
As I waited uncomfortably in the lobby, notepad and voice recorder positioned on my lap, I looked about the room to see who else was waiting for a consultation. There was a surprisingly high number of men in the room – I'd assumed that the service's clientele would largely be made up of older women who eggs had passed the sell by date. Yet, around me, I saw at least two women and three men in their twenties, a handful of men and women in their thirties, and one woman who looked to be in her mid-forties.
"Maya Sutherland?" the receptionist called, her shy voice easily heard in the hushed lobby.
Hearing my name, I stood up and followed her through a corridor into a sitting room. Most of the space in the cramped room was occupied by two overstuffed couches and a standing lamp. Framed prints of couples (of all orientations) kissing, laughing, and holding hands decorated the walls. Looking at the photos on the wall, I felt a twinge of loneliness. Reminding myself that I was here in a professional capacity (albeit undercover), I swallowed the emotion and took a seat in the couch closest to the door.
A middle-aged man with a freckled face sat in the opposite couch with his palms open on his lap.
The receptionist greeted him in a professional tone and passed him a file folder, "good afternoon Alan. This is Maya Sutherland. She's opted for the three-date program."
"Thank you Gladys. Send in the next client in an hour," he said. Once Gladys had left, he turned to me and introduced himself, "good afternoon Maya. I'm Alan Cross and – baring no objections from you – I thought we'd start our session off with a detailed consultation."
"That's fine," I agreed.
"Great," he said. "We'll start off by getting your vitals – name, age, occupation, background, height, weight, and so forth, then we'll move into the grittier questions."
"Fire away," I said, preparing to enjoy the rare opportunity to be on the receiving end of an interview.
"Full name?"
"Maya Anne Sutherland."
"Age?"
"Twenty-four."
"And what do you do for a living?"
Since I was turning this experience into a story, I thought it was best to lie. "I work as a development officer," I said, naming my father's job at my age.
Alan nodded enthusiastically, typing my answers into his laptop. Within the next hour, he found out that I'd lived in the Greater Toronto Area for all of my life (true), had a degree in Marketing from York University (false – I'd graduated from the Journalism program at Ryerson), was 5'9" and 150 pounds (true to my best guess), a passionate vegetarian (true), and lived alone in a tiny second-storey apartment (sadly true) with my spaniel Fizzgig.
Alan also learned that I was thoroughly engrossed in my career and hadn't had a steady boyfriend in a little over a year.
When my appointment was over, Alan promised to email me a personality questionnaire that night to "assess my compatibility with other candidates."
"The sooner you finish the questionnaire, the sooner I'll be able to set you up with your first match," Alan said. "Until then, enjoy your weekend."
After tucking a few pamphlets on relationships and dating into my purse, I left the office and descended into the nearest subway entrance so I could get home and start the dreaded questionnaire. On my way, I puzzled over what types of men Alan would set me up with: cool-faced business men in pressed suits or bearded bohemian hipsters in crumpled jeans?
I'd find out next week.
Kindly review.