A/N: Before we start, yes, I am aware that Andrew Lloyd Webber's daughter, Imogen, currently is not married and has no children. This is an A/U where Imogen had a sperm donor, and, as a result, had a daughter, the main character of this story. I'm also aware that there are millions of fanfictions like this...but have any of them been Andrew Lloyd Webber's fictional granddaughter?! NOPE!
THIS IS REALLY LONG! I'M SO SORRY THAT I MADE IT SO LONG! FORGIVE ME!
Don't like it? Go to the next story! No flames, please!
DISCLAIMER: I don't own either the book or the musical.
There is mild swearing in this chapter.
I hate being famous. I'm not famous for something I did, nor for something that I will do. My fame comes from my family, which is something that is beyond my reasonable control. Believe me, if I had a choice on who my family is, specifically, who my grandfather is, I would.
If you would want your father to be an anonymous sperm donor, please, do raise your hand. Nobody? Wow, I can genuinely say that I am not surprised. I still hate that my mother, Imogen, couldn't get married like a normal person, couldn't have children like a normal person, nor could she give her poor, dear child frightened by her instant fame the moment she was born protection from the world and the media. My dad is an anonymous sperm donor. I don't know who he is, and neither does my mother or any other family member. Who knows what diseases I could have inherited from my father, whom I'll never have the extreme misfortune of meeting? Thankfully, none. The only thing that I apparently inherited from him is my appearance. My dark brown hair, my high cheekbones, my chin, my bust are all unusual to my maternal side of the family, so all from my paternal side. My strong British accent, my attitude, and my eyes are all passed down to me from my mother. My musical talent started with my grandfather, skipped my mother, and went straight to me. Music is engrained into my daily life….my grandfather jokes that I have musical notes floating through my veins instead of normal blood. As a child, that made me think of treble clefs, half notes, whole notes, and all kinds of rests bundled together, giving me life….and they practically do.
Now, I pose another question for you: who would want Andrew Lloyd Webber to be their grandfather?
I know, I should be grateful. It's the object of every fan-girl's fantasy. But the fame, the fortune, and the unbearable weight of the legacy that I have to carry on are all burdens that I must carry with me for every second. He loves me, but after I sing, every time that I look at him for his approval, I can see the memory in his eyes as he nods to me. I guess that I remind him too much of Sarah Brightman, his ex-wife, when I sing for the family at our monthly dinner meetings. I'm told that I show the same enthusiasm for music that she did, even though I'm not related to her.
Phantom of the Opera was practically my life sustenance when I was growing up. It makes sense, considering that my grandfather wrote the musical. As a result, I have every single song memorized, and I can also play the background music on most of the instruments in the orchestra. Frightening, my mother says, is how well I know it, almost as well as my own grandfather, perhaps even better. And I can tell that it's true.
"No, Margie, I won't give you Ramin Karimloo's phone number," I say to my best friend as I slam the red metal locker's door closed.
She bulges her bright blue eyes and folds her hands together in a mixture of prayer and begging. "Why not, Di?"
I accidentally misstep and almost send my books flying, so I hoist my books back up with one arm and readjust my grey fedora with the other(Yes, I wear fedoras. Don't judge me). "First of all, my name is Diana, not Di," I sternly remind her. "Second of all, giving away a celebrity's phone number is rude and unethical. His phone would blow up from all of the calls from obsessed fan-girls." Margie has been my best friend since I was a tiny tot and we were both running around on our chubby little legs in kindergarten. We both share a passion for the classical music and musicals in general. We're both loners as well, even though, according to Margie, I have "a crapload of hot guys running after me." That's just how Margie is, and that is why she's my best and only friend, despite how many people want to be my friend because of my grandfather.
She sighs and flipped her messy blonde ponytail back over her shoulder. "Pooh. You always ruin the fun, Diana."
"Glad to be a help," I say sarcastically. The bell rings loudly, signifying the end of another monotonous day of high school in Great Britain.
Margie reminds, "Diana, you didn't forget that we have practice, did you? I'm surprised."
"Ah, yes, how could I forget?" I question as I roll my eyes. Then, I flinch as one of the older lights suddenly blows out above my head. This school really needs a new electrical and lighting system, which they should be able to afford, since people pay so much tuition to be able to go to this performing arts school.
"We're doing Phantom of the Opera. How could I dare to forget that it also so happens that my dear grandfather, Andrew Lloyd Webber, is directing it?" I scowl, "I don't even know how they got him to direct this."
"He's your grandfather, Di!" Margie corrects herself, "Sorry, Diana."
"I know, but still," I whine.
"Still what? It will help bring in revenue for the school," Margie says. "Maybe then they can fix this crappy lighting system." We laugh together for a minute before we come upon the great wooden doors of the auditorium, the pride and joy of the school. Way back in the sixties, when our school was founded, Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II dedicated the school, and even today she remains a patron of the school. In the auditorium, there's even a photograph of her cutting the ribbon to the entrance of the school.
"And don't forget who's playing Christine!" Margie squealed. "My best mate, Diana Elizabeth Lloyd Webber!"
I groan. "Don't remind me, Margie. I didn't even try that hard at auditions. Grandfather MADE me attend, and then, BOOM! I get the role of Christine. Coincidence? I think not."
"Even if your grandfather did hijack the audition results, you're still playing the most coveted role," Margie reminds. Then, she drops her voice to a whisper, "And you can bet every pound you have that Carla Goodwin is jealous that you got it and she got stuck with...Carlotta." She says the name of the female antagonist of the musical as if it will call up the Devil himself. "And the guy who's playing Raoul is HAWT."
"Margie, you can't slap the name Raoul on somebody and expect them to be hot," I murmur. "Raoul Corning is not 'hawt.'"
"But the guy who's playing the Phantom is," she swoons, pressing her hands to her heart and head as if she will faint right there in the dimly-lit hallway. "Erik Delaurier? He's the cutest guy in school, and you know it. Remember, in seventh grade, when you had a-MMPH!" The rest of her words are muffled as I clap my hand over her mouth, effectively cutting her off.
"We do not speak of it," I remind her crossly. "Just because I had a crush on him, and he had a crush on me, and we dated for like two months, it doesn't mean anything." It sounds ridiculous, even to me, and I mentally face-palm myself. Oh God. Now I'm starting to sound crazy.
"Yeah, when he kissed you on the last day of school in front of your grandfather, and he had a cow," she laughs. "He told him to go molest other young ladies, but he certainly wouldn't stand a chance with you if he did that again. Your grandfather scared him off for good. Now that you're playing significant others in the musical, maybe you two can...rekindle your romance? Love never dies, remember, your grandfather wrote a musical about it!"
"Yeah, sure," I say. And it's just to get her to shut up, because we're backstage at last. The backstage at our school is so fantastic. In my mind, it will never match up to the splendor of the Royal Albert Hall in London, but to some people, the backstage is as good as they'll ever see, the poor blokes.
"Hey, Diana," a voice says behind me. I whip around to see who it is. Carla.
"Carla," I regard coldly. "How are you?"
"Fine," she replies icily. "Is your grandfather going to give you something for nothing again?"
"Oh my gosh," I say, looking to the ceiling. "It's just a musical, Carla. You're playing one of the main characters. Get a grip."
Margie steps in. "Come on, Diana, she's not worth it." And I walk away with her, turning my gaze from Carla even as my hatred for her burns underneath my skin, making me as red as a tomato...at least, that's how I imagine it.
Then, my grandfather walks up to us. "Margie, Diana."
"Mr. Lloyd Webber, how wonderful to see you," Margie says politely, shaking his hand.
"And you too, Margie," my grandfather replies courteously. "Just so you know, tonight is a 'pop' dress rehearsal. I'll need you two to go get your costumes on and head to hair and makeup immediately...Margie, in Meg's white ballet dress, and Diana, in the title song costume. We're kind of on a tight schedule here, I'm sorry." Just like that, Grandfather walks away, muttering about how precious and little time we have before opening night.
"Well, that aside," I say, "see you in a minute, Margie. I'm going to go get ready." She waves goodbye before strolling off in the direction of her dressing room.
As one of the main characters, I get a dressing room all to myself. Inside, it is painted a sickeningly sweet shade of pink, with an elegant wallpaper pattern of intertwining roses all down the walls. Of course, there's a vanity mirror where one of the many hair and makeup artists will ready me. The chaise longue is a shade of mauve that has a seductive quality to it. The large painting of a bowl of roses is the epitome of the room. however, the most fascinating part of it for me is the stark, simple, full-length mirror that hangs on the wall in the back. On the surface, it's clear and smooth, with a plain wooden frame. It almost looks like it could slide to the side if I pulled it hard enough, I think internally as I finish wrapping the white robe from the most famous scene in the whole musical around my torso.
A loud knock resounds at the door. "Miss? Are you ready?" I recognize the voice of Ms. Cornwall, the makeup artist assigned to me, at the door.
"I'll be ready in a minute, Ms. Cornwall," I reply to her. "It shall take a minute, not longer." I hear her retreat from the door, probably to somebody who actually didn't spend 15 whole minutes staring at a mirror.
A chill runs down my spine as I get the feeling that somebody is watching me. Nobody is in the room, so it's a ridiculous notion. I shake my head and bend down to pick up the pale pink slippers to put on my feet when the feeling of not being alone washes over me yet again. Suddenly, my body freezes as all of the lights in the room suddenly go out.
"Damn electricity," I mutter, then return to work on my attire.
"Insolent boy, this slave of fashion, basking in your glory!" a voice rings out, echoing through the room and making me stand straight up in shock, facing the mirror, the apparent source of the sound. "Ignorant fool, this brave young suitor, sharing in my triumph!"
"Haha, Delaurier, very funny. Now stop it," I laugh, dismissing it as a childish prank and turning around to call Ms. Cornwall back to do my hair up. But, something inside me makes me snap back around and sing back, "Angel, I hear you! Speak, I listen...stay by my side, guide me!" This is sheer madness, yet I have no control over my body for some unknown reason. My head drifts down to look at the floor as if in shame or embarrassment. "Angel, my soul was weak, forgive me. Enter at last, master!"
"Flattering child, you shall know me," the voice gloats, still singing, "See why in shadow I hide...look at your face in the mirror! I am there inside!"
At the corner of the mirror, a half-masked face is clearly visible, expanding to show the body of a black-cloaked man. "Angel of Music, guide and guardian, grant to me your glory! Angel of Music, hide no longer! Come to me, strange angel!"
I was right, the mirror can slide to the side, just as it does, revealing the mysterious man in his entirety. "I am your Angel of Music, come to me Angel of Music."
At the door, somebody is banging against it and knocking. I recognize the voice of my grandfather, who says, "Whose is that voice? Who is that in there?" I want so much to be able to turn around and speak to him, but the invisible force holding me back prevents that. Oh, how he must be frightened for me!
"I am your Angel of Music, come to me Angel of Music!" the voice demands of me, and I can only comply. My hand reaches out hesitantly, but I pull it back slowly in hesitation before making up my mind and grasping his hand as the mirror slides shut behind us.
Through the mirror, I can hear somebody yelling, "Diana!"
He leads me through a twisting, winding maze of brick hallways in a decidedly downward spiral. This is just like in the musical. Oh God, I realize, I'm in the musical. Gerard Butler...no, the Phantom...is taking me to his underground lair below the opera house. Why is this happening to me? Only magic could take me into a musical. Magic isn't real, so this must be impossible! It must be like in a fanfiction, where the girl is really in a dream or got knocked out or...or something. There has to be a logical explanation, there does.
We descend by the light of many candelabra that are attached to the wall, and he occasionally turns to look back at me. Everything is going just like in the musical. Holy crap. Holy crap. I'm hyperventilating, and I can't even help it. When he notices, he caresses my arm gently, and I calm down immediately. It's almost like he has me under a spell. I'm so out of tune with the world that I don't even notice that we're at his underground lair, his home, the source of some of the most crucial events of the musical, and I also didn't realize that I sang the title song and hit the high note perfectly before I take several deep heaves to regain my breath from holding such a long note.
The Phantom flings his dark black cape to the side, then grasps me by the waist to lift me from the gondola. I suddenly notice that I'm wearing a corset that I had never put on. Is this some part of the deal? He gently lets me go when he has me safely hovering over the shoreline.
"How I've longed to bring you here," he whispers, lifting my chin to get a look at my face. Then, he suddenly drops his hand and backs away. "You're not my Christine!"
"Well, no freaking duh, Sherlock," I say sarcastically.
"Who are you, you impersonator?" he demands angrily, shaking me by my shoulders. "What did you do with my Christine?"
I step back and put my hands on my hips. "First of all, I'm not an impersonator! Second of all, she's not YOUR Christine!" Oh wait, that part of the musical hasn't happened yet, he shouldn't know that Christine doesn't like him like that...oops. You can't change what's already been said.
Now I have him genuinely confused. "But...but you have a British accent. Christine doesn't have a British accent. And you're wearing her clothes, as well."
"You're on a roll today. Want to point out more obvious things? I think I can help you," I say, "see, you're a boy, but it's still hard to tell."
"I detest that!" he cries indignantly. "You are a rude little girl."
"I'm not a little girl, you son of a bitch!" I return. "I'm eighteen years old. That's older than 'your' Christine! Christine is the little girl!"
"Christine is far more mature than you," he murmurs as he turns to go to his organ. "She'd never behave like a spoilt brat."
"Okay, you crossed the line there!" I screech as I launch myself at him, tackling him to the ground. We fight, wrestle, and throw insults at each other for a few minutes before we get to the very edge of the subterranean lake, and I fall into the frigid water. I panic, as I don't know how to swim, before I realize that I can stand in the shallow water. I rise from the waters and return to the shore dripping wet, the white dressing gown and the inner layers of my costume thoroughly soaked. and plastered to my skin. The chilly, underground air makes the water that clings desperately to my skin even colder.
The Phantom helps me back up. He looks sorry, and concerned. "Mademoiselle?"
"Call me Diana," I gasp before I faint into his arms.