GIRL TALK

"Ooh, that one, definitely! You see: the one with the three diamonds and the double gold band? That's what I would choose."

Christine tried to peer past the excited Meg to see into the jewellers' window. Tray upon tray of exquisite, very expensive rings were laid before them, in white and yellow gold, sparkling in the afternoon sunlight. Not far away, an aristocratic couple gave the two girls a sidelong disapproving glance before entering the shop, the bell tinkling to alert the staff to their presence. "I prefer the sapphire. It's elegant, less ostentatious."

"Says the woman who was given an engagement ring which had probably been worn by royalty," Meg said. "How many carats was that diamond?"

"I don't know; I didn't ask," Christine replied uncomfortably. "Please don't remind me of it."

Immediately contrite, Meg put an arm around her friend's shoulders, giving her a quick hug. "Sorry. I was being tactless; it won't happen again."

"It's all right. I never wore the ring, anyway. I just... I still feel guilty about what happened."

"You did it for the best, Christine. It was better to make the break before you both ended up miserable," Meg told her. "I'm sure that Raoul will come to see that in time."

Christine sighed. "I hope so. I wouldn't hurt him for the world."

They stood together, looking at the display. On the other side of the glass, one of the assistants unlocked the case and reached in to remove one of the trays containing the most brilliant and overpriced examples. Christine thought them rather gaudy, despite their apparent worth; too many gemstones were flashy rather than attractive, as Carlotta had proved more than once with her huge necklaces and earrings to rival the chandelier. Through the window she could see the woman who had just looked at them down her nose poring over the rings, her fiancé standing beside her and appearing to be rather bored.

"So," said Meg conversationally, "Has he asked you yet?"

Surprised, Christine asked, "Has who asked me what?"

"Erik, of course." The little ballerina rolled her eyes. "Has he... you know, popped the question?"

"Meg, what a way to describe it! And no, he hasn't. Neither of us intends to rush things; we're only really just getting to know one another." Linking arms with her friend, Christine led Meg away from the shop. There was no point in looking at something they would never have; only the fabulously wealthy could afford to patronise Chaumet. "Anyway, Erik has spent so much of his life without loving human contact; I don't want to confuse him or frighten him off."

They strolled down the Place Vendôme, idly glancing in the windows of the upmarket boutiques and couturiers they passed, Meg commenting on one dress or another, and going into raptures over a hat trimmed with a profusion of ostrich feathers which she insisted would look perfect on Christine. There was no price tag, as was usual with such shops, and Christine knew that such a hat would cost at least half of her annual salary. It was beautiful, though, and it was all she could do to stop Meg marching into the showroom and demanding that she try it on.

"I'm sure Erik would buy it for you, if you asked," Meg said as Christine steered her towards the Place de l'Opera, away from temptation.

"I'm not going to ask. It would look ridiculous with the dresses I have." Privately, Christine knew that Erik would buy her anything; there were still a dozen brand new gowns, all from the very best dressmakers, hanging in the wardrobe in the room he had intended for her beneath the theatre. She had looked at them properly for the first time while he was recovering, and gasped aloud when she saw the labels: at least two of them were from the House of Worth, whose creations had graced the likes of Sarah Bernhardt and the Empress Eugénie. They were beautiful, exquisite, but far too good for her; unwittingly, Erik had provided her with kind of clothes she might have worn as a Vicomtess, as Raoul's wife.

"Get a new dress, too," was Meg's simple solution to the dilemma, and Christine had to laugh.

"I'm going to have one of those hats," the ballerina remarked as they headed for one of their favourite cafes, just a stone's throw from the Opera. "When I'm Prima. Did you see Sorelli flaunting the earrings Philip de Chagny gave her before everything fell apart? They must have cost the yearly revenue of a small town."

"The diamond and emerald drops?"

Meg snorted. "'Drops' is one way to describe them. They were almost pulling her earlobes down to her shoulders. Carlotta practically turned green when she saw them."

"She always hated to be upstaged," Christine said, remembering the venom the former Prima Donna often directed at her for daring to step into the limelight.

"I expect she badgered poor Piangi for weeks to buy her some the same. He was such a sweet man sometimes," Meg mused. "I always wondered what he saw in her; she treated him like a flunky and he just accepted it."

"Love is indiscriminate, Meg. It chooses you, not the other way around."

"And there speaks Christine Daae, expert in the vagaries of Cupid's arrow," said Meg mischievously. Christine slapped her arm, but she smiled.

They reached the cafe, and were met at the door by Maurice, one of the waiters they had come to know well over the past couple of years. Christine made a mental note to bring Erik for a meal, when she had persuaded him to come out with her during the day. He was still instinctively keeping to the shadows, preferring to lurk in the Girys' home where no one could see him; she hoped that one day soon he might be able to make the transition into the light, but knew it would take time.

"Mesdemoiselles, how wonderful to see you." Maurice was saying effusively as he led them to their favourite table. "It has been so many weeks; we were becoming quite worried, especially as the Opera is still closed. Are we ever to see another performance?"

"You are more likely to hear than us," Meg replied, "When I bumped into Alphonse the other day he said that the ministers were still arguing over the choice of management, and that someone wanted to persuade Ellen Terry to come and star in Verdi's Macbeth. I have no idea where he finds his information; she isn't even a singer!"

"Ah, knowing Monsieur Renard, in the bar of the Cygne Blanc, through a haze of absinthe." He handed each of them a menu with a flourish. "Voila. Today, ladies, I recommend the Croque Monsieur, and to follow the éclairs with Chantilly cream are particularly divine."

"Sounds wonderful. We'll have both," said Meg before Christine could even open her mouth. She ordered coffee for two as well, and bowing gracefully Maurice withdrew. "He should have been a dancer," Meg remarked, watching him cross the room with interest.

"He was; he once told me that he was part of a travelling theatre company, but when his father died he was forced to return to Paris and find a steady job to support the family." Christine tried to fix her friend with a stern glare. "Why didn't you wait for me to decide what I wanted?"

"Because I know how much you love that cream, and it's my treat. I think we deserve a little indulgence after everything that's happened lately, don't you?"

Christine shook her head, and Meg grinned. "Don't you think your mother and Erik deserve indulging too?" the soprano asked.

"We'll take them something from the patisserie." Meg craned to see the counter by the window, which groaned under heaps of delicious-looking cakes. "Do you think Erik would appreciate a slice of gateaux?"

"I..." Christine's hand stole to her mouth as she realised she had not the slightest idea. "I don't know."

One of Meg's delicate eyebrows arched. "You don't know which foods he likes? Christine, that is a conversation you need to have, and soon."

"We haven't exactly had a conventional courtship so far."

"Maybe you should - "

Christine never got to hear Meg's suggestion, as just then a shadow fell over the table and she looked up to see a smooth-faced young man in a bowler hat with a curled brim and a suit which was just a little too garishly-checked standing there. With a smile that was just a little too wide to be genuine, he tipped the hat to them and asked,

"Mademoiselle Daae? Mademoiselle Christine Daae?"

"I'm Christine Daae," she said, seeing Meg open her mouth. A frown creased her brow as she ran her eyes over his face, searching for recognition. "Have we met, Monsieur?"

"Not personally, no, but I have been hoping to speak with you." The man withdrew a pencil and notebook from his pocket. "My name is Francois Béringer, and I am a journalist at L'Epoque. I was hoping that you might answer a few questions regarding the Vicomte de Chagny and the so-called Opera Ghost. No one really knows what happened before the Populaire shut down, you see, and I was hoping that you might wish to tell your side of the story before anyone else comes out of the woodwork, as it were. I'd recompense you for your time," he added when neither of the young women responded, reaching for his wallet. "Allow me to pay for your luncheon; it's the least I can do in exchange for information."

Horrified, Christine exclaimed, "I think not Monsieur! How dare you interrupt us in such a manner?"

"You should be ashamed of yourself," Meg snapped. "Hounding a renowned performer in public!"

The journalist's lip curled in a sneer. "Oh, she's renowned all right. Renowned as the Disappearing Soprano! Where did you go the night after the Hannibal gala, Mademoiselle? Was it to the Phantom's or the Vicomte's bed? It must have been one or the other!"

Immediately Meg was on her feet, squaring up to the interloper despite their difference in height, and her hand would have made contact with his cheek had not Maurice chosen that moment to return. He grasped Béringer by the collar, hauling him away from the table with surprising strength. The journalist struggled, but Maurice held him fast.

"I think that is quite enough, Monsieur," the waiter said quietly. "I trust you will leave without my having to make a scene; this is a respectable establishment and I would not like to cause these ladies any more distress than you have already inflicted."

Roughly Béringer managed to pull away and tried to straighten his crumpled suit. "It's all right, I'm leaving. But you'll be seeing me again. I'll find out the truth; you can't hold me off forever," he spat, and turned away, walking through the cafe with as much dignity as he could muster. For a long moment a hush filled the room, and then the buzz of conversation quickly returned, several pairs of eyes turned to Meg and Christine's table.

Maurice watched the journalist leave. "My apologies, ladies. If only I had realised who he was sooner! I could have saved you from such an ordeal."

"It's not your fault," Meg told him, "You weren't to know."

Outside, Béringer had paused to shake out his collar and light a cigarette. As if sensing Christine's eye on him, he turned and shot her a glare of pure hatred. She felt a chill, as though someone had walked over her grave.

"Christine? Christine, are you all right?"

Startled, she glanced up to find Meg bending over her, face creased in concern. Maurice took his cue to leave, muttering about fetching their food.

"Don't worry, Christine, he's gone," Meg said, squeezing her shoulder. She sat down again, her gaze following her friend's, but Béringer had disappeared. "What a rat! Wait until Maman hears about this; she'll seek him out and box his ears!"

"Don't tell her, Meg." Christine caught hold of the little ballerina's hand and Meg glanced back at her in surprise. "I don't want Erik to know, not just now."

"Why not? Surely you don't think..." Meg's eyes widened as she considered whatever thought had just sprung into her head. "Does he still have the Punjab lasso?"

"I don't know. Please don't say anything; he has enough to deal with at the moment and I don't want to worry him."

Meg looked sceptical, but she nodded. "If you say so."

"Besides," Christine added, forcing a smile as Maurice arrived with their luncheon, "I'm sure our knight in shining armour frightened him off. We'll probably never see him again."

As she spoke, she sincerely hoped that she was right.