Chapter 10: Inconvenient Allies

When Meg had described Erik's voice as "earth-shatteringly stunning" all those weeks ago, Christine had written off the comment as owing to Meg's flair for the dramatic. "Earth-shattering" was a descriptor so hyperbolic that it almost always set the praised phenomena up to disappoint. It was a cluster of adjectives best reserved for impossible feats of acrobatics, circus tricks involving the juggling of dangerous, preferably flammable, objects, ultra-high-speed theme park rides…or perhaps, if one were to be so fortunate, certain events of the bedroom variety.

Now, she would argue, the description did not go nearly far enough.

She had been surprised and touched when Erik had started to play the opening piano melody of Songbird, having expected him to opt for one of the more soothing works of Chopin or Debussy were he attempting to calm her down. She had mentioned that the song was her father's favourite only once, and he had evidently taken that information in, as well as taken the time to learn it. Not that it would take him particularly long to learn a simple pop song. Actually, given the depths of his genius she had only recently begun to appreciate, she strongly suspected he had just listened to it once and instantly knew it by ear. Perfect- pitched bastard.

His piano skills, she knew already, were astonishing, and while her attempt at the melody had been clunky and stiff, he effortlessly coaxed the gentle, fragile quality of sound from the piano that characterised the ballad. Sweet, soft notes in a major key.

Then he opened his mouth to sing, and she thought she was hallucinating. She quite literally wondered if she had somehow slipped off the armchair and hit her head because there was no way in hell that a human being could sound like that. The rich, sonorous timbre of his baritone, the impossible soaring purity of his tenor. His voice was angelic, and when she had recovered from her shock enough to actually listen to what he was singing she realised that he sang the lyrics, raw and vulnerable enough to sound cheesy in the wrong hands, with a perfect care and tenderness she would admit she had not thought he possessed.

It was the most beautiful rendition of her father's favourite song that she had ever heard.

It was simply the most beautiful anything that she had ever heard.

Mostly, his eyes were closed as he sang, his brow furrowed in concentration, or emotion, she could not tell. But when he sang of wishing the song's subject all of the love in the world, he tilted his head and their eyes met, his with an expression so full of longing that her breath caught, and for a moment she did not know if he was simply feeling the music, or if there was something in his gaze directed at her.

What had happened when he finished playing was a bit of a blur. She thought she remembered requesting that he play something else, anything else, just to please not stop singing. He had obliged and began a light, sweet song in French she did not recognise but that was sufficiently soothing, and the next thing she knew she had woken up hours later, blurry-eyed and somehow tireder than when she had fallen asleep, to the sound of Ayesha mewling for her dinner and plates clinking as Erik fed her in the kitchen. The sun was setting, and there was a blanket covering her on the armchair.

She had left quickly after that, embarrassed over her emotional outpour and that he had seen her sleeping (and probably drooling). But she did not cry over her father any more that night, instead, Erik's voice featured heavily in all of her dreams.

X

For Erik, rehearsals with the Wemberly Community Chorus were becoming …difficult.

He much preferred his one-on-one lessons with Christine. Teaching her, it was expected that he should be wholly focused upon his budding protégé. And so, it was perfectly natural that he should study her every movement as she sang; he was simply a diligent teacher, checking that she was breathing correctly. That he should notice the charming curve of her cheek, the delightful arch of her eyebrows as she closed her eyes to feel the music in the way he had coaxed her to do, that his eyes should roam to her lips to observe her…embouchure, of course... these were just side effects of his role as her music teacher.

In their rehearsals, he was in control, she listened to him eagerly. He would admit that a primal, ugly side of him got a kick out of how she hung off his every word as he gave instructions and advice. It was quite flattering, he was discovering, for someone to trust your judgement so much, to desire to know your thoughts so intently, to want to do what you tell them to so badly.

In rehearsals, however, exclusively concentrating on her was an impossibility.

While he was directing the choir, there were a range of other things that needed his attention and concentration. Nine people looking to him for direction. Four vocal parts he needed to know inside out. He had to correct the other singers, pay attention to the music, delegate tasks, answer questions. He could not, while helping Richard with a tricky section of the tenor part, let his eyes flick over to Christine who he could hear laughing at something Meg had said to her. No, he had to keep his eyes on Richard, smile politely, answer his query, pretend that he was not picturing her as he knew she looked right now: eyes closed, head thrown back, smile wide and enchanting. Richard was inconveniently astute. Peggy, even more so. He had to exercise his iron will and act casual, nonchalant, especially around Christine, so that so that neither of them, nor anyone else, would ever suspect his feelings for the woman. He was constantly paranoid that someone was going to accuse him of being a creep, see though his perilous façade, accuse him of being in love with the young girl.

It was exhausting.

It felt like only half of his mental energy was spent doing the things he needed to do. The other half was spent getting the first damn half to stop thinking about her and actually focus.

Was this why nearly every song ever written was about love, and not something more original or inventive? Because once you were in it, as most normal humans often were, it was quite literally impossible to think about anything else?

Tonight, seeking some relief from his constant desire to look at her, to position himself ever nearer to her, he took the liberty of slinking off to "pack up" in the storeroom, moving sheet music between boxes. He could hardly believe how strong his feelings were. He seemed to have developed some sort of sixth sense for her whereabouts, so that he could track her movements around the room, could accurately predict if she was to his left or right and how far away, even when facing away from her, like a snake using heat to sense the movements of its prey in the dark.

Oh dear. That analogy had come out a bit…predatorial for his liking.

The most damnably enticing thing, though, what made it hardest for him to stamp out his stupid futile feelings, was hope. It was the ambiguous moment they had shared outside the pub that night. It was that since he had sung for her, the way she looked at him had changed. Several times, when he had demonstrated a line or two for her, he saw in her expression what he would best describe as awe. And after every lesson now, she asked him to sing for her. And their lessons already seemed to be going later and later into the night.

He wondered vaguely if that was why he had done it, why he had sung for her. Sung that song, with all of the emotional ties it held for her. She would never be attracted to his physical form, could hardly be expected to 'look deeper' to his non-existent good nature…but could she be enticed by his voice? Hell, he didn't have any other natural advantages, was it really so wrong for him to play his one, pathetic card? It wasn't his fault that his voice seemed to have an effect on women. And, he was her singing teacher, for Christ's sake. She should know the sound of his voice!

He felt self-righteous, for one moment, then was overcome with a burning shame.

Of course it was wrong. If he had been genuinely trying to comfort her, fine. But if that was the reason that he had sang for her, then he was a sick man, trying to lure this young woman with her whole life ahead of her, and plenty of attractive, good men, very willing to be hers.

He took a deep breath, no longer even pretending to be working stacking boxes.

He looked resolutely at the wall.

There were two possibilities here.

One.

She did not have romantic feelings for him. His altered mental state would mean that he would probably begin to see "signs" that she did everywhere, in a pitiful example of confirmation bias. This was the more likely option, and he was probably already misinterpreting that night at the pub, her admiration of his voice, seeing what he so desperately wanted to see.

Two.

She had suffered some sort of otherwise asymptomatic brain aneurism, and she did have romantic feelings for him. In this case, he was morally obliged to refuse her anyway. She was far too kind, too lovely, too wonderful, to settle for a creepy masked man with an ugly personality and even uglier face.

"Stop thinking about it." He muttered to himself out loud, gritting his teeth. " It's not for you. Never for you." Unconsciously, his hand moved to rest against his mask.

"What was 'zat, Erik?" A loud voice with a strong Italian accent said from behind him. Carlotta Guidecelli, had just popped her head into the storeroom.

He wasn't often caught off guard. It was an unpleasant experience.

"I said, 'Damn this shoe, this bloody shoe.'"

"Oh."

Thankfully, Carlotta wasn't interested in much that wasn't herself and didn't press the matter.

"Christine said she wanted to speak to you, about some entry form for the competition …or something."

At the sound of her name, his heart soared. He took a deep breath, compartmentalised, then crushed those feelings down.

"Ah. Please let her know I will be right out." He said evenly.

Come on, Erik berated himself. Stop hiding in the storeroom. Get a grip. You can do this. You can go and discuss some banal administrate detail with the girl without confessing your undying love and eternal devotion. Probably.

X

For Christine, lessons with Erik were becoming difficult.

Hearing Erik's voice had done nothing to help the budding crush on her teacher, and it was significantly impacting upon her ability to focus. At rehearsals, it was a different story; she could get some relief from the ever-increasing magnetic pull that he had on her when they were in close proximity, or when they were making eye contact. She could distract herself with the music, and running the choir, and goofing around with Lulu and Meg.

But in their lessons, in close, private quarters, her feelings were now relentless.

Since she had told Erik her sob story, he had suggested (well, insisted) that she audition for some of the scholarships on offer at the Royal College, which would help her pay her way through them when she eventually got back to university to finish her degree. With her debts slowly being paid off, and with Erik's invaluable help with her voice, it was starting to feel like less of an impossibility. And rather than Madeline's offering of a "scholarship"– what Christine was now coming to see as basically bribery – Erik was, she hoped, going to help her voice be good enough to actually deserve the funding.

He had handed her a selection of pieces to try out, and today they were singing through them, so that Erik could get a feel for what might do the best to showcase her voice.

They already bashed through Mozart's Un moto di giola which Christine quite liked, and Jauchzet Got in allen landen by Bach which she liked even more, but Erik had mostly frowned and shook his head, unconvinced.

What was unfortunate, on a day when they were trialling pieces, was that Christine knew she was certainly not bringing her best to the table right now. She was singing, but her brain was on autopilot. The rest of her was zinging with a strange energy. She could not stop thinking about his voice. She could not stop replaying that moment in her mind, when he had turned around, at the very piano he was sitting at now, singing of love, and looked right into her eyes with utter tenderness.

"No, Christine," He cut her off, jolting her back to the present, his eyes currently full of what would more accurately be described as irritation. "The rhythm is like so."

She watched his hands move as he played the offending phrase on the piano, effortlessly, drawing out sounds from the instrument with impossible grace.

She sang again, brain functioning well enough to get the rhythm right this time, but he quickly stopped her again.

"No, no." He turned around to face her, expression disapproving. "I can tell you are not concentrating. You are singing bar 6 but your mind is in bar 7. You are reading ahead, pre-empting the music to come. You must be in the moment. You need to be wholly engrossed in each and every beat of the song. Again."

She had half a mind to tell him that her mind was certainly not in bar 7, and was located more accurately around about his forearms, his sleeves were rolled to just before the elbow as he played and she was watching the elegant strokes of his arms, the sinews tightening and relaxing as he moved, she was imagining his long, strong fingers – ahem.

She felt heat rise to her face and desperately hoped that he did not turn around until she had got a chance to settle the heck down. Taking a slow breath, she tried to concentrate, and he seemed much happier with her progress after that.

That night, Christine sang well past the agreed upon two hours, neither she nor Erik seemed to notice until Christine's voice began to give a little, cracking on a high note. She cleared her throat self-consciously, and Erik glanced at the clock.

"Oh, I seem to have kept you singing longer than I intended." He said guiltily, jumping up from the piano. "My apologies. Your poor voice is wearing out."

"No complaints here. I was having fun." Christine grinned at him. Their eyes locked and he started to mirror her smile.

"I'm glad." He said softly.

The air itself felt wired, tense, as Christine she packed up her things. She didn't rush. They had got into the habit of talking quite late into the night lately, and she was hoping that it might happen again tonight. She cleared her throat again, not even realising that she had until Erik frowned. "Your poor voice – my fault entirely. Can I offer you some tea, perhaps with honey? It does wonders for a croaky voice."

Christine laughed. "It's hard to imaging you with a croaky voice. But, sure. I'll have some tea. Cheers."

Erik busied himself in the kitchen for a while, Christine could hear the kettle boiling from the next room. Her hands were trembling slightly, with…something. Anticipation? Nerves? A new or hitherto unidentified phobia of Earl Grey?

What the heck was wrong with her? This was Erik. Erik!

Erik came back with the tea.

Their hands touched briefly as he handed her a mug, and Christine could hardly bare the smooth feeling of his insanely appealing hands.

"So," She said brightly, loudly, trying to cover up her discomfort. "Is there some secret ingredient in here," She grinned up at him. "That can make me sing like you?"

He raised an eyebrow dubiously.

"Careful what you wish for. A baritone voice coming out of a twenty-something, not particularly masculine female might be a bit alarming."

"With a voice like that- I hardly think anyone would be paying attention to my gender."

"I doubt that."

"Erik, your voice is," She shook her head, unable to find adequate words, "I've never heard anything like it."

"Ah, it is not so special." He said, lightly.

Christine made the facial expression equivalent of the Sure, Jan meme, and Erik chuckled.

"I'm glad you liked it. I wasn't sure if singing that song would comfort you or make you more upset."

"It was beautiful. Thank you again. My dad would have loved it."

The smile he flashed her lit up his eyes.

"What I don't understand, though." She said. "Is how you could think my voice sounds like anything other than awful, squawking, possibly dying pigeons, in comparison."

Erik laughed loudly at that.

"You don't sound like dying pigeons squawking, Christine." He said generously.

"Thanks."

"Geese honking, however, might not be that far off as a descriptor…"

She swatted his arm playfully.

"Well, it is getting late. I should head off, I suppose." Christine said.

"Very well."

She gathered her things and he accompanied her to the hall, one long arm, sleeve still rolled, pushing open the heavy door for her to exit. As he opened the door a gust of the cold night air flew through her thin jumper.

She instinctively wrapped her arms around herself.

"It's quite cold." Erik said, concerned as she shivered. "Don't walk home- I can easily drive you." He turned back inside to fetch his keys but she waved his offer away automatically.

"Don't be silly Erik it's such a short walk."

He frowned as he watched her shiver. "At least let me lend you a coat. Chill isn't good for the voice, at the very least."

She laughed. "Truly, I'm fine. Thanks though." His concern was endearing. Flattering. It made her wonder again…

"Jeez Erik, tea, lifts, coats….you're being awfully nice to me tonight." She tucked a stray curl behind her ear and grinned up at him, flirting a little.

Ok, that was a bit clumsy. You're rusty. Or possibly you're just an awkward excuse for a woman. But come on Erik, if you like me too…let me know.

But contrary to her hopes, his eyes met hers in an expression of alarm. He swallowed, distinctly uncomfortable.

"Can't a man be nice to his friend?" He said evenly.

Oh, wow. Ok. Ouch.

There was far too much emphasis on the final word of his sentence, and her heart plummeted.

Cheeks glowing slightly, Christine managed to force humiliation aside and reply curtly. "He can. Thanks Erik. Night." And she hastily walked away, to metaphorically lick her wounds. She couldn't look back at him to even wave.

Dear lord. How embarrassing.

X

Oh, well. Christine thought grimly, later when she lay in bed, one of Mrs Valerius' cats nestled on her stomach and another in her hair. That's life. Not everyone is going to like you romantically. But you're young! There will be other guys, just forget about it. You can still just be friends, it's not like he said he didn't even like you as a friend, right? And it would have been kinda weird, anyway, dating your music teacher who is like twenty years older than you...

Suck it up.

It was a little hard to do that at present. And she would probably be pretty embarrassed in front of him for the next little while. But what Christine was able to do was roll over, fall asleep, and forget about it for the time being.

X

Later that week, shortly after her shift ended, Christine received an unexpected phone call from a slightly deranged-sounding Meg, insisting that they meet at her place in a half hour.

Balancing the wine she had bought (expecting Tinder gossip and possibly tears) on her hip, Christine rang the doorbell, then promptly dropped the bottle which then smashed all over Meg's front porch, when the door was opened… by Raoul.

"UM?" She said intelligently.

"Oh, shit." Raoul said, watching the rapid red stain soaking through Meg's doormat and beginning to stream down her stairs.

"Aw Christine, what the heck." Meg said, poking her head through the door. "Red wine is impossible to get off stuff."

"It's not her fault." Lulu said, also coming to the door. "One of us should have opened the door. Not her literal ex."

"Sorry." Raoul said meekly. "I was trying to be helpful. And polite."

"What's going on? Oh, welcome Christine." Phillipe said, also coming to detachedly examine Christine's rapidly expanding red pool of shame.

After the mess had been hastily cleaned, the group lounged around on Meg's living room sofa.

"Well." Said Meg.

"Well indeed." Said Lulu.

"I do not understand." Christine said. Last she had heard…Lulu and Raoul were not on speaking terms.

"I feel I should explain." Raoul said still standing, anxiously. He took a deep breath. "Christine, I've already apologised to Lulu and Meg, but I still owe you an apology. I'm really sorry I didn't listen to you about Madeline. We have seen in recent weeks…that you were completely right."

"Oh." Christine said, shooting Meg a quizzical look. Meg indicated with her eyebrows and a not particularly subtle head tilt that Christine should continue speaking to Raoul.

"Okaay." She obliged. "What… has she done now?"

"She seems to have a certain vision for the choir, members she wants and doesn't want…" Raoul trailed off uncertainly and looked at Philippe.

"You may or may not have realised Christine, that I'm gay," said Phillipe simply. Christine hadn't, but now she thought about it, it didn't come as a huge surprise. "I'm perfectly comfortable with it in my life at Oxford…but in a small, conservative town like this, it's more complicated and I try not to make it known. Mum, I think, suspected, but didn't have any proof…at least, she didn't before about a week ago. My boyfriend from Oxford, John, sent me this love letter and flowers. At the time I didn't know how on Earth he got mum's address, since I specifically never tell people for fear of something like this happening."

Raoul winced, and stepped in. "It was my fault. John asked me for it over Facebook. I thought it was for a prank or a birthday surprise present or something."

"It's fine. Honestly, it's a relief to be out." Philippe said, waving away what was clearly already forgiven. "Anyway, mum saw that the letter was signed John, and freaked out. Can't really write that one off as a unisex name. That was an uncomfortable few days. But Raoul was really supportive, and tried to talk some reason into her."

"It's the least I could do." Raoul said, still looking guilty and forlorn.

"Anyway, next week in Church, which mum still forces us to go to," Philippe rolled his eyes, "Father Callaghan gives this lecture about why homosexuality is a sin, I'm going to burn in hell, rah rah rah, nothing I haven't heard before. Most uncomfortable forty-five minutes of my life." Raoul nodded vigorously. Phillipe put on a high, shrill voice. "'You shall not lie with a man as with woman; it is an abomination." He rolled his eyes again. "Shoot me. Anyway, mum must have told Madeline. Who told Callaghan. So it's probably safe to assume now everyone in the choir knows. And let's just say going back to that choir and having him and everyone else look at me like I'm a freak was not exactly what I wanted. So I quit."

"Mum threw a fit of course." Raoul said. "Tried to turn me against him. Then when I stuck firm, she got Madeline to talk to me, I see now what an evil witch she is. Saying all this stuff about how Phil was a disgrace and was corrupting me. I quit too."

"That's horrible. I'm so sorry." Christine said, disgust and rage at Madeline boiling under her skin.

"We are really sorry, Christine." Phillipe said. "We should have listened to you, and Meg, and especially Lulu."

All eyes were on Christine.

"Soooo." Lulu said, eyes twinkling. "Are these fools forgiven, Christine?"

Christine made her face into a dark expression.

"Well…"

Meg and Lulu's smiles fell. Raoul's eyes widened.

"Yes of course, you silly twats." Christine said, unable to hold a poker face for very long.

Meg squealed and pulled Christine, Phillipe and Raoul into a group hug.

"Fabulous! So, they can join the choir, we'll actually have decent numbers for the next round!" Lulu said excitedly.

"I guess I should really run it by Erik, but of course he will say yes!" Christine said. "This is actually great, two more tenors could really improve our balance!"

They started talking excitedly about the piece, Christine pulled the sheet music up on her phone to show the brothers what they would need to learn before the next performance. Lulu darted around trying to find a laptop and get it to connect to Meg's printer.

This was fabulous! More and more people were deserting Madeline's choir, taking a stand against the horrid woman. Erik would be thrilled! She couldn't wait until her next lesson where she could spill the happy news. Oh, even better, she was seeing him on Saturday for Lulu's birthday celebration! She was also feeling better about him having rejected her romantic advances, he was a great man and while she did still have feelings, she was content to be simply his friend.

Plus, she had bigger things to worry about right now than men. She had a competition to win.

X

While Erik was becoming more and more used to his newfound, marginally social existence, the situation he found himself in on Saturday night was still, highly unusual. He was surrounded by…friends, at a house party, celebrating a woman's birthday. It was Lulu's 26th, and she had invited all of the members of the choir, as well as some other family and friends Erik vaguely recognised from the village, and some people he frankly did not. Well, even in a town this small, Erik still did not "get out" enough to have met everyone.

The chatter of happy voices, laughter, and the (unfortunate) doof doof from the music Lulu was blasting around him was a little disquieting. But Erik sat dutifully and a tad uncomfortably on the couch, outside of the main group of people who were mingling in the centre of the lounge, spattered across the kitchen and trawling out into the back garden which was lit with fairy lights and glowing paper lanterns.

Erik was mostly making small talk with Agatha, one of the more calming presences from the choir, sipping some vodka concoction Lulu had insisted on mixing for him. It was bright orange and vaguely disgusting, but he was determined to be polite and finish the goddam thing.

He listened with what he hoped was a courteously interested expression to Agatha talk about her two young sons, something else he didn't particularly comprehend. What she had actually said about the boys made them seem like two small demonic creatures from hell. The older of the two consistently appeared to be attempting to asphyxiate, maim or brutalise in some other way the smaller one. The smaller one sounded like it had a constant flow of bodily fluids which Agatha was always finding, sometimes in carefully hidden locations. Despite this, the tone she used implied a great affection for the small nightmares.

Mysterious.

As Agatha excused herself to use the restroom (or, he suspected without offence, to find someone more interesting than himself to talk to), his eyes flickered around the room for Christine, a habit that was becoming all too deeply entrenched.

She was dancing up near the speakers with Lulu, to some musical atrocity from the 1980's.

'Addicted to Love'. Really. Fleetwood Mac he could tolerate, even enjoy, but this song was really quite appallingly bad.

She looked charming dancing to it though, her brown curls were bobbing up and down, swishing side to side, becoming adorably messy, and remarkably, poofing even further out of their mop-like enormity as she danced. LuLu grabbed her hand and they spun together in a wild circle, laughing. He felt a twinge of something- love? Yearning? A futile wish that Lulu's hand was replaced by his own?

The song came to an end and Kiss On My List replaced it. Ah, how unpleasant. It was a little like when he attended the Opera and the third trombone was a fraction sharp, and listening to it felt like a fly buzzing around his head, or nails down a chalkboard. This was the same, but the whole song was the third trombone. Erik didn't notice the disgusted scowl creeping onto his face.

"Well, you look like you're enjoying the music."

Erik turned around. It was her, looking down at him, for once, since he was sitting and she was standing, the low angle accentuating the length of her dark lashes, a gentle smile on her face.

Quick. Say something sarcastic and witty.

"Who needs Wagner when there exists in the world the poetic genius of Hall and Oates?" He said dryly.

Not your best, he thought. But she seemed amused enough, grinning slightly.

"I know right. I mean 'your kiss, your kiss, is on my list? I'm swooning at your romantic prose, guys. It's good to know I'm an…option?" She said.

"Indeed, who wouldn't be flattered by that?" Erik said ironically. "Number one on my list: milk. Number two: eggs. Number three: your kiss."

She laughed, then sang, a little drunkenly ad-libbing: "Your kiss, your kiss it's on my list…it's number three, not very important to me!"

They laughed together, and she lowered herself down onto the couch next to him.

"Sooo, Erik." She said, "Now that there's a bit of liquid courage in me, I just want you to know, that…about that thing the other night…" She was chewing her lip uncomfortably, gazing at the floor.

His eyebrows furrowed. What 'thing'?

"Uh…I just want you to know that, like, it's all good, like, don't worry about it. And I'm sorry, if anything was awkward, like, it was just a silly mistake, I know you aren't really, like… I'm not really your…you know, but I won't say that stuff again, now I know that you, you know, don't really, like…And I'm really happy to just be your friend! Like really happy, I enjoy your friendship…so like I hope nothing is weird….so like just best we move past it…yeah…" She rambled.

His heart sunk. She was talking about the moment a couple of nights ago, after a lesson, when she had asked him why he was being so nice to her. He had feared that she had cottoned on to his feelings, and now she was confirming her suspicions…and kindly, if not eloquently, rejecting him.

Erik wondered vaguely if his heart shattering into a million pieces was evident on his face or not.

Hopefully she would attribute his grim expression to Kiss On My List continuing to mock him in the background.

"Right." He said, as evenly as one can when one's hopes and dreams are going up in flames before them.

"So, we're still cool?" She asked, concern marring her pretty features.

"Of…course."

"Great." She gave him one of her enormous, dazzling smiles and his heart appeared to shrivel up and wither in agony in his chest. "Just wanted to…avoid any potential awkwardness."

"I see."

"I have some news, as well." She said brightly, after a pause. "Good news!"

"Oh, yes?" He asked, trying to sound like he wasn't deeply depressed.

"Raoul and Phillipe are joining the choir! They've finally come to their senses and have realised what a piece of work Madeline was!"

Well.

Might as well be his bloody birthday and Christmas come all at once.

Christine launched into some long story about Phillipe and his lover outing him as gay to his mother, Madeline and Father Callaghan's homophobia and its role in prompting the brothers to leave the choir. Erik was hardly listening.

He put down his glass to avoid shattering it in agitation, hoping Christine didn't notice his shaking hands as he did so- she didn't appear to have, she was looking out at the garden now. Probably searching for the brat Raoul now, Erik had seen him and his brother lurking around the party before. She had seen him talking to her at the first performance. Seen him take her hand.

She continued to speak, gesturing animatedly with her hands.

Raoul. What a stupid, pretentious name.

Now he understood why she had wanted to make her desire only for friendship so clear.

Raoul was no longer the enemy, and she planned to start a romantic relationship with him. Why wouldn't she, he thought despairingly. He was attractive, her age, wealthy.

Christine seemed to sense that something was wrong, and asked him several times if he felt ok.

He lied, and politely extracted himself from the party, feigning tiredness.

He needed a drink. A real drink.

THANK YOU FOR YOUR LOVELY COMMENTS! I didn't really expect anyone to get that into this story since it's a bit kooky, but now I'm very glad that I decided to post it. :)