It had been a while.
Which was why—that Saturday afternoon, approximately fifteen minutes before she had to leave to meet Raoul—Christine was standing in the middle of her room with the entire contents of her closet and bureau strewn across her bed and crumpled on her floor. Her skin felt sanded raw and she was just one bad outfit away from calling the whole thing off, Carmichael Quartet be damned.
Christine turned to the floor length mirror and blew a clump of frizzy curls out of her eyes.
At least this one was more promising than any of the others. Maybe it was just her exhausted judgment talking, but the blue wrap dress did seem to make the most of her insignificant curves while still staying modest. Meg had insisted she get it during their last girls' day out, and as usual, her fashion sense was approximately one hundred and eighty-nine times more developed than Christine's.
In fact, the brown boots she'd gotten the same day would be the perfect finisher. And some subtle touches of gold jewelry…with the outfit decided, she bustled off to the bathroom to get her curls in some semblance of order before putting on her makeup.
Knowing that she was both too late and too exasperated to tempt her very minor eyeliner skills, Christine settled for an enhanced version of her usual five-minute face. She swept on a darker shade of eye shadow—a shimmery gray that played well with the blue dress—and opted for lipstick instead of tinted gloss.
Would Raoul mind that if he wanted to kiss her?
The thought was so confusing that Christine missed the corner of her mouth entirely. Rubbing off the blotch of Evening Out pink didn't help her forget it.
Well, she thought, unsteadily, kisses are a normal part of dates. You'll just have to figure out your feelings about it and make sure they're clear to him. Direct communication is a good thing in any kind of relationship.
"Ugh," she muttered, reapplying a bit of foundation and tossing the offending lipstick into her purse, "I hate psychoanalyzing myself. Grow a pair, Christine."
Her cell phone beeped, an obliging reminder that she didn't have time for this.
She was gathering the last components of her bag and fiddling with her keys when another ping drew her attention to the phone. Meg. Of course it was Meg.
Have fun tonight! ;P I want all the details tomorrow…unless you're exhausted, that is!
She muted her phone and shoved it to the bottom of her clutch. As she locked the apartment door behind her and thumped down the stairs in her new boots, new dress fluttering around her knees, she considered the idea of sleeping with Raoul.
She'd had sex a few times, mostly with her high school boyfriend James. They had started going out in late Junior year, and the relationship had continued all through Senior year. However, since Christine had been in no place to form a strong emotional bond with a boy at the time, nothing serious had come of their movie dates, school dances, and study sessions. They'd experimented with sex just to say they'd had it.
After graduation, their relationship ended when they split up to go to schools at opposite ends of the country. Christine had felt the loss as merely another familiar prop knocked from underneath her when she embarked on her career in psychology. She missed him no differently from the way she missed her girlfriends.
Sex was something she barely noticed passing out of her life. It had barely had a place in it, after all.
Perhaps Raoul was a good excuse to try it again.
While waiting at stoplights, humming under her breath and drumming her fingers against the dash, Christine considered the idea of sex with Raoul. It was appealing—intellectually at any rate—but was that enough?
Strange how she could consider this without flinching, even reminisce about her tepid relationship with James…but the idea of a kiss threw her out of balance!
"Yet another part of your fascinating psyche we will have to explore, Ms. Dale," she laughed softly, "though at some later date."
The theater's parking lot was crowded, but she managed to find a space just outside it on the street. She and Raoul had decided to meet in the lobby, and she was already two minutes late.
Thankfully, Raoul was five minutes later. Christine had had just enough time to get herself a plastic flute of champagne ($8 for a splash, but she was celebrating, wasn't she?) and enjoy the sight and sound of the brightly lit hall filled with excited, well-dressed people before he jogged up.
"Sorry," he panted, "parking's crazy tonight! I thought I left with enough time, but—"
"It's okay," she laughed, patting his arm, "you're not late. There's ten minutes to curtain."
"Right," he relaxed into a smile, "Well, you look great. Sleep does good things for you."
"Aha," she shook her head, suppressing the urge to stick out her tongue, "you're hilarious. I did want to thank you for your advice back then. It did really help." Under Raoul's penetrating blue-eyed stare, she sipped her champagne and hoped she wouldn't blush. Remembering what they had discussed the last—and only—time they'd met, Christine felt the danger of having the image of Erik's tall, dark figure in the back of her mind all night.
"I'm glad to hear it," he nodded, "but you shouldn't rely on good advice from me so often. I was pretty tired myself when I gave it."
"Uh huh," she took another sip, "Well, sleep does good things for you too, by the way."
Raoul did look very nice. His blond hair shone under the brilliant lights like living gold, and his trim, broad-shouldered physique was nicely accented by a blue button-down shirt and a well-tailored pair of black trousers. She saw a wink of silver in his left ear and smiled wider.
"You've got a piercing," she turned to get a better view of the simple stud, "I would not have pegged you for that."
"What, as the rebellious type?" he laughed, "That's why I got it. Third year of medical school…finals week; I was out of my mind with stress and family pressure. I was sure I was gonna fail my physiology lab and knew that if I failed, my mother wouldn't talk to me for months. So I figured I'd do something to make her even madder. The piercing came after the tattoo, when I was totally numb to pain."
She snorted. "Tattoo?"
"Yeah," he winced, "It's not something I'm particularly proud of. I do like the earring, though."
Christine smiled, tipping back her empty flute before realizing she had finished her drink. Too bad the portion had been too small to give her a buzz; it might be helpful tonight. Raoul noticed the way she was staring.
"You want another? Could go for one myself."
She nodded and together they went to the line, chatting about this and that during the wait. Though her curiosity was definitely piqued by the "what" and "where" of his tattoo bombshell, she kept it in under control; it clearly wasn't something he wanted to discuss. Regardless of what they talked about, Christine found herself relaxing under Raoul's self-deprecating manner, easy sense of humor, and relaxing personality. Every momentary awkwardness he laughed away or filled by pointing out something interesting or funny around them.
It was a little like talking with one of her friends. Maybe even Meg, although he was less invasive than Meg tended to be.
They had just gotten their drinks when the lights dimmed. Raoul led her through the door down to the orchestra level; they had aisle seats in the fifth row.
"This is incredible!" she turned in her seat to look back at the two balconies above them. "I've never been this close to the stage in this theater—or any theater, really; too rich for my blood."
"Mom has to have the best when it comes to her music," Raoul said. "She swears that these seats have the best acoustics in the house. Personally," he shrugged, "I can never tell the difference."
"Not a music buff?"
"I think I might be tone deaf. It's not that I don't like it, but the way I enjoy music and the way my mother does are entirely different."
"I get that," she nodded, "I feel the same way about art; I don't know chiaroscuro from impressionism…but some paintings are beautiful and I always enjoy time in museums."
"Exactly."
As the house lights dimmed and a golden circle of light illuminated the grand piano on stage, Christine felt a long-forgotten thrill of anticipation as she waited for the music to begin. While she had never been that close to the stage, she had been to many concerts; sometimes standing in the back of an auditorium, hand wrapped around her father's wrist and they listened to Bach, or Dvorak, or Schubert.
There had always been that moment she loved; the instant after the lights went down and the audience was sitting surrounded by a susurrus of hushed whispers. Christine's skin erupted in goosebumps as she lived all those moments again in her racing imagination.
The pianist was a woman who reminded Christine of nothing so much as a teapot. Long, slender forearms shone white as bone where they rested against the black lacquer of the piano, matched by delicate ankles and dainty feet. Her middle, though, was as round as an apple, carefully disguised by the artful gathers of her black dress.
She bowed to the audience's applause and gave a sharp breath, launching into one of Chopin's Nocturnes. Christine might have been able to name the exact number—and the key—once, but it hardly mattered. The quick airy runs and heavy anchoring bass notes reminded her of wind racing over water on a stormy day. The sounds pulled her out of herself, away from the nattering of her inner monologue, to a place of beauty untouched by pain.
From Chopin, she switched to Beethoven—a bagatelle—and the mood shifted to something more playful. Christine opened her tightly-shut eyes and watched the pianist's fingers flying over the keys. Being this close to the stage was really something; Christine smiled at the dreamy preoccupation on the musician's face as she moved from bar to bar.
The final piece she performed was incidentally one of Christine's favorites, a newer song from Jonathan Elias. Christine shivered from the sheer delight of the high, hopeful notes dancing through the rapt silence of the room.
When the pianist rose to receive her applause, Christine rose too. Swallowing hard and blinking fast to keep the tears in her eyes, she clapped until her hands were sore. Raoul stood too, but Christine saw from the corner of her eye that he was looking more at her than at the musician.
They sat again and watched as stagehands shifted the piano and brought out chairs for the Quartet.
"That was amazing," she pressed both hands against her heart, feeling as though it was going to fly right out of her chest. "Did you see them? It was like…like watching a flock of birds, or something, all soaring together. I have never heard Beethoven's 3rd quartet played that well, not ever!"
Raoul followed her rather haphazard path through the lobby with a far milder version of her grin on his face. "Was that the second piece, or the third?"
"It was the last," she corrected him, "Didn't you like it? You gave them a standing O."
"Of course I liked it, but remember…not the biggest music buff."
"Well, at least you didn't fall asleep," she tucked her arm under his and leaned against his shoulder, the euphoria of the music suffusing every inch of her, "I've seen people do that, even at operas and musicals."
"That would be a very expensive nap," he remarked, squeezing her arm, "Besides, I was too busy watching you."
"Me?"
"You looked so happy listening to them. Compared to you, no one else seemed alive."
She looked away. "I—I just liked it. They were really good."
"Christine, that's a good thing. You're passionate about music; don't be embarrassed."
"I'll try not to be," she promised. But she couldn't help it. For years, her enjoyment of classical music, opera, and musical theater had been something she'd had to hide, especially from her mother. It was too connected to the memory of her father to bring her joy unmixed with the pain of his passing, but she hadn't let it go…the way her mother had.
Should she tell Raoul that? She liked him. Their date had gone well, she wouldn't mind having another one. And to be really close to someone, didn't you have to share secrets?
They were jammed in the crowd by the outside doors, surrounded by a wall of sound nearly impossible to breach. Even if it felt like the right time to confess something so personal, this wasn't the place.
Someone stepped on Christine's heel; she blundered forward into the woman beside her. Her 'excuse me' would have gone unnoticed, but the other woman had caught a glimpse of her.
"You're Christine, aren't you? Yeah, I remember you from the Cat a couple weeks ago."
"Helen?" she vaguely remembered the woman's face, though she would have liked to forget everything else about that night. Everything, that is, except Erik's playing. That was a memory she never wanted to lose.
Helen answered her uncertain smile with a broader one. "Amazing, wasn't it? Even Erik said they were as good as their reputation made them out to be."
"You…" the evening had swerved from dream to nightmare so fast it made her dizzy, "You're here with Erik?"
"Yeah, he had an extra ticket. He's just outside getting us a taxi. You should come along and say 'hi'."