FACE THE PRESS

"Are you quite mad?"

Erik leapt up from the piano stool; in two long strides he had reached the hearthrug and begun to pace. Christine watched him helplessly; she had known what sort of reaction her words were likely to provoke, but on the journey down to the fifth cellar she had become convinced that to be honest (at least partly) with the reporters would be the only way to be rid of them. Once they got what they wanted they would back off, but until then they would keep pushing, keep digging, and she didn't think she would be able to cope with that. Neither of them should be forced to spend their lives in hiding, for whatever reason.

"I've thought it through," she said. "We can just tell them the bare facts: who you are and where you come from. They don't need to know any more than that."

He rounded on her, and it took all her self-control not to jump. "Don't you see, dear girl, they will not be contented with the bare bones of a story. Sooner or later they will come back for more, they always do. Then what will we say? Shall we tell them of my years in the circus, or the time I spent being gawped at against my will by the paying public?" His voice was rising, but he appeared not to notice. "Maybe I should bring up the days I spent travelling in Persia and India; I'm sure those escapades would sell a few newspapers! The middle class Madames would faint over their breakfasts."

"If we continue with this silence then they will make up something just as bad!" Christine exclaimed. "They already are: Béringer's interview with Augustine will be just the start. You can dismiss his scribblings because they are printed in the gutter press, but if you continue to remain out of sight, sooner or later someone else will make the connection with the Phantom, someone with conviction that the public will believe!"

"I will be long gone before that happens." Erik turned away, stalking over to the marquetry cabinet beside the fireplace. Opening it he retrieved a crystal glass and decanter and poured himself a generous helping of cognac. Angry now, Christine followed, grabbing his sleeve before he could raise the glass to his mouth.

"I told you, I don't want to live my life as a fugitive. I won't go running away!" Desperately she leaned against him, her forehead resting on his chest. "I don't want you to either."

With a deep sigh, he stroked her hair. "And I refuse to be put on display for the jeers of the mob. I've done it more than once before and I won't go back."

"I'm not asking you to. This time it would be on your terms, not theirs." Christine looked up, trying to meet his eyes. The left one peered down at her, the right hidden by the shadow of his mask. "When I agreed to marry you your world became mine. I know it is difficult, but can you not do me the same courtesy?"

Erik swallowed. "Have I not already done enough to prove that to you?"

"You have done so much and you know that I am proud of you. But by emerging into the light you began a transformation that cannot be halted now." She wrapped her arms around his waist, pulling him to her. "I don't want to see you existing somewhere between your world and mine; that would be no life at all."

There was a long pause, during which she could almost see and feel him thinking it over. Fear lurked in the depths of his eyes and she felt terrible about suggesting something that so obviously scared him. Despite her words, somewhere within her she wished that they could indeed run away together and live their lives far from the intrusion of other people, but her practical, rational side knew that such an escape was impossible. Even down here in the cellars they could only shut themselves out of the world for so long; sooner or later reality would make its presence known. A little voice in her head reminded her that Erik had spent over ten years within the confines of his own self-made kingdom, and there was nothing to stop him deciding that he would rather return to it and forsake the freedom he had tasted in favour of the safety the darkness offered. Nothing but her, that was.

"What do you suggest?" he asked finally.

"You'll do it?" He had been quiet for so long that Christine had almost allowed that little voice to convince her he would refuse.

Gently he untangled himself from her embrace and drew back, holding her tightly by the hands. "I will do it; for you. I cannot allow you to spend every day with those hounds at your heels, and if the only way to be rid of them is to throw them a bone, then I will do so."

"Thank you." Standing on tiptoes she kissed him. "It will be all right, you'll see."

Erik tried to smile but it went wrong, his lips twisting ruefully instead. "I wish I had your optimism." He sighed again. "So, my dear, where do we begin?"

Christine had thought of that, too. "We speak to Monsieur Marigny."

It felt ridiculous, creeping about the Opera when they could both walk quite openly through the corridors, but Christine had no desire to bump into anyone else who might delay them and possibly ask awkward questions as to why they were there on a supposed day off. Thankfully the administrative wing was free of curious souls; the various secretaries that dealt with the bureaucratic machinery which kept the theatre running were rarely interested in those who trod the boards. Strangely, the two worlds of the theatre hardly ever collided; Christine knew Monsieur Remy but she did not think she could put a name to any of the other officials who passed them with their heads bent over sheaves of paperwork. The passages were quiet but for the clattering of typewriters and the distant ringing of a telephone; she marvelled at the strange, strident bell which sounded as though it did not belong there.

"I've never heard one before," she whispered to Erik when he explained what it was.

"The march of progress," he said in a voice that dripped disapproval. "Dreadful things. Hell will freeze over before I allow one of them into my home."

Christine couldn't help giggling at that, and he looked affronted. "Sorry," she replied apologetically. "I was just trying to think who would need to telephone you. I suppose Madame might..."

"Dear God, the very thought of her being able to scold and lecture me whenever she chose is terrifying!" Erik shuddered theatrically. "I would never be rid of her!"

They had reached the managers' office and Christine tried very hard to pull her features back into some semblance of seriousness. She knocked quietly; there was no response and so Erik reached out, rapping sharply on the panel with his knuckles. After a pause Monsieur Marigny's somewhat distracted voice called for them to enter. Christine took a deep breath and opened the door.

Marigny was sitting at the big walnut desk, papers spread before him and pen in hand. It was a lovely pen; black and gilded, just like those she had looked at repeatedly in the window of an upmarket stationers with the intention of buying one for Erik. She wondered idly if such a thing would be suitable for a wedding gift. The manager looked up in surprise when Erik shut the door behind them with a click just loud enough to gain his attention.

"Mademoiselle Daae, Monsieur Claudin! To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?" Marigny asked, putting down his pen and waving them both to the chairs that stood before the desk. "Has something happened that I should know about? Something else, I mean," he added, giving them a pointed look.

Christine and Erik exchanged a glance. "We apologise for not informing you of our change in circumstances, Monsieur," she said. "We - "

"We had not intended to make an announcement quite so soon," Erik continued smoothly. "Our hand was forced."

"Unintentionally," Christine put in, not wishing Meg to get the blame. Marigny frowned at them for a long moment and she found herself twisting the fringes of her shawl between her fingers, almost expecting a reprimand. They both knew that they should have told the managers before anyone else, in case it was thought that their engagement might affect the efficient running of the chorus, or that Erik might be guilty of favouritism towards her in the allocation of roles. Unfortunately, everything had happened so fast that neither of them remembered until it was too late and the news had travelled round the theatre.

"You needn't look so anxious, Mademoiselle Daae," Marigny said, jolting her out of her reverie. He smiled. "You are both adults and neither of you need to ask my permission. Congratulations, by the way."

"Thank you, Monsieur. And please also thank Monsieur Fontaine; the champagne he sent round to Mademoiselle Daae's dressing room on Friday was completely unexpected," Erik replied, adding, "As was the brandy I found in my office."

"I am both were of an excellent vintage; my colleague has access to an incomparable cellar. However, I do not think that you came here to discuss your impending nuptials with me." Marigny folded his hands on the blotter and regarded them seriously. "What can I do for you both?"

Erik looked at Christine. Christine looked at Erik. He scratched his head, grimacing. "May I ask, Monsieur, have you succeeded in ridding us of the journalists?"

Marigny's bald pate wrinkled in another frown. "No, I have not. The editors claim to have no control over their reporters and the authorities refuse to act unless one of them actually commits a breach of the peace," he said, sounding as annoyed as he looked. "Had I my way I would remove them all by the scruff of the neck and bar them from coming within a mile of the place but unfortunately the Opera needs publicity and such an action would not show us in a favourable light."

"We do feel rather responsible," Christine admitted. "It is after all because of us that they are hanging around."

"My goodness, do not blame yourself, Mademoiselle. If anyone is responsible it is Mademoiselle Albert; her adventures into print have drawn the gutter press to our door." Marigny made a noise that sounded very much like a growl. "I refuse to have the name of the Populaire dragged through the mud." The word 'again', which Christine was sure would have ended the sentence had he been speaking to anyone else, remained unspoken but it was there just the same.

Erik's gaze was fixed on his hands as he apparently struggled to choose the right words. Christine gently touched his shoulder and he shot her a grateful little smile. "Mademoiselle Daae and I have discussed the situation," he said. "It has become clear that these men are really after information about me. Christine seems to think that if we offer some they may leave."

The manager's frown deepened. "And what of your privacy? You told me that you were anxious to preserve it; speaking to the press will destroy any chance of that."

"I am aware of that, Monsieur. However, Mademoiselle Daae has been repeatedly accosted by them and I refuse to allow her to go through such an experience again."

"An admirable sentiment, and one with which I wholeheartedly agree. I expect my artistes and staff to be able to go about their business without harassment," said Marigny. He picked up his pen again, twirling it between his fingers. "How do you intend to bring such a situation about?"

"We hoped that you might be able to advise us," Christine answered honestly.

"Ah. I see." Marigny sat back in his chair. The pen tapped on one of the arms like a conductor's baton. After a moment's thought he said, "Well, in that case I advise you, Monsieur, to behave like an engaged man and escort Mademoiselle Daae home."

They both stared at him. "Monsieur, I hardly think that - " Erik began indignantly, starting out of his chair, but much to Christine's surprise the manager actually chuckled.

"Hold your horses, Claudin, I'm not finished," he said. "Sit down. I can in some way understand that the press are curious about you; no one has ever seen you, after all. You seem to creep about the building like a cat and hide in the shadows during a performance. Showing yourself to them voluntarily and in some mundane, ordinary action, might well be sensible. They can hardly create ludicrous stories if you actually walk amongst them and allow them to see that you are a normal man and not, as Mademoiselle Albert would have everyone believe, some crookbacked monster."

Resuming his seat Erik barked a harsh laugh. "I hardly think they will come to that conclusion."

Marigny blinked at him. "And why should they not? In all outward respects you look perfectly normal to me."

"What about this?" Erik waved a hand towards his mask. "You have seen what lies beneath, Monsieur; surely you cannot think that normal!"

"They don't need to know what you are hiding," Marigny told him and Christine tried to restrain a gasp of surprise at the revelation that Erik had actually removed his mask in front of the managers. He had not mentioned that to her. "Make up some story; tell them you were scarred in an accident, in a fire. You are an otherwise attractive fellow; put a romantic spin on it."

"You really think that is the wisest course of action, Monsieur?" Christine asked before Erik could protest, reaching over and taking his hand. She squeezed his fingers encouragingly.

Marigny nodded. "I do. And what's more, I'll accompany you to the front door to make sure it works."

"How many are there?"

"Ten... no, eleven." Christine turned from the window to look at Erik. He was adjusting his tie, fingers trembling and giving the only clue to the nerves she knew he must be feeling. Almost unconsciously he tugged down the brim of his hat to hide the mask as much as possible. "Are you absolutely sure you want to do this?"

His jaw flexed and before he spoke she knew he was gritting his teeth. "Let's just get it over with. Please."

Jacques was still hanging around the foyer; this time he had acquired a bucket and mop and was half-heartedly slopping water onto the floor. When Marigny gave him a signal to open the door, Christine couldn't help wondering if the manager had stationed Jacques there deliberately to keep an eye on the mob of reporters outside. The old man ambled across and took hold of one of the handles, drawing the door slowly and inexorably towards him; a shaft of bright sunlight fell onto the black and white marble, momentarily dazzling those inside the building. There was a moment of silence and then the familiar shouts began again, voices calling her name as the journalists scrambled over each other to get closest to the doorway.

As they had agreed, she emerged first, steeling herself for the barrage of questions; she ignored them, pausing on the top step and glancing back to make sure that Erik was following. Marigny stepped out and her heart skipped a beat as she thought he might have changed his mind but she released the breath she hadn't even realised she was holding when Erik's tall, lean shadow fell across the threshold behind them.

At the sight of the imposing figure in his elegantly-cut grey suit, fedora tilted rakishly to one side, the reporters quite suddenly went quiet. Erik stood there, looking around him and quite obviously trying to keep the contempt he felt from showing on his face. Emotions warred on the undamaged side briefly before his expression settled into the stoic, almost blank look Christine knew so well. It was as though he had dropped a figurative mask over his visible features to match the real one. He regarded the little crowd on the steps with cold eyes before turning to Christine and offering her his arm. They descended halfway without incident, the journalists parting like courtiers before the approach of royalty, and then the moment was spoiled when someone called out,

"Monsieur Claudin? Monsieur Claudin! Have you anything to say about the accusations Augustine Albert made last week in Le Figaro?"

Erik's lips twitched, but he replied calmly, "I have no comment to make upon the matter."

"Mademoiselle Albert's opinion is hers alone. The Opera Populaire takes no responsibility for her views," Marigny added, the words rolling easily from his tongue as though he made statements to the press every day.

Another journalist held up a hand. "Monsieur Claudin, how long have you known Mademoiselle Daae and how do you feel about marrying her in light of her recent broken engagement to the Vicomte de Chagny?"

"Mademoiselle Daae has been my pupil for the last six years," Erik said, tensing at the mention of Raoul's name. Christine unobtrusively stroked his arm, trying to relax the muscles that were coiled there like steel rope. "Her previous engagement and its end are her affair and not my concern."

"Why has no one ever reported seeing you at the Opera before the only performance of Don Juan Triumphant?" enquired a small man in a tweed suit with a cigarette tucked behind his ear. "I understand that you stepped into the breach when both Signor Piangi and his understudy were taken ill."

So that was the story they had given out, Christine thought as Erik, his voice clearly showing that he was rapidly losing patience, replied, "Mademoiselle Daae invited me to attend, and as I already knew the libretto I did my best to try and salvage the production. Until then I had no reason to frequent the theatre."

"And now?"

"Now I am employed by Messieurs Marigny and Fontaine. The situation is quite different."

"We are delighted to have been able to engage a man of Monsieur Claudin's exceptional talent to direct the chorus of the Opera Populaire," Marigny said. Half of the reporters were scribbling furiously in their notebooks; the others were waving and shouting out, with no intention of waiting their turn. Once voice, louder than all of them and horribly familiar, asked,

"Why do you really wear the mask, Monsieur?"

At the back of the group, leaning on a lamppost, a cigar dangling from his fingers, was Francois Béringer. Upon seeing him Erik took a step forwards, his hands clenching into fists, but Christine pulled him back. The visible side of his face dark with anger, Erik said, his voice dangerously soft, "Because, as it seems the whole of Paris now knows, my face is quite horribly scarred, Monsieur. Not that it is any of your business."

Grinning and either oblivious or uncaring of Erik's fury, Béringer straightened slightly, tipping back his hat. "Will you remove it and let us see for ourselves?"

The other journalists watched the exchange in silence. Erik had drawn himself up to his full, imposing height; slipping his arm from Christine's he stalked down the remaining steps towards Béringer, approaching slowly and deliberately, much as he had done the night of the New Year masquerade in the guise of Red Death. When he was barely a foot from the reporter he stopped, lifting his head and allowing Béringer full view of his mask.

"No, Monsieur, I will not." He looked the man up and down, taking in the crumpled, garishly checked suit, the far from clean linen and the way Béringer stood, favouring his left leg. "Will you take down your trousers and show us all the injury to your knee? I'm sure it would be most illuminating."

A smatter of laughter rippled round the group. Béringer's features twisted in fury. "Are you the Phantom of the Opera?" he demanded, his voice emerging rather high and tight as his face reddened in embarrassment.

"For pity's sake, man, you harped on about that in your pathetic little article and you have been harassing my staff about it ever since. You are obsessed!" exclaimed an exasperated Marigny from the top of the stairs before Erik could open his mouth. "Once and for all, there is no Phantom of the Opera! That is my official statement on the matter."

"Mademoiselle Daae." Christine, left alone halfway up the stairs as the reporters followed Erik, turned at the hesitant voice behind her and found a young man, smartly, if rather shabbily, dressed standing there. He offered her a hopeful smile and a yellow rose and said, "I wanted to give this to you earlier; I came to the stage door but this lot had beaten me to it. I tried to tell them they should leave you in peace but they wouldn't have it."

"Thank you." She accepted the flower and his smile widened. "I'm very grateful to you for trying."

"Monsieur Marigny, would you care to elaborate upon that statement?" the man in the tweed suit asked, leading the gaggle of journalists back up the steps. Christine and her new acquaintance had to move aside quickly to avoid being knocked down.

"No, I would not," the manager snapped. "Now clear off, the lot of you. This is private property and if you're not gone in the next thirty seconds I'll call the gendarmes and have you arrested for loitering!"

"I know you don't want to talk to reporters," the young man said quickly as, grumbling and reluctant but armed at last with a story, the other journalists began to disperse. Béringer was first to slink away, shooting Erik a glare of pure hatred that was returned in kind. "But if you change your mind..." He held out a slightly battered calling card. Christine took it, opening her mouth to ask his name, but he just smiled again and tipped his hat to her, slipping into the constantly-shifting pedestrian traffic of the Place de l'Opera. She looked down at the card and the legend printed there:

Didier Tolbert

Investigative Journalist.

"Christine, are you all right?" Erik asked gently, and she jumped, tucking the card away in her purse.

"I'm fine," she said, trying to spot Monsieur Tolbert again but he had vanished. She turned back to her fiancé and smiled. "Shall we go home?"