A/N:

I can't believe this story has reached more than 30 chapters! I certainly never expected that when I started writing. It's officially longer (in word count) than Green Baize Door, another fic that began as snippets and evolved into a more coherent plotline.

Thank you once again for your lovely reviews, and for sticking with me thus far.

Christine was surprised to meet Julian, one of the younger tenors in the chorus, in the corridor as she reached Erik's office. He attempted to smile behind his mask but hurried off, giving her a quick wave as he went. One of the consequences of having to wear face coverings she had noticed was that it made it much easier to work out when someone wasn't smiling genuinely; the attention was deflected from what their mouth was doing to their eyes, and whether the emotion reached them or not. In Julian's case it was definitely not; he hadn't looked happy at all.

"Is something wrong?" she asked, closing the office door behind her and gratefully removing her own mask. "I just passed Julian outside."

Erik had his elbows on the desk, one hand tapping a pen against his teeth. "Have you noticed that he's been a bit off lately? His pitch and stamina for example?"

"Well, now you mention it he has been looking a little the worse for wear for a while. And he does seem to be cracking quite a lot, which is very unusual for him."

"He just told me that he has to have gallbladder surgery." He shook his head. "The silly fool has been suffering in silence for months, trying to sing even though he's had pains in his chest."

"Oh, the poor thing!" Christine exclaimed. "Why didn't he say something?"

Erik shrugged. "Pride? Denial? I have no idea. Apparently he knew he had gallstones, but now there's one blocking the entrance to the bile duct, hence the need for surgery. They can remove the bladder via keyhole but he's still going to be off sick for at least a month afterwards."

"When's the operation going to be?"

"The beginning of June. Which means..." He gestured towards the plans and schedules for Untitled that were pinned to the notice board behind him. As well as his slots with the chorus, Julian had been down for two solos and a duet with Christine.

"Ah." She understood why he'd been looking so upset; she knew how hard he was working on his numbers, how much he'd been looking forward to the show. "He's going to miss opening night."

"There's a very real possibility he may miss the whole run; we're only down to play for three weeks, after all." Erik sighed sharply and ran a hand through his hair, getting up to look at the sheets of paper covered with his looping writing. There were so many crossings out, additions and markers, the latter in red ink, that she was sure by now he was the only person who understood what it all meant. "This means I'm going to have to completely re-jig the running order and work out what we can find to fill the three gaps we now have. It's a headache I could do without, quite frankly."

Christine's lips thinned. She folded her arms. "I'm sure he didn't derail the show deliberately, Erik."

"No, I know he didn't," he said, glancing back at her. "He was extremely apologetic, and admitted he should have done something about it when the symptoms first started, but then we all know how difficult GPs have made it to get even the simplest ailment diagnosed over the past year. Quite a few of them would rather they weren't bothered by patients at all, and it seems Julian's is one of those; he was only referred for a scan because his mother insisted he keep pushing. Goodness knows what state he would be in had she not."

"So what are you going to do?" she enquired, perching on the desk. "Can one of the others take over our duet?"

"They're all involved with other things."

"How about Mike? He's been in a production of Patience, so he already knows Prithee Pretty Maiden."

"He's in numbers on either side, and there's a costume change needed in between." Erik made an irritated noise, snatching the schedules off the wall without removing the drawing pins first and ripping the corners. He spread them out on the desk, giving her a pointed look when he realised she was in his way. Obligingly, she scooted further down, but didn't get up. "It's going to take me hours to rearrange all of this."

"Well, do it after lunch. You need to eat," Christine reminded him, pushing a bottle of water and one of the plastic boxes she'd retrieved from the fridge in his direction; she'd packed up some of the left-overs from the previous evening and brought them in as a change from sandwiches.

Reluctantly he took it and sank back down in his chair but he just picked at the food, not taking his gaze from the plans. "Oh," he said absently, when she was halfway through her own lunch, "I forgot to tell you earlier: we've been invited out next week. Annie's agreed to babysit."

"Out?" she repeated, her chest immediately tightening with anxiety at the word and its implications. "Do you mean 'out' out?"

"I mean leaving the house and going somewhere else, yes."

She swallowed, her heart thumping loudly. "With other people?"

"That's the usual definition of going out."

"But where? You hate socialising," she told him. "Don't try and deny it."

"Perish the thought," he retorted, poking his cold chicken and rice with a fork. "But it doesn't matter what I feel; you need to start getting out and about again."

Christine couldn't believe what she was hearing. "Not if it's going to put us at risk!" she cried. "Have you seen the crowds of people outside the pubs and bars? It's only going to be worse when they can open indoors; everywhere will be packed to the rafters!"

He rolled his eyes. "I'm well aware of that, and I've no desire to be caught up amongst the heaving throng of humanity any more than you," he said. "Even less, I imagine, so you can stop panicking; we're not going to join in with everyone else when the doors open. We've been invited round for the evening by James and Theodora."

Relief flooded through her. "Well, why didn't you say that in the first place?" she scolded, not entirely sure who she was annoyed with more: herself or him. "You nearly frightened the life out of me!"

"I made the mistake of assuming you would credit me with some intelligence," he replied, arching his visible eyebrow. "Obviously I was wrong."

She shot him a hard stare. "I'll have to add some extra wine to the grocery order," she mused. "And pick up some flowers. I hope they're not intending to go to any trouble."

Erik snorted. "Last time we went round to theirs for dinner it was Marks and Spencer's moussaka; I doubt this will be any different. You know neither of them can cook."

"As Teddy has told me many times: divas don't cook; they send out and let someone else do the work. And I doubt if Jimmy knows one end of a saucepan from the other." Christine shook her head in fond amusement. "I wonder how they survive sometimes. They're the least practical people we know."

"True," he agreed. "One hopeless person in a relationship is just about manageable, but two... the consequences could be ghastly."

"You almost sound as though you have wide experience on the subject," she told him lightly, and he pulled a face.

"Hardly. I can just see a disaster waiting to happen," he replied, just as there was a sharp knock on the door. He groaned, and pushed his all-but-untouched lunch aside, much to Christine's disapproval. "Come in! If you absolutely must."

The door opened and Raoul's tousled head poked round it. His eyes narrowed when he saw that they were both there and though his mouth was hidden she was sure there was a smirk on his lips. "Not interrupting anything am I?" he asked, waggling his brows suggestively.

"Always," Erik said curtly. "What do you want?"

Raoul ignored him. "Christine, you really should send him to someone who can work on that attitude. It's not good for morale; he's downright hostile."

"Only to you," his ex-rival retorted, leaning back in his leather chair and steepling his fingers, doing his best impression of a Bond villain. Christine thought as she replaced her mask that he only needed a cat to stroke to complete the image. "To what do we owe this intrusion, de Chagny?"

"It doesn't matter. Since I'm obviously not welcome I don't suppose you want the good news I have to impart so I'll check in on the press office instead," Raoul said, turning back into the corridor and pulling the door closed behind him. Christine leapt up and lunged for the handle, stopping him before he could shut it completely.

"Of course we do," she told him, glaring at her husband, who swung away slightly to hide his smile. "Come in, Raoul; he's just being cranky because he hasn't eaten anything yet. Low blood sugar always makes him behave like a toddler." At those words Erik's smile vanished and she was glad neither of them could see the victorious one of her own that crept onto her face. "What's happened?"

"Did you say 'good news'?" Erik enquired. "If so, that will make a change. I assume it means you're not going to cut my chorus down to two people or leave Antoinette with four ballerinas."

"Erik," Christine warned, sitting back down on the desk.

"No; not today at any rate," Raoul replied, declining to take the bait. He leaned against the door frame. "I actually just stopped by to let you know that the Think of Me video is doing really well. Nearly five thousand views so far, and Chris, you're romping ahead in the poll."

"Of course she is," Erik muttered as though it was the most obvious thing in the world; this time they both took no notice.

"That could change," she reminded Raoul. "It's only the first round, and there's still a couple of days to go before the poll closes."

"It's doubtful. You're leading Theodora by two to one; she'd have to seriously mobilise her troops to have any chance of winning," he said with a grin. "I've been reading through some of the comments and they've been almost universally positive. We've even had quite a few about Erik." Though his face was masked, the amusement in his tone was obvious as he lowered his voice conspiratorially. "Some of them have been really... enthusiastic. I won't repeat any to spare his blushes."

Christine felt another smile quirking her lips as she noticed her husband's face colour slightly; he coughed and looked away, embarrassed. She had actually seen some of the remarks for herself, which ranged from those that said things like 'OMG he exists!' to the one that simply read 'Phwoaarrrr!' Naturally, she hadn't shown him; he was mortified enough already, and she wanted to make sure he would be coming back for that week's recording. Letting him know that there were women online who... appreciated the part of him they could see would either send him into spirals of self-loathing over the disfigured side of his face, or scare him off completely and she wasn't keen on either of the two scenarios.

"There's also been a very definite uptick in ticket sales since those rehearsal clips and the first battle went online," Raoul continued, well aware of his ex-rival's discomfiture. "I think we can attribute that to the extra visibility and now we need to capitalise on it."

"That's wonderful!" Christine exclaimed, glancing at Erik again; he grunted, attention back on his plans. There was still a pink tint to his visible cheekbone. "Don't you think so?"

He shrugged. "It's probably just a passing phase."

"Not if we keep up the momentum," Raoul told him. "We need to get out there, push everything we can: videos, photos, insider information. Add teasers, trailers, that kind of thing; make people want to know more."

"Talk to Alfie," Christine suggested, but Erik shook his head.

"Recording one video a week in his spare time is fine," he said, having recovered his composure somewhat. "Or the odd snippet here and there for fun. I have no problem with that. However, he is employed as a member of my company and asking him to take on any more extra-curricular work would compromise his performance. As his director I can't allow that; I need my artists to be working without distractions."

She felt disappointment settle in her stomach, but she knew he was right. It had taken Alfie hours to put the first Battle video together after all; they couldn't ask him to give up any more of his free time. "What can we do?"

"I'll ask around," Raoul said before Erik could speak. "I have a few contacts, friends who have friends in the business. I'm sure one of them would be willing to undertake a bit of work for us."

Suspicion flared in Erik's mismatched gaze. "You mean my theatre would be crawling with strangers wielding cameras."

"Just the one. Well, maybe two at the most. And a sound man."

"That's still three too many."

"We have to keep things going, Erik," Raoul insisted. "If we can't manage it in-house then I'll get someone else to take it on. All we need is some professional-looking footage to get the ball rolling; if we had any pro-shots of past productions I'd say we upload those, too, to stimulate interest, but I don't think any exist. Do they?"

"No," Christine admitted, and then added on consideration, "But there might be a few minutes of backstage stuff from the last run of Hannibal somewhere. No idea if the footage is any good, though; it was just someone messing about with a camcorder."

"Great! I'll put out some feelers, see who has it."

"This is all ultimately trivial," Erik said in a disgruntled tone. "What matters is the quality of the performance, not all of these... ephemera."

"What matters is selling tickets for said performance, otherwise there won't be any more," Raoul pointed out, earning himself a glare that could quite easily have shrivelled him on the spot. "And speaking of which," he added, "You might want to take a look at your emails. I forwarded an interview request to you earlier, and I think we should accept; we need to take advantage of all the publicity we can get."

"An interview?" Christine repeated, at the same time that Erik, looking horrified, demanded,

"What the hell?"

Raoul's eyebrows rose. "For some reason Stage Magic want to talk to this miserable sod," he explained. "I can't imagine why."

"Oh." Christine deflated slightly. "They've been doing that for years. He always says no."

"That's because I don't want journalists poking about in my private affairs," her husband retorted. "They have my work to analyse if they so desire; anything aside from that is none of their business."

"Times have changed," Raoul said. "The days of directors being faceless are long gone; some of them are celebrities in their own right, every bit as well-known as the performers."

"I have absolutely no desire to become a 'celebrity'," Erik hissed, imbuing the word with as much venom as he could muster. "If they want to know more about the show, why not speak to Christine, or Theodora?"

"Because they've seen you online, and they know you've come out into the open," Christine told him, and Raoul nodded in agreement. "You're not completely inaccessible any more. They can scent a story."

"Well, they aren't going to get one!" he snapped, flinging himself out of his chair and stalking across to the window. They watched him stand there staring out for several moments before he eventually turned round, and the blank figurative mask he usually slipped into place over his visible features almost hid his feelings. He stepped back to the desk and lifted one of the Untitled plans. "If that's all, de Chagny, I have a lot to do. This show needs completely reworking and I don't have time to stand and gossip." His gaze was directed at the papers and it was obvious Raoul was dismissed.

"We need this," he told Christine when they were out in the corridor. "An interview with a major publication and website is an opportunity that shouldn't be wasted."

"Raoul, you know how Erik is about things like this," she said and he knocked a fist against the wall in frustration. "Well, how would you feel in his position? He's spent almost his whole life panicking when people look at him!"

"I know, Chris! Hell, how could I not? It makes interactions with the guy like dealing with a hand grenade that's had the pin pulled out! I never know what I'm going to get... other than the insults, of course."

"He doesn't mean them, not really; it's a defence mechanism; when he feels threatened he lashes out. Just lob a few back, it'll do him good to be on the receiving end for a change," Christine suggested. Raoul made a disbelieving noise. "Let me talk to him. He might come round."

"Is it likely?"

"He did over the Divas videos. But it's one thing to be filmed by someone you know; talking to a journalist is something else altogether. All I can do is try."

"Thanks." He relaxed slightly. "I appreciate it. We really can't afford to turn down things like this."

She sighed. "Leave it with me. I'll see what I can do."

Erik kept out of the way for the rest of the afternoon, leaving rehearsals in the capable hands of Gene Reyer.

The session ran late, and it was after seven when Christine went looking for him; everyone else bar the security staff had already packed up and headed home. A quick check of his office revealed his absence, though his leather messenger bag was still on the desk and his jacket hanging on the back of the door so he couldn't be far; it was as she was heading back towards the auditorium that she knew she'd found him: the strains of Chopin drifting up the passage were a dead giveaway.

She slipped into the back of the stalls and just stood in the aisle, watching him as he sat at the piano in the middle of the stage, head slightly back and eyes closed, long fingers gliding unerringly across the keys. It was the Nocturne in C Sharp Minor, and the sound swirled around her in the empty space as he segued from there into the Fantasie-Impromptu, his brow furrowing, the notes increasing to a furious pace. His hands flew up and down, back and forth, hammering out his frustration, before they slowed once more, becoming almost languid in comparison. Then the freneticism returned and his fingers went wild, sometimes stabbing at the keys, at others impossibly gentle, the light glinting from the onyx ring he wore on his right hand. He swayed on the stool, strands of hair shaking loose and a sheen of sweat touching the uncovered side of his forehead; she hadn't seen him play with such abandon for a long time. She remained where she was, mesmerised, as the music built to a crescendo, the same refrain repeated over and over before it gradually died away to nothing.

"I know you're there," he said when it was over, not looking in her direction.

Christine came out of the shadows, mounting the steps to join him. The piano sat before a backdrop of a stylised Victorian conservatory, all white window frames and potted palms; it made an incongruous setting for his impassioned performance. "I just wanted to check whether you were coming home tonight."

Erik released a slow breath. "In a little while." His fingers began to pick out a blues riff, a jarring contrast to his previous choice of material. "You think I should give Stage Magic an interview."

She rested a hand on his arm; it was tense beneath the soft fabric of his shirt. "Not if you don't want to. Jumping out of your comfort zone every so often can be good, but there's no point forcing yourself to do something you might regret."

His hands continued to meander up and down the keyboard; she was sure he was making it up as he went along as she didn't recognise the tune. "I have seen the comments online," he remarked, and her eyes widened. She shouldn't really have been surprised; he rarely let anything fall beneath his attention. "People are so strange."

"You're taking it very well," she told him, leaning on the lid of the baby grand. He slid over slightly, making room for her to join him on the bench. One elegant shoulder lifted in a shrug.

"As you said, I'm unlikely ever to meet any of them. And I suppose I should be flattered, though one or two were rather disturbing. Do I really have 'cheekbones that could cut paper'?"

She laughed. "One, maybe."

"Hmm." He pursed his lips. "I don't like this media takeover, you know. It feels more like I'm working in a public relations office than a theatre at the moment."

"Raoul's just doing what he thinks is best for us. We need to make Untitled a success."

An eyebrow arched. "We're definitely calling it that, then?"

"All the publicity material has been printed," Christine pointed out. "I can hardly change my mind now, can I?"

"Very true. And I know why the boy is pushing so hard: his brother is already eyeing up alternative homes for his cash."

Startled, she reached out and caught hold of his hand, bringing the music to an abrupt end. "Where did you hear that? Raoul's not said anything to me about it."

Erik sat back, turning so that he could look at her. "I have my spies."

"You mean Jimmy told you," she countered.

"It seems that my granting this interview would be in all our interests." The hand she wasn't holding played a couple of minor chords. The sound hung ominously in the air.

"Did he tell you that, as well?"

"He is my agent; I am bound to put such things to him." He sighed sharply. "The very idea makes my gut twist. But I suppose it's quite impossible nowadays to be reticent and run a business at the same time. In a world where everyone talks at once success would seem to hinge upon being able to shout the loudest."

"Pretty much," Christine said, and he sighed again. "If it's any comfort, Raoul told me the name of the journalist: it's Jennifer Wagstaff. I've spoken to her several times and she's very nice; I'm sure you'd like her."

"Is she in the habit of twisting your words into something they're not, like most of her profession?"

"Not that I've noticed. This is a theatre magazine we're talking about, Erik, not the Daily Mail," she reminded him as he looked unconvinced. "This will be completely on your terms; I'll be there with you if that's what you want. I'm sure she'd do it over the phone if it makes you more comfortable."

He shook his head. "No, that would just be hiding still. If I'm going to do this it needs to be in person, even though it pains me to consider the implications."

"Does that mean you want to go ahead with it? Really?"

"Yes." Swinging back towards the keys he launched into a Wagner variation, appropriately thundering and doom-laden. Christine could almost see the Valkyries hoving into view. "You had better tell de Chagny to contact Ms Wagstaff and accept before I change my mind."