The mood at the theatre at the start of the week was despondent.

No one had a great deal of enthusiasm for a production that might now never be seen, and the initial rush of returning to the work they all loved gave way to a kind of apathy that at first no amount of encouragement from Erik or Reyer could shake. For a while neither of them seemed to have their hearts in it either, but thankfully by the time Wednesday rolled around everyone was at last back into the swing of things after a disappointing few days. Raoul, who had remained determinedly upbeat when all around him were fast losing their energy and pushed ahead with his projects, suggested at that week's Divas battle that they sing something popular and fun for a change, to attract more viewers. His top pick was Dancing Queen, which made Christine laugh and Teddy accuse him of being a closet Mamma Mia! fan, driving him to an impassioned denial that naturally no one believed. In the end they decided to stick to their original choice of Poor Wand'ring One from The Pirates of Penzance, and Erik for once didn't grumble too much about having to play the music of his bêtes noir Gilbert and Sullivan. In fact, having glanced over at him a couple of times, Christine would have been willing to testify that he almost looked as though he was enjoying it, though she didn't dare tell him that.

Now she was sitting in the stalls, watching Raoul as he moved about a makeshift photography studio he'd set up on the stage, doing his best to encourage her husband to cooperate with the camera. Jennifer Wagstaff had been surprised when the suggestion he take pictures for the interview was made; she initially refused, but relented after seeing some examples of his work, adding only the proviso that the magazine reserved the right to send a photographer of their own at a later date if they weren't satisfied with the results. Raoul just shrugged when Christine told him, pointing out that as he was an amateur it was a perfectly reasonable request. She was wondering whether he was beginning to regret agreeing to her proposal; Erik wasn't exactly thrilled to be the subject of so much fuss and he hadn't had much practise, having never taken part in a photo shoot before.

"Can you just try to look a little less... intimidating?" Raoul asked, straightening and regarding his subject with a mixture of annoyance and frustration. Lamps had been positioned with the help of some of the lighting crew, and the piano was set against a plain white background; to begin with he'd told Erik to just sit at the instrument and play, thinking it might relax him, and those shots seemed to have gone well enough, the lights casting artful shadows that kept the damaged side of his face and the prosthetic that covered it out of sight. It was when Raoul suggested he take to the stool in the centre of the stage and actually pose that things started to go awry.

His visible brow drew sharply downwards. "You want me to change the way my face works?"

"I'd like you not to glare at the lens. These things are expensive and I'd rather they didn't end up cracked. Can you just try and pretend I'm not here?"

"What do you think I've been trying to do for the last hour?" Erik demanded. "I'm not exactly enjoying this, you know."

"I would never have guessed," Raoul muttered, adjusting some settings and raising the camera again. Erik just glowered at him, and after a moment he sighed. "Look, I'm not trying to get up your nose; I'm doing this as a favour because Chris asked and because I agreed with her that it might be easier if it wasn't a stranger putting you through all this. I can phone the magazine and tell them to bring a professional photographer, no problem, if that's what you want." He turned away, gaze finding Christine where she sat in the corner, and lifted his shoulders as he made for the steps down into the auditorium. She rubbed at the sore spot on her arm where she'd been jabbed the day before and mentally cursed her husband and his stupid pride. He probably would have taken direction more kindly from anyone but Raoul.

"No."

Erik's voice after a long pause, during which Raoul started to pack up his equipment, startled them both. He glanced back up at the older man as Erik stood at the edge of the stage.

"No?" he repeated. "As in 'no, please don't call Jen Wagstaff and tell her we want a proper photographer'?"

Christine thought she could hear Erik grinding his teeth where she sat eight rows back. "Yes," he said, and cleared his throat awkwardly before he added, "I would be... happier if you would continue. I will try to be a better subject, but I don't find this sort of thing very easy."

Raoul exchanged a glance with Christine. 'Please,' she mouthed, and he nodded. "OK, but for goodness's sake, don't sit there tensing every muscle in your body. I'm not going to drag you out to be executed."

"That might be preferable," Erik retorted as he returned to the stool, perching on the edge with one foot hooked over the bar and the other leg stretched out in front of him. He automatically folded his arms, and looked surprised when Raoul shook his head. "Is this wrong?"

"You look way too defensive, like you're trying to ward me off."

"That's not altogether far from the truth." Unravelling himself, he shoved one hand into his pocket instead. "Better?"

"A little. Try leaning forwards slightly; rest your left elbow on your knee," Raoul suggested, circling round and observing the other man critically. "You do know I'm here to make your life easier, don't you? In the theatre, I mean."

Erik did as he was told, tilting his head away slightly in a natural gesture he had developed years ago to deflect attention from his mask. "I believe that was the original intention, yes."

"That's good; now look at me. You don't have to smile, but as I said earlier, losing the death glare would be a definite plus." The shutter clicked a few times. "Great, much better. That sounds as though you don't think I'm helping."

"Will you allow me to be honest?" Erik asked, bringing his other foot up to join the first.

"I don't see why not, as long as it doesn't involve threats to my personal safety," Raoul agreed. "Can you loosen your tie a bit, undo the top button? Makes you look less uptight."

"Hey, I thought this was for Stage Magic, not GQ," Christine called cheekily as her husband complied, even going so far as to open his waistcoat as well. "If you're going to be taking that sort of photo, screw Jennifer Wagstaff; no one's getting hold of them but me."

Erik laughed at that, and Raoul was quick to capture it with the camera. "I assure you, my love, if I ever become a model of that kind the results will definitely be for your eyes only."

"A shoot could always be arranged," Raoul teased, waggling his eyebrows suggestively. "I should inform you that I charge extra for glamour pics, though."

The atmosphere was lighter after that, the tension in the air beginning to evaporate, and Christine felt herself relax as Erik gradually became more comfortable in front of the lens, though of course he grumbled at all the instructions he was being given. Raoul had managed to find a Hollywood-style director's chair from somewhere and although he did not look impressed he agreed to sit in it for a few shots, afterwards returning to the piano for another run leaning casually on its lid.

"I don't like the speed at which all of this is going," he remarked after a while, returning to their earlier truncated discussion as he stood against the backcloth, dwarfed by his own shadow which loomed over him menacingly. "The publicity. It seems to be running away at full speed and I feel we're losing control."

Raoul tilted his head. "I hadn't noticed. It's all going really well; I've got a team coming in next week to do some proper recording."

"All right, let me put it another way: I feel I'm losing control, control of my own theatre. Half my company seem to be spending their time making videos for YouTube and Instagram rather than working on their performances and since they're being encouraged in this by the press office I'm not entirely sure some of them understand which is currently more important."

"Ah." The camera snapped a couple more times and Raoul lowered it. "You think I'm taking over."

"Just slightly," Erik replied, raising an eyebrow.

"It was never my intention to step on anyone's toes. I know I can sometimes get a bit over-eager," Raoul admitted. "If you thought I was charging in like a short-sighted elephant you should have said something."

"I thought I did make my opinions plain."

She couldn't see his mouth but Christine knew Raoul was grimacing. "Looks like I just didn't pick up on it amongst the usual hostility. Let's face it, Erik: I do my best to brush it off but you're never pleased to see me, are you?"

"That's true. Perhaps it's time we started listening to each other. Cooperating, even," Erik added, looking at Christine, who nodded. "We do, as I was reminded the other day, seem to have a common goal in all of this."

"I'm willing to bury the hatchet if you are. As long as it's not in the middle of my back," Raoul joked.

Erik's lips twitched. "I'll try to restrain myself."

"Great." In the absence of the traditional handshake, Raoul instead crooked his arm and offered his elbow towards his old rival; confused, Erik frowned for a moment before realising he was supposed to bump his own against it. Reluctantly he did so, his distaste for the gesture obvious in his expression, and Raoul laughed, turning to the stalls. "Hey, Chris, we need you; get up here!" he called, and glanced back at Erik with a grin. "I've got space left on the memory card and I do a fantastic line in cutesy couple shots."

"Thank God that's over," Erik announced, sinking down on the piano stool and leaning his forehead on the fallboard. "I don't think I'm going to take up modelling."

Christine bent over to drop a kiss on his hair. "That's a shame; I thought you were getting rather good at it."

He chuckled, but didn't look up. "Has Raoul gone?"

"Yes; he said he'd send us the best of the photos when he's checked them over. He did give me a sneak peek on the camera before he left and I think they look pretty good: all moody black and white."

"Hopefully it will be enough to negate the need for a professional. I think I'd rather throw myself off Hammersmith Bridge than go through all that again," he said with feeling.

"You'll be lucky; it's still closed," she told him, amused. "Anyway, don't go ending it all just yet; you've still got the interview to survive." Erik moaned as, almost on cue, the walkie talkie that sat on the table they had dragged into the middle of the stage crackled. Christine picked it up. "What is it, Ben?" she asked.

"...tell the boss... journalist has arrived," the stage door porter replied in a burst of static. Everyone else had already headed home. "...want me to... her up?"

"It's OK; I'll come down and meet her. Give me a couple of minutes. At least try and be welcoming," she pleaded of her husband, tugging a mask over her nose and mouth. "She's come to talk to you, not lead you to the gallows." He just shot her a glare and opened the piano; as she made her way through the backstage rabbit warren she was followed by the opening notes of what rapidly became a frantic version of the Moonlight Sonata.

Jennifer Wagstaff's familiar figure was easily spotted before she reached the end of the corridor. The journalist was chatting to Jack, looking neat and business-like in slim trousers and a peplum jacket; her dark hair was as usual pulled back into a sleek ponytail, and as she turned the only part of her face visible between a thick fringe and brightly-coloured cloth covering was a pair of intelligent blue eyes that lit up at the sight of Christine. Immediately she started forwards, checking herself when, as so many people still did, she instinctively started to offer a hand.

"I really have to stop that," she said, laughing. "An alternative would be great, but I don't honestly think I can get away with trying a 'Namaste' outside my yoga class. Great to see you, Christine; it's been a while."

"Three years, I think, since you ran that last piece about me. I was Mimi in Boheme at the time," Christine replied, smiling.

"So you were! I remember it well. That was a good show; I think I came three times."

"Erik will be pleased to hear that. How are things, Jen?"

The other woman shrugged. "The industry's falling apart and everyone needs money, but on the bright side The Mousetrap's just reopened. Or did you mean with me, specifically?"

"You, of course! I know all about the rest of it," Christine told her sadly. "Unfortunately we can't afford to reopen yet; we're too small to make fifty percent pay."

Jennifer pulled a face. "It's the same all over London. The big musicals can't run without full houses either, so they're all still dark. And I'm good, thank you for asking; very psyched up to finally meet this mysterious husband of yours. I spoke to him on the phone the other day, you know," she added conspiratorially. "Still none the wiser, other than learning he has a very attractive voice. And of course I've seen him in your YouTube videos; that was a surprise after spending years trying to pin him down, I can tell you. What prompted the change?"

Christine shrugged. "Circumstances."

"Ah, then you're not going to tell me. Never mind, I can wheedle it out, I'm sure," the journalist told her with a grin.

I wouldn't bet on it, Christine thought, but she just smiled again and said, "Perhaps."

"Would you like me to make some coffee, Christine?" Ben asked, coming out of his booth. "I've locked up here, but I'm happy to hang around until you're done."

"That would be wonderful, thank you. Are you still drinking coffee, Jen?"

"I wouldn't get out of bed without caffeine." Jennifer pointed to her mask. "Are you OK with me removing this thing to drink it? I took a lateral flow this morning and I'm apparently clear."

"We've been taking them, too," Christine assured her. "And it's fine; we'll talk in the auditorium, as there's plenty of space. Erik prefers not to have to wear a Covid mask when he's speaking to people; it obscures too much of his face."

"Same goes for all of us; I hate trying to have a conversation with a piece of cloth."

It was on the tip of Christine's tongue to say 'You have no idea', but before she could Jennifer stopped and listened for a moment. She realised Erik had reached the third movement and was playing at a frenetic pace, almost as though he was trying to break the world record time for completing the piece. The notes rippled up and down at furious speed. "Hey, is that Beethoven?"

Christine nodded. "I think Erik's trying to relax himself a bit before we talk."

The journalist's eyebrows rose. "You're joking! That's him playing? Christ, how many hands does he have?"

"Just the two. Last time I checked, at least," Christine told her, amused. "You should hear him play Flight of the Bumblebee."

"Oh, I'd like to, very much. That is seriously impressive. I'm always in awe of musicians; I could barely manage Chopsticks."

"I was much the same; my Dad pretty much despaired of me. He was a virtuoso violinist."

"You know, I think you told me that before," Jennifer said as they entered the wings. "Musical family, obviously; are the kids taking after you?"

"Our eldest has passed Grade Two piano but her heart's not really in it. I think she does it to keep her father happy, really," Christine admitted, a picture of Allegra at the keyboard in the study, dutifully rehearsing the required pieces for her exams popping into her head. "He started her on scales when she was about eighteen months old."

"I spoke to a world-famous conductor once who did much the same thing with his son. Professional discretion forbids me giving you his name, but the tuition was so intensive the boy was playing Rachmaninoff flawlessly by the time he was ten." The journalist gave her a sidelong glance. "He was on track to fill the Albert Hall on his own before he hit his teens."

"I don't remember hearing anything about that," Christine mused, frowning.

"You wouldn't. Once he was old enough to choose he chucked music in and became an engineer instead." Jennifer grinned, the corners of her immaculately-made-up eyes crinkling. "All those interminable practise sessions with Daddy put him off for life. He had the talent, true, but not the passion; preferred climbing into the bowels of classic aircraft."

For a long moment Christine just stared at her, and then she laughed, shaking her head. "Well, there's a salutary lesson for us all! Hopefully Allegra won't feel the same way."

By the time they emerged onto the stage, Erik's pace had slowed right down and his fingers were assuredly picking out Debussy's Rêverie; even with his back to them Christine knew he had his eyes closed, allowing the music to take over. His ears, however, were as sharp as ever, and upon hearing their footsteps on the boards his hands stilled and he turned, rising to his feet. He looked a little awkward as he stood there beside the piano, unsure what to do with those same hands before he folded them behind his back, straightening to his full height. Christine glanced at Jennifer; if the other woman was surprised by the facial prosthetic as he moved further into the light she hid it well, though the Covid mask made obscuring her emotions much easier.

"Ms Wagstaff, I presume," Erik said, keeping his visible features neutral. "Forgive me for not coming down to meet you."

"Call me Jen." She waved the apology away. "And I wouldn't have wanted to disturb you; I was about to suggest to Christine that you get those fingers insured; they're definitely worth it."

His cheek flushed slightly, but Christine was pleased to see the smile that twitched at his lips. "Thank you. "

"I think I know now who was responsible for those sublime orchestrations on Christine's albums. I'm guessing you played solo piano there, too?"

Erik nodded. "Among other things. You have a very good ear."

Jennifer shrugged. "I wouldn't be doing this if I didn't love music. Though sometimes I wonder when I've sat through things like Viva Forever," she added with what Christine, remembering the short-lived Spice Girls musical, assumed was a grimace. "Y'know, you're a very elusive guy, Mr Claudin; it's a pleasure to meet you at last. I've been trying for years to pin you down, ever since I saw your version of Figaro. I loved that show; pretty much setting it in Downtown Abbey was a masterstroke."

"Thank you again; I had no idea I was causing such frustration," he replied. "And it's Erik, please."

"Have a seat, Jen," Christine said, gesturing to one of the chairs that had been set out on the stage. Several of them, along with a couple of tables, were laid out for the initial blocking of Down at the Old Bull and Bush. "I hope you don't mind me sitting in?" She glanced at her husband and he shuffled his feet a little, trying not to look nervous.

"Not at all, though I hope it won't be you answering my questions," Jennifer told her lightly as she sat down. "I had to contend with an actor's wife once who insisted on continually speaking for him; wouldn't let the poor guy open his mouth, even when I directly asked him a question. I said to her, if I wanted someone else's take on his story I could have just interviewed his agent."

Erik snorted. "I doubt a conversation with mine would be particularly enlightening."

"Oh, I don't know. If nothing else, Jimmy Smythe has great taste when it comes to picking a bar to meet in; talking to him is worth it for the booze alone," she said, and he chuckled.

"Very true." After a moment's consideration he took the seat beside Christine and crossed one long leg over the other. "I'm afraid I have next to no experience of this kind of thing," he admitted, a rueful twist at the visible corner of his mouth. "I'm not even sure how we start."

"With coffee, I hope." Jennifer straightened in anticipation as Ben appeared from the wings with a tray that bore three mismatched mugs and a sugar bowl. Erik's face creased in a pained expression.

"Is that really the best you could do?" he asked.

"Sorry, boss, the Sèvres service is being re-gilded," the porter replied with a wink. "Won't be back until a week on Tuesday. If you like I can go and search the cupboards for the Wedgwood - "

Jennifer stifled a laugh and Christine had to hide a smile behind her hand as she removed her mask. "It's fine, Ben; thank you," she said, shooting her husband a glare. He just shifted in his chair, evidently embarrassed.

"I'm sorry," he said, and the journalist shook her head.

"Don't worry; it what's inside the cup that matters." Christine could have sworn that as she said the words Jennifer glanced towards Erik's face, but when she blinked the other woman was folding away her own mask, reaching for a mug.

The three of them made small talk while the coffee was consumed, generally discussing the pandemic and the latest round of reopening. Jennifer asked about Christine's forthcoming album and Christine mumbled something about it still being in development nearly two years after it had been announced. Eventually, the journalist reached into her bag and withdrew a notepad and pen, setting them in her lap, and her mobile phone, which she put down on the table.

"I hope you don't mind me recording? It makes it much easier when I come to write it up; my shorthand is pretty shocking."

"It's common practise these days," Christine assured Erik when he looked surprised.

"Very well," he agreed, a little reluctantly. "So how do we go about this?"

"Well," Jennifer said, sitting back and readying her pen after she had switched the voice recorder on. "I start by asking you a few questions, and then, when I've lulled you into a false sense of security, you tell me all your deep, dark secrets."

He smiled thinly. "I was worried that might be it."

"Relax, I'm just kidding. That comes much, much later, when I've wormed my way right into your affections. By then you'll be voluntarily giving me your bank details and internet passwords."

"Of course; silly of me." His hand crept towards Christine's and she laced her fingers with his, giving them a reassuring squeeze.

Jennifer noticed, naturally. "Really, it's all right," she told him seriously. "I'm not here to hold a mirror up to your soul, I just want to get to know you a little, to introduce you to my readers. The big, shocking revelations can come later; I'm not trying to make you uncomfortable. You can say as much – or as little – as you want, though if it's the latter please be aware that I will attempt to dig deeper; it's just my irritating nature. You can always tell me where to get off," she added, a twinkle in her eye.

Christine met Erik's gaze. "You sure you're OK with that?" she asked.

He blew out a breath and nodded. "Let's get this over with."

"Great." Jennifer gave him an encouraging smile and opened her notebook. "How about we start at the beginning?"