A/N: ghostwritten2 and IvyPhan, thank you for your comments as always. :)

Erik blinked. "The 'beginning'?" he repeated. "You mean my childhood?"

"If you like. What's your background? I'm right in thinking Claudin is a French name, yes?" Jennifer asked, pen poised and ready.

He glanced at Christine for assistance. "It's up to you what you want to say," she told him. His hand gripped hers tighter and he stared for a long time at their linked fingers, before nodding, the stoic expression he normally marshalled to hide his nerves dropping over the visible side of his face.

"Very well," he said, shifting uncomfortably in his chair. "Yes, it is French. My father's family were originally from Rouen; they fled during the War and settled here in London. I believe his father was a piano tuner who also restored instruments. He and my mother married very quickly out of necessity; they had little time to get to know each other."

"Did you have a good relationship with your parents?"

His lips thinned. "Hardly: he was a drunk who walked out on us when I was five and she spent most of my formative years addicted to valium," he replied with a humourless laugh, eyes hard. "Does that answer your question?"

Jennifer's expression was professionally sympathetic as she nodded. "It must have made things difficult."

"That would be a massive understatement, but yes, of course it did." Erik sighed, gazing off towards the darkened auditorium. "I was an only child trying to support a mother who didn't really want me there much of the time and I can't deny that it was lonely. My only solace was music, as it has been for most of my life. Until I met Christine, that is." He turned to look at her and she squeezed his hand reassuringly.

"Was your mother fond of music? Did she start you off on that road?"

"I wouldn't exactly say that. We had a piano: a battered upright, probably from a junk shop, but it was in tune and she picked out tunes on it occasionally, the kind of thing a schoolgirl would play. It captured my attention early on; we didn't have a television, just the radio and a Dansette record player, so I had few other distractions. She would only ever listen to Radio Three, or classical LPs, the music she'd been surrounded with at home. Her parents kept her very close, which is probably why she became involved with my father; a typical teenage rebellion against what was virtually a Victorian upbringing. I never met my grandparents but I believe they came to parenthood very late in life," he said. "They considered rock and roll to be beyond the pale; Elvis Presley was lewd and shocking, certainly not suitable for impressionable young girls, and even Frank Sinatra was frowned upon. I grew up listening to opera singers, people like Maria Callas and Franco Corelli, rather than Dusty Springfield and David Bowie; even when she had access to modern artists she never gravitated towards them. Christine will tell you that it was a very long time before I really heard any contemporary music, and longer still until I came to appreciate it." Erik shook his head with a rueful smile. "I don't think I'll ever live the revelation that I didn't properly listen to the Beatles until the Anthology was released down."

Jennifer smiled too. "If it makes you feel any better, for many years my brother was only aware of Ringo Starr as the narrator of Thomas the Tank Engine. He had no idea he'd been the drummer in the world's most famous group until a friend mentioned it. You should have seen his face."

Erik chuckled. "That does help, thank you. Now I don't feel quite so alone. Fortunately our daughters are far more clued up than I ever was; thanks to Christine's influence they're surrounded by a very eclectic mix of styles and eras, everything from Schubert and Handel to 70s rock and 90s euro pop."

"Somehow, I can't imagine the latter's really your thing. Unless I'm reading you completely wrong and you're a dab hand at the Macarena."

Christine laughed out loud at that and though he shot her a mock glare even Erik had to smile at the suggestion. "You found out my secret," he admitted. "My whole career is a sham."

"Does that mean we can expect you to produce our next Eurovision entry?"

He just looked at her. "Not unless the competition starts resembling something one could actually describe as music."

"Damn," Jen said, her face a creditable mask of disappointment before she grinned. Starting a new page, she returned to her previous thread. "So, the junk shop piano. I assume you had music lessons on that?"

"Not quite. During an investigation I found a dusty old 'teach yourself' book under the lid and began to do just that. I dedicated every waking moment to mastering it; within a few weeks I'd reached the last page and was desperate to know more."

Her eyes widened. "You taught yourself? Really? No, I don't believe it," she said. "You must have had some formal training, maybe at school? A scholarship to a specialist college?"

"I'm sorry to disappoint you, but no." His expression clouded slightly. "I spent much of my school career as an outsider, playing truant for one reason or another. No one took enough of an interest to even suggest expert tuition, not that we could have afforded it if they had."

"Did you bunk off because you were bullied?" To her credit, Jennifer's gaze never strayed to the right side of his face and Christine silently thanked her. A less scrupulous journalist would have asked about it by now. "Or were you just not interested?"

"Both, really. I've always had a quick mind and it seemed that the teachers couldn't keep up with me; while they were talking I was always trying to jump three steps ahead. And I suppose I never really felt as though I fitted in. My attendance was sporadic at best until I reached my teens; my mother had a tendency to pull me out whenever she felt like it because she wanted my support. Looking back it's a wonder I learned anything at all; I defy any child to concentrate on their lessons when they are being used as an emotional crutch by a needy parent," Erik replied bitterly. "She did make the odd effort to wean herself off the tablets but unfortunately those moments never lasted long and there wasn't the help available that exists now. I left home as soon as I possibly could and never looked back."

She looked surprised. "And the school did nothing? I would have expected them to at least try and offer some assistance."

"They moved around a lot," Christine said, and Erik nodded. "Angela wasn't great at remembering to pay the rent on time."

"Ah, I see. And it's hard to make friends when you never stand still long enough; my Dad was in the forces, so I remember what that's like."

"Friends were not something I really considered; I don't think I actually understood the concept. It was rare that anyone made any overtures towards me. I did enjoy some conversations with one of the music teachers, but before too long he retired. He let me have one of the old school violins that was pretty much on its last legs; I spent ages repairing it with the aid of a few library books on the subject," Erik remembered, a faraway light in his eyes for a moment before they hardened again. "He'd lost a leg during the War and was the only one who never stared at me. Nobody else was ever able to see past my face." His sharp gaze came to rest on Jennifer, who glanced up from her notes as she became aware of the scrutiny. "I'm grateful to you for not mentioning it, but I'm sure you've noticed it's different. I've had years of practise at spotting when someone is trying not to look at me."

"I assumed you would bring it up yourself if you wanted me to know," she told him evenly, sitting back. "I don't like to judge on appearances and I hope I've got enough tact not to probe what could potentially be a sensitive subject." There was a pause, and then she asked, "Are you comfortable talking about it?"

"I've never been comfortable with anything about it, but I will tell you, if you promise not to reveal it in your article. I want my work to be judged on its own merits." He took a deep breath, obviously steeling himself; Christine wished she could put an arm around him and tell him that she was proud of him for being so brave, but she didn't want to break whatever trust had been reached by embarrassing him. For him to even broach the subject of his face was progress indeed; she hadn't imagined for a moment that he would, expecting any comments to be given short shrift as they had always been in the past. "Please," he said, "Can we keep this off the record?"

"OK." After a brief hesitation Jen reached for the mobile phone on the table and showed them she was switching off the app, putting her notebook aside. She folded her hands in her lap. "I take it this is the reason you've kept out of the spotlight?"

Erik nodded. "I'm not pretty to look at. Not even remotely. I won't show it to you, don't worry; apart from anything else, these things are glued down and they're a bit of a bugger to take off," he added, gesturing to the prosthetic. "Usually I wear a custom-fitted mask to cover it, but that invites even more questions from strangers so these days I only use one around those I know well."

"Including your cast and crew?"

"Absolutely. They have been very accepting of me over the years and I owe them that much respect."

Jennifer tilted her head, her eyes finally wandering to the damaged side. The only hints of what lay beneath the silicone were the uneven colour of his lips and some bumpy reddish scarring on his chin, neither of which could be covered without causing him difficulty when speaking or eating. "Was it an accident?" she asked tentatively. "A fire, perhaps? You suggested you were left alone a lot as a child."

He shook his head. "I suppose in some ways it might have been easier to deal with if it was just an injury, but no, I've been... disfigured all my life. I'm not sure what caused it; my mother has always been vague on the subject and I don't think she really knows. I doubt the doctors did, either; they don't seem to have much of a clue now. I've been told that it could have been a birth trauma, damage caused by negligence when I was delivered; an intra-uterine infection, or just bad luck. Whatever it was, I'm stuck with it; any attempts to correct more than just basic defects have failed. After my body rejected the first couple of skin grafts I decided to spare myself any more pain."

"I'm very sorry," Jennifer said, and there was no pity in her gaze, only sympathy. "That can't have been easy to live with."

"No." Erik looked down at his hand, still clasped in his wife's. "But it has become much better in later years." He glanced at Christine and smiled. "I have people around me now who help enormously. They convinced me to do things I would never have even considered, this interview included."

"I'm very glad to hear you say that," Jen told him. Her thumb hovered over her mobile to switch the recording back on. "If you're happy to continue, how about you tell me how you two met? Christine's never really said more than that you heard her singing."

"It's the truth," he insisted. "She'd stayed behind one evening after rehearsals and was singing to herself on the stage, illuminated by the ghost light. She looked quite ethereal."

"What rubbish," Christine said, laughing. "I've never been remotely ethereal, and it was way too early for the ghost light to be on. I was actually humming to myself while I tidied up after rehearsal. He popped up from nowhere and asked if I'd be willing to let him give me singing lessons."

Erik frowned. "It wasn't quite as clinical as that," he objected.

No, you didn't even show yourself that first time, she thought, remembering the disembodied voice that had made her jump: gloriously rich and deep and apparently coming out of nowhere. Hanging around when rehearsal was done Madame Giry asked her if she wouldn't mind putting the chairs away, and she'd been in little hurry to return to her empty flat to sit alone in front of the TV. He startled her; for a few crazy moments she thought it was the Angel of Music her father had promised he would send her back when she was a child, before common sense kicked in. She'd got Erik fairly quickly to admit that he was a man, albeit one who it turned out used a few tricks and illusions to preserve his privacy, but it took longer to convince him to teach her face to face. "OK, maybe I was singing, just a bit."

"More than 'just a bit'. Les Fleurs me Paraissent Plus Belles from Lakmé, to be precise."

"Not very well."

Erik huffed impatiently. He would never stand her deprecating her own ability. "It might have been a little rough around the edges but it was enough for me to hear that you had enormous potential," he retorted.

"You were the only one to think so. I was only in the ballet corps, after all," she reminded him. "There weren't many promotions from there to the chorus."

"How did you come to be involved with the Vanburgh in the first place?" Jennifer asked Erik, expertly heading off an impending marital disagreement.

"I was asked. The owner at the time, who was also the manager, suggested I join him. I'd been working as a freelance for some years, writing music for video games, adverts, composing the odd TV and film score. A contact got me involved with theatrical orchestrations, which I found I rather enjoyed, and so I agreed, as long as I could be a sleeping partner," he replied. "I was reluctant to deal with the direction myself at that point in my life, but opera is my consuming passion and I was keen to be somewhere I could pursue that."

"The Vanburgh's a small theatre, outside the West End. Why not the ENO, or Covent Garden?"

He just looked at her, and lifted his eyebrow. "Can you see them giving an opportunity to someone like me? Untried and untested, with no recognisable qualifications or official experience in the business? They would have laughed."

"There are other companies beyond London," she pointed out.

"That's very true, but this suited me. I felt... at home here," he said, gaze roaming over their surroundings, over the slightly worn red seats, the curtained boxes, the catwalks in the flies overhead. "I still do."

"So what made you decide to come out of the shadows, as it were, and take on the responsibility of running this place? From what I remember it was on the verge of collapse just before you stepped in; the last production under the previous management never actually appeared, cancelled two days before it was due to open. What was it?" Jennifer checked her notes. "Don Juan Triumphant? No one ever heard any more about it, though there were some rumours - "

Erik kept his expression neutral, but Christine saw a muscle in his jaw twitch. "The composer withdrew his score," he said. "The piece wasn't up to scratch." His tone was firm, making it obvious he wasn't going to say any more on that subject. Before Jen could try and question him further he added, "I agreed to take over because I could see the company had potential, they just needed someone to guide them, someone with vision. I can't stand seeing talent squandered."

"Well, you certainly worked some magic," she told him, taking the hint. "This place returned spectacularly to life and it's not looked back since. You must be very proud."

"I am," he agreed. "I just hope we can continue. The current circumstances are challenging to say the least."

"Yes." Jennifer's expression became grave. "I suppose the pandemic has hit finances here pretty hard."

"We've had no income for over a year now, and it's impossible for us to open with half the seats empty; we'd never recoup our costs. While I entirely understand the need for the restrictions, it's doubtful how much longer small venues, or even some of the big landmark theatres, can carry on," Erik said. "Government support, welcome as it will be if we ever receive any, doesn't stretch far when there are so many people competing for a share of a finite amount."

"How long do you think you can last?"

"If reopening is delayed after next month... a few weeks, probably not much more," he told her honestly. "This is one of the many reasons I reluctantly decided to become more visible; if I can use whatever reputation I may have gained since taking over this theatre in order to save it I will do so. We have backers but they are getting restless; they don't want to keep pouring money in with nothing to show for it. The time is fast approaching when our whole raison d'etre may become unsustainable and we have to close for good." Christine glanced at him, alarmed by this candid admission, and rested a restraining hand on his arm; he took no notice, his voice gaining an insistent note as he warmed to his theme. "That's how dire the situation is becoming, for us and too many others to count. If we come out of the pandemic with even half our cultural landscape intact I will be very, very surprised."

"That's a very bleak assessment," Jennifer remarked.

He shrugged. "It's what happens when those at the top making the decisions are focussed on money and haven't the first clue about the arts. Quite frankly, I do worry what kind of theatrical world we're going to be left with when the dust settles. The days of the big budget spectaculars may well be over. There's a very good chance they just won't be viable any more, for the likes of us at least. We could be reduced to keeping it small, putting on reduced, compact productions, which are pleasant enough in their way and can make a welcome change every so often, but leave little room for any real creativity. We need to have options, to be able to cater to more than one audience; those who come to be dazzled and entertained by full-blown high opera won't necessarily find an intimate evening of music and chat to their liking, and vice versa. The scope to scale up or down as required must be retained."

"Hence all this sudden publicity. After a fair while in the social media wilderness the Vanburgh's making something of a splash online; you've certainly got a lot of people talking." She grinned. "Who's currently winning the Battle of the Divas?"

"It's a draw right now," Christine said quickly. "One all."

"That may change next week," Erik countered. "Plus I have something special in mind for the final."

Frowning she turned to look at him; he just raised his eyebrows. "You haven't told me anything about that."

"I'm keeping it under my hat," he replied with a wicked little smile, and she slapped his arm. "You'll find out nearer the time."

"See what I have to put up with?" she asked Jen, rolling her eyes. "Man of mystery."

The journalist laughed. "Is there any chance you can give me an idea what we can expect when the theatre reopens? This new show; what's it called?"

"Untitled," Erik supplied. "We are presenting an evening of vaudeville and variety. It's something of a change from our usual oeuvre, though admittedly music is at the forefront, as it is in everything we do. In fact," he added, standing and taking Christine's hand, drawing her to her feet, "We can give you a sneak preview if you like."

"I would like that very much indeed. I'll give you some space," Jennifer said, gathering her belongings.

She moved to one of the tables further away and replaced her mask as Erik settled himself on the piano stool and Christine instinctively took up a position in the bend of the instrument, leaning on the lid. He ran her through some warm-up scales before beginning the introduction to The Boy I Love. "You have to imagine this in Victorian costume with an enormous feathered hat," she suggested to Jen. "Think a bit Miss Piggy on The Muppet Show."

"Does that make me Rowlf the dog?" Erik enquired, reaching the end of the two bars. "I'm not sure about that comparison. He's a competent enough pianist but I think my ears are smaller." He ran through the notes again, backwards this time, just because he could and she mouthed 'Show off' at him. "Are you ready, Christine?"

"Always, maestro," she replied with a curtsy.

"Good. After three..."

"I'm a young girl, and I've just come over

Over from the country where they do things big

And amongst the boys I've got a lover

And since I've got a lover, why I don't give a fig."

Christine turned to the front of the stage and pressed her hand against her heart, reaching out the other towards the upper circle, where one of the ensemble was going to sit, rising to his feet at the end of the song to throw her flowers. They hadn't yet worked out who would be available to spend half of the first act planted amongst the audience, but Jimmy had generously offered to do it a couple of nights a week if they couldn't spare anyone. Erik had yet to take him up on it.

"The boy I love is up in the gallery

The boy I love is looking down at me

There he is, can't you see, waving of his handkerchief

Merry as a robin that sings on a tree."

As the final notes died away Jennifer applauded. "Lovely! That's such a simple song but it's a classic for a reason. I can see you in costume, Christine; you've got just that sort of delicate porcelain look that was all the rage back then. Are you going for full Victorian, or a bit of a mix?"

"Most of our costumes are 1870s, 1880s, which I'm glad about. I've never been keen on Edwardian fashions with those unflattering pouter pigeon tops," Christine admitted, pulling a face. "And as for the... what did they call them? Hobble skirts? We'd never be able to move around the stage."

"Theodora Merriman has managed to find a hat the size of a cartwheel, goodness knows where. She's going to vanish completely beneath it," Erik observed, fingers trailing idly up and down the keyboard.

"It'll be very impressive when she walks down the staircase at the top of the show."

An eyebrow arched. "She'll look like a mushroom," he predicted, picking out the tune of the Chinese dance from The Nutcracker. With a giggle Christine improvised a few steps, ending with a jump which brought her to his side.

"Why don't you sing something with me?" she asked impulsively, glancing over her shoulder at Jennifer. "Please?"

He did the same. "No, I don't think so. Not now."

"What's this?" the journalist called, curiosity piqued. "Don't tell me you sing as well?"

Erik's visible cheek flushed. "To be able to teach effectively one has to be familiar with the required techniques." He moved to close the fallboard of the piano but Christine caught his hand and stopped him.

"What about Prithee Pretty Maiden? That's been cut from the show but we've rehearsed it."

"I can't recall the tune," he hedged, despite the fact that she knew it was a fib. He never forgot a tune, even one he disliked. "I'd need the music, and we don't have it here."

Christine frowned. "Yes, we do. Gene left a load of sheet music over here the other day." Crossing to the table in the wings that held all manner of theatrical detritus, from empty coffee mugs and old call sheets to odd props, defunct radios and ancient, battered libretti, she rummaged through a pile of papers until she found what she was looking for. Opening it out she propped it on the piano's music stand for him. "There you go."

"Christine," Erik said urgently, keeping his voice low, "I really don't think this is a good idea."

"Erik," she countered, looking him straight in the eye, "I want her to hear what you can do. You've come this far, done so well... why not really wow her before she leaves?"

"I don't know if I can. I'm not used to singing in front of an audience, you know that."

"You sing all the time in front of the company when you're guiding them," Christine pointed out. "You were doing it this morning."

"That's different," he insisted. "I know all of them, and they know me."

"You had to do it for the first time once, remember? They didn't know you then. She's just one person; concentrate on me and try to forget she's there."

He just sat there for a few moments, gaze fixed on the keyboard. His jaw tensed and a muscle in his cheek jumped and she knew he was fighting with himself. Eventually he nodded tersely. "All right."

She patted him on the shoulder, bending down to kiss the smooth silicone of the prosthetic. "Thank you." Straightening she smiled at Jennifer. "You're in a very privileged position. He doesn't sing for just anyone."

"Oh, for goodness's sake," Erik muttered. "You make me sound like a performing seal. Shall I balance a ball on my nose as well?"

"Maybe not today," Christine told him, and he sarcastically mimed slapping his hands together like a pair of flippers. This time, instead of returning to the bend of the piano she stood behind him, resting her hands on his shoulders. They were tense, and she gently massaged them as he exhaled slowly and began the intro to the Gilbert and Sullivan duet. The tenor role, Archibald Grosvenor, aesthete, took the first verse, and from the corner of her eye Christine saw Jennifer sit up straighter as Erik's velvet tenor began to caress the opening lines, lightly at first, but gradually becoming stronger:

"Prithee, pretty maiden – prithee tell me true

(Hey, but I'm doleful, willow, willow waly!)

Have you e'er a lover a-dangling after you?

Hey, willow waly O!

I would fain discover

If you have a lover?

Hey, willow waly O!"

Leaning slightly past him, ostensibly to see the sheet music though after several rehearsals with Julian she had memorised the simple lyrics, Christine as the eponymous Patience offered her response:

"Gentle sir, my heart is frolicsome and free

(Hey, but he's doleful, willow, willow waly!)

Nobody I care for comes a-courting me –

Hey, willow waly O!

Nobody I care for

Comes a-courting therefore

Hey, willow waly O!"

Grosvenor's answer was to ask her if she would marry him, offering her money and property though he despised it, only for Patience to realise it would be selfish on her part to accept. As she listened to Erik's mellifluous voice wash over the words, her heart lifted with it; they had been working on this piece and others for the past few weeks but it had invariably been in a general rehearsal setting with him giving instruction and critique, only stepping in to interpret lyrics himself when required to point a particular singer in the direction he wanted them to go. They hadn't just sung together like this in a long time, and she found herself wishing she had chosen a duet that caused them to entwine their voices more. Her second verse was the last, and for this she turned to stand beside the piano, facing him. As she sang, his eyes slid away from the music in front of him, music he wouldn't now need, if he ever had in the first place, to meet hers.

"Gentle sir, although to marry I design –

(Hey, but he's hopeful, willow willow waly!)

As yet I do not know you, and so I must decline

Hey, willow waly O!

To other maidens go you

As yet I do not know you - "

The final line was taken by them both, and even after so many years she still felt that shiver down her spine when her voice melded perfectly with his, as though they had always been meant to be together. By unspoken consent they teased out the last words into a refrain, repetition drawing the song slowly to a close as on the final note Christine soared upwards just enough to end it with a flourish:

"Hey, willow waly O!"

There was a long pause as silence rang through the auditorium. Christine smiled at Erik, checking the instinctive desire to throw her arms around him. He smiled back, relief and something else she couldn't quite pinpoint obvious in his eyes where they remained fixed on hers. For a moment it was as though they were the alone in the room, before the spell was broken when Jennifer broke into another round of enthusiastic applause.

"You should put that back in," she suggested. "It's a performance too perfect to ditch."

"Oh, it was never going to be the two of us singing it," Christine corrected hurriedly as Erik closed the piano and got to his feet. She knew the signs that he was getting twitchy: his fingers drummed almost unconsciously on the lid, his gaze now narrowed at something beyond the stage that only he could see. "We've never performed together in public."

"Maybe you should. And make that next album a duet," Jen told her, standing and shouldering her bag. "I'm serious," she added when Erik shot her a startled glance. "You've got something really special going on. I don't think I've ever heard two people in such complete and utter harmony before."

He cleared his throat awkwardly. "Thank you."

"Thank you," she countered with a hidden smile. "For the private performance and for meeting with me at last. It's been a pleasure, a very enlightening discussion. I hope we can talk again in the future."

"I think I would be... amenable to that," he replied, inclining his head.

"Great. I'll look forward to it. And I'm glad you felt you could be honest with me about your..." Jen gestured to the right side of her face. "I appreciate your trust, and you have my word I won't mention it in the article."

"Thank you," Erik said again, the tension in his shoulders relaxing a fraction, and she nodded in understanding.

The session obviously at an end, Christine checked her watch. "Come on," she said to her husband, finding her jacket where she'd hooked it over the back of one of the chairs and shrugging it on, "We'd better go and pick the kids up; they've probably been driving your mum mad."

Halfway across the stage, Jennifer looked round in surprise. "You're still in contact with her? I thought... that is, I got the impression that you lost touch."

"We did," Erik replied, sliding an arm into his own coat. "She turned up not long after Christine and I got married, insisting that she'd finally got her life under control. We... reconciled, again mainly thanks to Christine's influence, and the girls are very fond of her, but we will never be close."

"You can't forgive her." It wasn't a question.

"Oh, I've forgiven her," he said, and she blinked in surprise. "Forgiven, but not forgotten. I don't think we can ever really forget the circumstances that forged us, can we?"