Chapter 3
No more word was spoken about the dreaded candle for another couple of days.
The Saturday performance of Lakmé was a triumph, as he knew it would be. Christine was elated but exhausted, and while he really wanted to carry her to his car, he did not want to take the risk of being spotted – again – only to subsequently grace some God-forsaken website for people who pretended to know about music. Or fashion. Or life as an outcast.
The next day, they were to have brunch with Meg Giry and her latest squeeze, some realtor kid from the middle floors of the world above, with more money than sense. Because of how hectic the previous week had been, Christine had accepted Erik's offer to sort out flowers and a gift with alacrity - and a touch of trepidation.
The flowers were gorgeous, she noticed with a curious pang, and immediately felt guilt at the surprising strand of jealousy which had weaved its way into her heart. This really was unfair to Erik as well as Meg: one word from her and the most wondrous gifts would materialise. Perhaps her tiredness was impairing her judgement.
Any social occasion was an ordeal for Erik. He gritted his teeth and got on with it for her sake, but even in the privacy of someone's flat and with a very small number of other people, he was tense and on his guard. Meg, bless her, did her best to accommodate his temperament. She extended to him her chirpy friendship and warmth, and directed the conversation to Christine, allowing Erik to be as invisible as a meal for four would allow. She had gushed over the flowers, then opened the carefully wrapped, rectangular parcel. Christine had tried her best to keep her composure, praying the box did not contain what she thought it might.
But she was right. It was awkward. Meg was all politeness, but had trouble hiding her confusion. It was weird, being given a near-perfect candle replica of your guest. Did one light it and face embarrassment all round when half his face melted? Did one set it aside, ahead of a quick trip to the dumpster, and offend said guest?…
But Erik was uncharacteristically ebullient, explaining that he was very pleased – indeed honoured – to be given the twenty-first century's equivalent of bust treatment – like Beethoven but more ephemeral, which reflected the immediate gratification zeitgeist and the cult of instant celebrity so well. Christine looked faintly sick. Meg's picture-ready smile was hard to maintain. He was adamant she should light it, so light it she did, albeit on a side commode rather than the glass coffee table on which the food was laid out.
After three of the people present had demolished a stack of blueberry pancakes that had made Christine weepy with nostalgia, a serving of egg benedict, and a cream cheese and smoked salmon bagel, Meg got up to make more coffee.
Meg let out a ululation of shock and brought her hands to her bosom. The cafetière hit the highly-polished tiled floor.