Christine was ecstatic when she returned from shopping; she had to tell me all about it. She was buying baby linens—of which she already had a metric ton, but never mind—and she met another girl due with her first child just about the same time as Christine is due. In the world of feminine logic, this made them instant best friends. They took a tea break and compared things like how sick they were and when they had to stop wearing their regular dresses.
Manon—Christine's new best friend—was so grateful to have an experienced mother for a friend. She had no one to ask some things, Christine said, and they were both thrilled to have someone to share things with. They were going to meet again for luncheon; Christine was going to bring Masson, to show him off. And then the ladies discussed how they couldn't wait for their husbands to meet, and what do you know, Erik, she said sweetly, but it turns out that you and he already know each other.
It seems that Manon is the latest edition of the Comtesse de Chagny. Small frigging world. Well, at last Raoul and I had something in common besides Christine; neither of us intended to sit to supper and make nice-nice with each other, comparing pregnant husband stories.
Nevertheless, Christine persisted in putting the screws to me at dinner.
"Erik, it's time you and Raoul put things behind you and moved on! We're happy; he's happy with Manon. There's no reason we can't all be friends! Don't you agree, Reza?"
"Oh, no, my dear," the daroga chuckled. "Leave me out."
"Darling, there are a number of excellent reasons why we can't all be friends. First: he hates me. Second: I hate him. Third: I have eaten mushrooms more intelligent than the Comte de Chagny. Now, while I appreciate that you and Manon may be dear friends—Masson, no turnips for Christine, please finish what you have, thank you—I am happy with my gentlemen's club as it now stands. I have no wish to admit someone to whom I'd have to explain all the jokes."
"Papa, no more turnips, they're yucky." Reza reached to come to Masson's aid, so Christine and I could continue our argument, by removing the yucky vegetables onto his bread plate. It is canon law among young children that one yucky substance pollutes everything on the plate; it must be removed or the meal is halted.
"You're being completely unreasonable! I'm going to be ashamed to tell Manon that my husband is acting like a spoiled child!"
"You knew I was a spoiled child when you took up with me, Dear; didn't she Reza—"
"Oh, mm, I'm afraid you did, my dear; he's absolutely right about that."
"—and if you think that Raoul's agreeing happily as Manon offers this idea to him, you've got another one coming. I am positive he's having apoplexy at this very moment, turning that dashing shade of pink that used to make you swoon," I needled.
"Oooh, you pig," Christine seethed.
"Papa's a pig! Papa's a pig!"
"Masson Gustave, that is quite enough!" Christine announced.
Masson giggled. He was beginning to display an inherited tendency to revel in sending Christine up the flagpole. Even so, he remembered his etiquette.
"May I be excused please, Mama?"
"Yes."
He and Christine scampered off singing, "Papa's a pig, Papa's a pig!"
"Erik, you must beat that boy!" Christine urged.
"If I beat him, I'll have to beat you first. You're the one who called me a pig. Shall I beat you, Darling?" I raised my eyebrow at her, pressing the silent question.
Christine turned scarlet, sipping her wine as her eyes fluttered. Reza busied himself with crumbs on his plate.
"Reza, would you be so good as to keep an eye on Masson for us?"
"Hm? Oh, ah…of course."
"Thank you. Come along, Christine," I took her hand.
"Erik, this is shameful!" she whispered as we climbed the stairs. "Reza knows—"
I stopped her protest with a kiss which made her whimper.
"Stop, I can't catch my breath. I shall faint." She clung to me for support.
"I'll catch you," I promised. "Don't I always?" I battled her skirts until I won my prize. I squeezed her perfect behind. "Christine, I want this," I growled.
"Not on the stairs, Erik, they'll see," she giggled. She managed to scramble away from me; it was exhilarating to chase her the few steps into the bedroom.
"Naughty girl, running from me," I murmured, securing the door. When I turned, she flung her arms around my neck, breathless.
"Don't beat me; kiss me," she commanded, pushing me to my knees.
The midwife had paid an emergency visit and I was fuming.
"I tell you, I don't like that fat little cow, Christine!"
"Well, I have enormous confidence in her," Christine was happily ensconced in bed, looking like a princess.
"Hmph," I humphed. "Prying the most intimate details from you about our marital relations; it's abominable! Salacious cow."
"Erik, she doesn't care what we get up to; she's only trying to find out what went on to cause such violent contractions," she soothed.
"Well, what did she say, anyway? All she did was tell me you're fine."
"She said it would be best if…" Christine lowered her voice to a whisper. "She said I shouldn't…"
"Ah. Right." I nodded; I'd expected as much. "So long as you're alright, Christine."
"Oh, no, Darling," she stroked my ugly cheek and blushed fiercely. "She didn't say we couldn't; she just said I shouldn't …enjoy myself quite so much. If you know what I mean."
"What! That's the most preposterous thing I've ever heard; what are you supposed to do, service me? I'll be damned!"
"You're a wonderful husband, Erik. If you weren't such a marvelous lover, we'd have no trouble." She gave me an Angel smile.
"Well, after all, there's a lot to be said for training a man just how you want him."
"You're a brilliant pupil."
Masson and I were making breakfast. We had to get an early start for a day at the opera house; we couldn't wait for that lazy git, Darius. At the moment, Darius was our only help, and if he'd not turned into such a cantankerous bastard, I'd've been sympathetic about him being so overworked. We'd hired Sylvie back permanently, but she was not due for another week. Anci had wasted no time in bludgeoning Darius into complete submission; consequently, she had weaseled out of returning to work since she'd dropped her calf. This was fine with Christine, since she claimed Anci was too stupid to even wash clothes properly. I took the opportunity to deliver another brilliant line when Christine mentioned it. "Well, she was fine at dusting and making the bed as I recall."
WHACK! "Making a mess of the bed, more likely," she spat. She called me a goat again. Pig, goat; I careened through the barnyard at an alarming rate.
"I used to be a stallion," I whined.
"That was before she moved in," Christine humphed. Why was I still paying for Anci, I wondered? Christine was the one who agreed we could all live together in relative civility. Still, it wouldn't do to bring it up. I'd tried before, and it always ended up that I was taking 'my girlfriend's side'.
Anyway, my boy and I were off to the opera house. He was so excited he was pinging all over the kitchen, and I had to chase him around to get a bite of cereal into his mouth.
"Papa, can we go?" Ping, ping, ping.
"One more bite, Son."
I prepared a little pack with lunch and tidbits to keep him going for the day, and stuffed my pockets with chocolate.
"Let's go kiss Mama goodbye."
I planned to take him underground, show him the trapdoors and my old bachelor flat, take him up in the flys and play with the lights, cover the stage in smoke, of course, take him up to the roof—more than we could accomplish in one day, or even two, but I reckoned I could spend the rest of my life showing him theater magic, and be perfectly happy doing so.