Chapter 5- I'll Be There For You.

Christine followed the tall woman out of the front garden of, what was once, her home. For a lady with a cane and an obvious limp the woman walked incredibly quickly, causing Christine to struggle to keep up. Looking at the woman she did not recognise her from any part of her childhood and wondered if she had simply made up that she was Christine's Godmother just to make Gabriele Aiton back away.

She was certainly an imposing figure, Christine thought, watching her march, head held high, along the back streets of the small village. Every once in a while the lady would look over her shoulder, checking that Christine was still there and, when she saw that she was, the woman gave a simple nod of acknowledgement and refocused on the road ahead.

Christine felt almost out of breath by the time they got back to the church and the sight of it took her back to the funeral. Now Christine remembered this woman's face from earlier in the afternoon, how could she have forgotten? Although the woman had looked solemn she had been the only other person at her father's funeral not crying. The woman led her around to the back of the church where a horse and trap was waiting.

One driver and one beautiful chestnut mare.

The driver, on seeing the woman, leapt from the carriage and removed his hat.

'Madame,' he said, opening the door to the carriage and bowing his head slightly. Christine noted that he was young and broad but not particularly tall. His hair was cropped very short, unusual in this area where there were many farmers who simply allowed their hair to grow. It made her wonder where they were going, the look of the young man and the woman's elegant clothes suggested that neither of her new acquaintances were from this area.

The young man smiled warmly at her and she could tell that he was trying hard not to stare. It was something that Christine had slowly become used to but it had taken her a long time. After so many years of being the ugly duckling she had finally developed in to the swan and now male attention was very difficult to get rid of.

At least he was trying not to look, she thought.

It was unwanted, the attention, and some men certainly took it to extremes. Today she was certainly not interested in making male companions. She had just laid her father to rest after his battle against pneumonia and now she was at a low ebb, lower than she had ever been before. To lose her home had been the final, devastating blow.

Now she found herself sitting in a carriage with a woman she had never met before going to a destination she knew nothing of. Still, she found herself complying and this worried her a little. Weren't people always taught, from a very young age, not to trust anyone. Or perhaps it was just Christine who had been taught this by very protective parents.

It was a few minutes before Christine took her gaze from the fields outside the window to notice the woman in the carriage was staring at her. Christine coughed nervously, a habit she had had since she was young.

'My name is Madame Antoinette Giry,' the woman said, her voice was cool and level, yet there was something endearing about the woman.

Christine tried to smile but nothing came of her efforts. 'You know who I am,' she said, almost a question.

'I do,' Madame Giry responded.

'Are you really my Godmother?' she asked feebly, feeling like a small child in the presence of such an overpoweringly confident woman.

Madame Giry nodded. 'I was a friend of your mothers,' she said. 'I spent a lot of time with you when you were a child living in Paris,'

'Were you at her funeral?' Christine asked.

'I was,' Madame Giry replied. 'I would have seen more of you but... your father wanted to mourn his loss in his privacy, with you,'

Christine said nothing, thinking only of their grief back then. It seemed almost a life time ago yet the memories were often as vivid as if she left them yesterday.

'We all respected that,' she continued. 'But we worried,'

'Did you ever see him?' Christine asked.

'I wrote to him,' Madame Giry's eyes grew sad. 'Eventually he began to write back, but I don't think he was ever the same man my husband and I knew... I wished, always wished, there was something we could do for him but he would take no aid,'

Christine sat in silence thinking of her proud and gentlemanly father. She
believed what this woman said, her father was simply not the type to take
people's charity.

'He wrote to me last less that three weeks ago,' Madame Giry continued to speak, her eyes fixed on Christine.' 'Telling me that he felt his time was over... and that he would need someone to care for you,'

'I can care for myself,' Christine said too quickly and immediately wished she could take it back. If Antoinette Giry took any offence she certainly did not show it.

'I have no doubt you would find a way to do so,' she said simply. 'But why struggle when I can help you?'

It seemed a reasonable thing to say but Christine began to feel claustrophobic, as if she were trapped and could not breath.

'Where are you taking me then?' she asked, her throat beginning to constrict.

'To Paris,' Giry said.

'I liked my home where it was,'

'I know that,'

'Then why are you taking me away?'

'I can take you back,' Madame Giry said, her eyes sharp as knives. 'But what will you do then?'

Christine said nothing.

'How will you survive?' she continued. 'You have no roof over your head, no money for food, no work. Will you sell your body?'

Christine was shocked by the statement and sat staring at the woman next to her. How dare she suggest such a cruel thing, who did she think she was? She had spent no time with her the last years... in fact, she had spent so little time with her that Christine could not even remember her. She opened her mouth to berate the women for saying such a rude thing but something inside her made her stop. The woman, this Antoinette Giry, was correct. How could Christine possibly support herself in what was effectively a simple farming community. She had no farm, she had no skills... she was simply a dancer who had lived off her father's limited money.

She nodded. 'Where will I stay?'

'The way I see that...' Madame Giry began. 'Is that you have two options...'

Christine nodded, waiting.

'The first is that you stay with me at my home, with my husband and daughter,' she said. 'You are more then welcome but will be expected to pay your way and do chores,'

'What is my other option?'

'The other is to stay at my place of work,' she said. 'You father informed me that you are a wonderful dancer and I know of a dressing room with a bed. You will, of course, have to pay a rent of sorts to the Patrons of the theatre but I do not see that as being of any consequence,'

'I have no money,'

'Well, the manager had informed me that if I think you are as apt as your father told me then he is happy for you to have a job with the chorus,'

Madame Giry reached out, in a gesture Christine had no expected, and touched her hand. It was the briefest of touches, more of a feather floating past, but the gesture was there. She looked her in the eye.

'It pays quite well but you will not be a rich woman,'

'Could I have the job if I stayed with you?' Christine asked.

'Of course,'

Christine thought for a moment. She thought about living under someone else's roof, being a burden to them day and night. An extra person to cook for, an extra person to allow bathing time for...

'I will take the room at your place of work,' Christine said softly. 'Where is that? Where will I be living?'

'At the Opera Populair,' Madame Giry said, a slight twinkle catching in her eye.

Christine stared at her. 'Really?' she asked, feeling excitement well up inside her for the first time in years.

'Really,' Madame Giry replied.

The Opera Populair, the most beautiful and well known opera house in all of France. Her father had once longed to play there, he had visited often, even managed to see some plays there, but he never got to live his dream. He had always told her of it's utter beauty, of the magnificence of it's structure but she had never seen it for herself.

'I have no clothes with me...' Christine suddenly remembered.

'We have some clothes to give you,' Madame Giry said. 'Don't worry... we could not go into that house to fetch them. Gabriele Aiton is not a nice man,'

'You know him?'

'Not well, fortunately,' she said solemnly. 'I know of him and of his company and that is quite enough,'

'What do they do?' she asked, curiosity spilling from her.

'I'm not sure...'

'Tell me,' Christine demanded and then she shrunk back, suddenly embarrassed
at her reaction. 'I'm sorry... I...'

'It's fine, child,' Antoinette said. 'I know you're upset... Gabriele owns a bank... for want of a better term... they lend people money or buy them objects they require and then demand high prices of return for them.'

'What did my father borrow?' She asked, her throat suddenly dry.

'Money,' She said simply and turned away.

'What for?' Christine asked. 'We were fine,'

Madame Giry set her eyes upon her. 'I'm sorry, Christine,' she said, softly. 'But things only seemed fine... your father had to borrow money to put food on your table,'

Christine felt more angry than sad at hearing this but Madame Giry's face had changed. Suddenly, she looked heartbroken, a devastated women. It was Christine's first glimpse of her true character of her real person.

Someone with a heart.

'He would accept no help from my husband,' her voice sounded strained and Christine wondered if she might cry. 'I only wish he had,'

'It isn't your fault,' Christine said and she meant it. It was not Antoinette Giry's fault, of course it wasn't. No, it was Christine's fault. She had been so blinded by her own selfishness that she had not even seen what was obvious. How could she call herself a good daughter after this? Oh father, she thought, I am sorry... so desperately sorry.

Antoinette Giry said nothing and most of the rest of their journey past in what could only be described as uncomfortable silence. The sight of buildings in the distance, all clumped together, alerted Christine of Paris. They were now not far from their destination.

Christine found the room to be comfortable and homely. She had expected something far more crude, with little decoration, but this was far from her expectations. In fact, she would have gone so far as to say she was happy with her new home.

They had come straight to the opera house and she was shown to her room through the back entrance. Apparently, this was the door she would always use to get in and out and the gentleman that had met them gave her a key. Madame Giry showed her to her room and gave her another key for that door before telling her that her daughter would be by shortly with some clothing.

And then she had left.

Now, sitting alone on the soft mattress of her new bed, she surveyed the room feeling sorry that she had not had chance to see the inside of the lobby yet. She had no doubt she would see it at some point. Her room was equipped with the bed and several blankets, all of which seemed warm and comfortable. Their were two chairs, one in the corner and one in front of a dressing table which had a small mirror on it. Right next to the bed there was a wardrobe and chest of drawers, plenty of storage, though what for Christine was not quite sure. The last thing she noticed was a full length mirror attached to the far wall. It was a beautifully intricate addition to the room, the top was curled into scrolls and the bottom flicked out as if it had feet. On closer inspection, though it looked to be rested on the
floor, you could see that the mirror was almost integrated in to the wall and did not stand on it's legs.

In the corner there were two letters.

E.L.

She wondered if that was the signature of the person who had created this masterpiece. She touched the side of it, made of metal it was cold under her fingers. Glancing at the glass she caught her reflection and sighed. Her body was covered in black, the symbol of her mourning, and she looked tired.

Instead of exploring, as she had first intended, she decided to lie down for a moment and take some rest. Her father drifted across her thoughts and her memories made her smile. He would be missed by many, and though he had made mistakes, she would love him unconditionally.

But she would not cry.

A knock at the door woke Christine with a start and she rubbed her eyes, heart thudding, for a moment confused about where she was. Slowly, clarity washed over her and she remembered the day she had had, her father's funeral, losing her home and being carted away by a woman she didn't remember ever having met before.

The knock came again and she stared at the door. She wondered how long she had been sleeping. Pushing herself up carefully she walked to the door and opened it. There stood a pretty girl with blonde hair and sharp blue eyes holding a bag in her arms.

'Christine?' she asked and it was the voice that gave her away. Suddenly, a memory flooded back into Christine's mind of two girls playing on the beach when they were young. One had dark hair, the other blonde and the voice...

'Meg...' Christine choked and instantly, she remembered her.

'Do you remember me?' Meg asked, as if reading her mind. Christine nodded and, without thinking, threw her arms around her childhood friend.

Meg did not flinch away but instead dropped the bag to the floor and hugged Christine back.

'Oh Christine,' Meg said, stepping into the room. 'How beautiful you are!'

'I could same the same about you,' she responded, feeling oddly full of girlish notions of brushing hair and wearing high heels far too big for them.

Meg blushed and sat in the chair, not waiting for an invitation, as if they had never spent more than a minute apart their whole lives. Rather than be offended by Meg's lack of manners, she was heartened by how comfortable her old friend felt and immediately flopped herself back on the bed.

'How are you?' Meg asked, face changing to a sad expression.

'I am quite well, really,' Christine said quietly. 'All things considered.'

Meg nodded. 'I'm sorry for your loss, Christine,' she said. 'How I wish we had kept in touch all of these years... Oh, I hope I can help you now,'

'You are helping me,' Christine smiled. 'You have brought me some clothes?'

Meg nodded and handed Christine the bad. 'They should fit you, you look around the same size as me,'

'Are you in the chorus too?'

'Oh yes,' Meg nodded emphatically.

'Do you enjoy it then?' Christine asked, letting her nerves show for the first time.

'Most of the time I do, yes,' Meg said earnestly. 'It can be hard work,'

Christine smiled. 'I'm sure it can,'

'Do you dance then?'

'Yes, my mother taught me when I was young and I continued it after she passed away,'

'I look forward to dancing with you then,' Meg said with a soft smile, 'But I'm afraid I have to go,'

'I see,'

'Mother has asked that I inform you a carriage will be here shortly to collect you for dinner,'

'I couldn't impose like that,' Christine said. 'Your mother has already been very kind to me,'

Meg smiled. 'She said you might say that and to tell you to come anyway, otherwise how is it that you will eat this evening?'

If she were to admit it, she had not thought of this at all. She had been wrapped up in seeing her home and so tired, food had completely slipped her mind.

'I will see you a little later then,' Christine said.

'You will indeed,' Meg said, hugging her quickly as she left.