I whirled around just in time to see the mirror slide backwards and to the left behind the wall leaving the frame as the edging to a stone tunnel. A stone tunnel from which a dark haired, masked, caped, impeccably dressed in an opera tux, six foot plus man was casually striding out, nonchalantly brushing a bit of stray mortar from his white opera gloves.

"DUDE! WHAT IS IT with YOU and MIRRORS?!" I practically howled at him as I rightened myself on the stool I had nearly toppled backwards off. Having once already come across this apparition and survived relatively intact, any fear I had translated over into mild annoyance and anger. To his credit, the new addition to the décor looked rather taken aback and sheepishly peered down at the floor. Didn't last long though.

"I was not expecting company," His tone was, on the surface, perfectly civil but it dripped with something else. Something darker and more annoyed. "And my name is Erik."

I muttered something that sounded like "Yeah… Heard you last time…" and put the floppy hat back in its box. I was already regretting my outburst. After all, it's not like he'd really done anything to warrant the Aussie Bush Wrath. Apart from scaring the living daylights out of me. Besides, being the resident ghost has got to be a lonely life, hasn't it?

"I'm not supposed to be here, am I?" I sighed as I replaced the box on the pile.

He barked out a no.

"Right then. I shall leave you in peace." I took my cue to exist stage left with my head bowed and my torch on. My reaction must have stunned him for he did not move until I was halfway across the atrium and accelerating. The padding of leather soles, a swirl of cloth, and then a voice projecting out over the threshold bounced off my retreating back.

"Forgive me, mademoiselle. I intended no offence. Please…"

"Goodbye Erik." I did not stop. I did not look back. I was too proud to show I cared.

I regretted leaving Erik that day without so much as a name to know me by. In many ways I still do. Yet, if I hadn't, the extraordinary events that followed might not have occurred and I certainly would not be putting pen to paper to tell you about them, for there would be nothing to tell. But again, I am getting ahead of myself.

After extricating myself from the back-halls of the Opera House, I ran into the Vicomte de Chagny. Again. Seriously, that guy must do laps of the Opera House – poking his nose into every room and making airy comments as he goes. I found him loitering around the chorus dressing rooms whistling something insufferably cheery. I was not as loath to share his company as the afternoon before and after the obligatory chit chat;

"Did you discover your muse in the Prima Donna rooms?"

"No, I got lost and found dusty spider nests instead."

He invited me to dinner. Not having any plans that didn't involve room service or take away, I accepted.

"Nice car, Vicomte." I remarked as his personal valet picked us up in a race red McLaren F1 that was WAY too clean to be believable.

"How many times must I ask you to call me Gustave?" The Vicomte assumed a stance of mock offence as he made a great show of shooing away his valet in order to open the door for me instead with a great flourish of his arm.

I flopped ungracefully onto the leather. "At least once more Vicomte, as always." I smirked up from under the door frame. I never thought I would actually get to use that quote in relatively normal conversation.

The Vicomte grinned down from his perched point atop the open door, chin resting on his folded arms. "Pirates of the Caribbean. Good film." He lifted his arms from the door and made to close it. "I understood that reference." His mock seriousness was shattered by a huge self-satisfied grin.

I waited until he had hefted himself onto the other seat before I affirmed that I had understood his reference. The Vicomte then said some stuff to his driver in French that I probably wouldn't have understood even if I had been listening properly and the McLaren growled and stalked off down the avenue. I asked where we were going. The Vicomte replied that we were going to a favourite restaurant of his.

I looked down at my faded brown trench-coat with the missing button, the belt threads hanging down and the tea stain on the collar; my dark boot-cut jeans with the worn-out knees and the mud on the hem; my flat ankle-cut black synthetic boots with the toes scrubbed out; and had a panicked moment when I couldn't remember if, under my red knitted turtle-neck, I was wearing the 2-sizes-too-big athletics shirt or the class of '89 print with most of the writing rubbed off.

"I'm not really dressed for a restaurant, French or no." I stammered.

"Neither am I." He assured me, gesturing to his faded blue jeans, beat-up Doc Martins and woollen overcoat. "Don't worry – it's not a suit-and-tie joint anyway." He dropped his pseudo-swanky American imitation to add, "'Joint' is the right word, is it not?"

I laughed and turned my attention to the streets of Paris. Watching a never-ending snake of taxi-cabs, 2CV's, Skodas and the occasional Lamborghini flash past. It really was beautiful that time of year. Gale-force winds and all.

"I wish you lot drove on the RIGHT side of the road here. As in, the LEFT."