Henri and Agnes at the Opera - but things don't go according to plan... please let me know what you think!

—

For some time Henri becomes lost in the music, the way he always does. It is entrancing, even from frayed seats in the second gallery. Then, in the second Act as Tamaki Miura begins the aria Un bel di Henri glances across at Agnes. Her eyes are wide, tears spilling from them. He takes her hand, holds it, but she cannot tear her gaze away from the stage.

—

After the performance they wait to collect their coats. Henri asks Agnes if she is hungry.

'I'm famished,' she says with a smile.

Around the Paris Opera, bistros and bars stay open late, even in wartime. They find a small bistro a couple of streets away, just two or three tables still occupied. Henri orders for both of them and the food soon arrives: chicken, vegetables, bread, a carafe of white wine for them to share.

Agnes sets about the food gratefully, which gives her an excuse not to talk. In truth, the opera has affected her. Not just the music, which was sublime; nor was it the costumes, the beauty of the set, an imagined Japan, all gardens and serenity: no, it is the story that has unfolded before her. The young, naive woman, falling in love with an older man for whom she is nothing but entertainment. The leaving, and the coming back; the betrayals, the half-truths, the thought of love, so easily dismissed. Not to mention the child.

She is aware of Henri's eyes on her, but she cannot meet them.

'Did you enjoy it?' he asks at last.

'Yes,' she says, between mouthfuls. She must not eat too quickly, for what will she do then? 'I really enjoyed it. It was incredible.'

'It was,' Henri says.

'Thank you so much for taking me. It was a lovely surprise.'

She tries to sound thrilled, but instead she finds she is trying not to cry. Memories of Henri leaving her for Valerie Maurel, all those years ago, keep coming back. She always understood that their affair, then, was not serious; but even so, his departure had been sudden, unexpected, and it had hurt. Really hurt. If Henri had not been serious about her then, she thinks, how can she be sure he is now? And how would it have been if he had been more careless - or unlucky - and if he had made her pregnant after all? For all his talk of love, and of wanting to be there when she has a child, how would it be between them in reality?

Henri has finished eating. He drinks his wine. Agnes is aware that there is an atmosphere between them now, that he is watching her. He senses that something is wrong. Sooner or later he will ask her what it is. And she has been so happy - so happy! - these past few days, being here with him, why does she have to spoil it? She should just enjoy this while she can. Who knows what lies around the corner? There is a war, after all - and in two more days she will travel back to London, and he will go back to goodness knows where, with his new job and all its secrets.

With relief, she thinks of something she has been meaning to ask. 'I didn't know you spoke Italian,' she says.

He does not answer, and his silence makes her look him in the eyes for the first time since arriving at the Opera. His face is dark with it, unsmiling, and she wonders if her question, or her mood, have offended him in some way.

Henri pays for the food and they leave in silence. They walk together back to the Opera, where a line of cabs waits to take the night owls back to their homes.

'I learned languages at school,' he says at last. 'One thing I was good at.'

'Oh,' she says, wondering at the thought processes that have been working their way through his head since her question.

'I like to travel.'

'Have you been to lots of exciting places?'

At last, he offers her a brief smile. 'Many, yes. I hope, one day, when the war is over… maybe we can travel together. Would you like to?'

'Yes,' Agnes says. 'Yes, I really would.'

They remain in silence until they get back to Henri's apartment. Agnes alights by herself, waits for him on the step. They climb the stairs to the apartment together. Henri unlocks the door and stands aside to let her enter.

Strange, Agnes thinks, how quickly this apartment feels like home. And yet, there is so little of hers in it; just her carpet bag, her dress hanging in the wardrobe, her sponge bag in the bathroom. In two minutes she could collect her things and be gone. It's almost tempting.

She hangs her coat in the wardrobe and slips off her gloves. The bed looks inviting but she resists, and of course, she cannot get out of this dress by herself. Bridges will have to be crossed.

In the warm kitchen, Henri is sitting at the table with an opened bottle of wine in front of him, two glasses. One of them is already half-drunk.

'Would you like some?' he asks, when he sees her come in.

'Yes please,' Agnes says, although she thinks she probably should not.

He pours her wine and she sits, a little stiffly in the dress. Following their supper, it feels rather tighter than it did when she put it on. Even so, she is not looking forward to taking it off.

'You seem sad,' he says at last. 'I fear I have done something wrong.'

'No,' she says quickly. Here it comes, then, the confrontation. She knows she cannot let it pass, takes a deep breath in. 'It was the opera. It was so sad.'

He looks relieved, and laughs. 'Yes,' he says, 'but it is just a story.'

Agnes feels dismissed, and that makes everything worse. Very well, then, he wants to know. She will tell him. 'It reminded me of us,' she says. 'How things started between us. Don't you think?'

She sees him frown as he considers it. Before he can dismiss it again, she continues: 'it reminded me of how it felt, when you left. Henri, I really did love the opera, I love this gown, I love every minute of this evening, but -'

'But?' he asks, when she stops short.

'But I can't help wondering if… if it might happen again.'

'What? What might happen again?'

She bites her lip. 'I mean if you should see Valerie.'

Henri looks shocked for a moment, then a half smile crosses his lips. Agnes wonders again if he is not taking her seriously, feels anger rising. It all feels like a game for him sometimes. She is a specimen, his ingenue, his entertainment; someone he can observe with interest as she learns about the ways of the world. Tonight, she is fed up with it.

'What's amusing you?' she demands.

The smile widens. 'I am not amused, my darling Agnes. I am just relieved. Come, let's go to bed.'

Before she can object he has got to his feet, collected the bottle of wine and the two glasses and headed for the bedroom. Agnes does not feel like it, any of it. In truth she would rather sleep alone tonight. But first there is the awkward matter of the gown and its infernal buttons to deal with. He has not, she notes, denied any lingering feelings for Valerie. He has not protested, he has not sought to comfort her, to cajole and plead with her not to think that of him. In short, he is not playing the game.

He turns on the light beside the bed, placing the bottle and the glasses there as if he might get thirsty for wine in the night. She thinks he looks tired. It is possible that he wants to sleep, is ready for sleep, despite the fire inside her that is desperate for him to fight back.

When he comes over to her she almost finds herself backing away. Instead, she turns her back on him. 'Would you mind…?'

He unfastens the buttons slowly, one at a time, until the gown slips away from her body. Under it, she is still wearing her corset and chemise. She steps out of the dress and he takes it, hangs it up and places it inside the wardrobe next to her day clothes. Agnes unclips her corset, trying not to sigh with relief when it comes free. She sits at the dressing table and unpins her hair, letting it fall over her shoulders, before brushing it in long, practiced strokes.

Henri is undressing. She looks away at first and then feels a surge of bravery that might, or might not, be a result of the anger that is already subsiding inside. There seems little point in being angry with him. He refuses to rise to the bait, anyway. And being angry is self-defeating. She is in Paris, in Henri's apartment, and they are going to spend the night together. She has nowhere to run to.

Unlike her, he does not stop at his underwear but carries on, folding his garments as he goes, until he is naked. He stands behind her. 'May I?' he asks, then takes the brush from her hand. She can see him in the mirror, the intense concentration on his face as he brushes her hair, first the brush and then his hand, stroking her hair from roots to ends. Each knot is dealt with gently, brushing the tangle until it disappears.

Agnes clears her throat. 'The fashion now is for women to have their hair cut short,' she says.

'Indeed,' he says, continuing to brush.

'I might have my hair cut,' she adds. 'It looks much less trouble to me.'

He smiles. 'It might seem that way,' he says. 'But women always spend a lot of time trying to get their hair just so. Curling, dyeing and so on. It just means a different sort of trouble to all the pinning and the twisting.'

Henri puts the brush down on the dressing table but he continues to stroke her hair, running it through his fingers. When she turns, she realises he is aroused. Perhaps she won't cut her hair, after all.

'Come to bed,' he says. 'We should talk about it.'

'About my hair?' she asks, shivering as the cold sheets touch her bare legs.

'No, not your hair,' he says. He has poured the wine and passes her a glass. 'About Valerie.'

'Oh,' Agnes says, surprised. This is it, she thinks. It's Valerie after all, isn't it? He will always be in love with her.

'You think I still love Valerie Maurel?' he asks, as if he can read her mind.

Caught out, she has nothing to say but: 'yes.'

'Well, I do not. I love you. Remember, I told you that?'

Agnes bites her lip. It feels like she is being told off. She takes a sip of the wine, places the glass down on the table next to her. Then picks it up again. It is comforting, to have something so heavy to hold on to.

Henri takes a breath. 'I can see why you would think that, how the opera is like how it was between us. In the beginning, when I first met you, Agnes, I wanted you so badly. You were… I don't know how to say it… attractive, beautiful, but there was more than that. I could not stop thinking about you. I wanted to get to know you intimately. I wanted to make love to you. But I was not in love with you, then. Or I did not believe I was.'

Agnes swallows some more wine. 'I know that.'

'Sometimes,' he says, 'it takes other people to make us see things as they really are. For you, it was Victor. And for me, it was Valerie.'

'What do you mean?' Agnes asks. The wine is going to her head already, this deep, dark, French red; it is rich and warm and like the velvet of her dress, heavy and sultry.

'You believed you were in love with Victor, I believed I was in love with Valerie. And we were both wrong. You know, I never told you what happened at the American Embassy, did I?'

'No,' Agnes says. She wondered, of course, but hadn't wanted to pry, hadn't wanted to rake over the past when suddenly the future had looked so incredibly bright. And that's what she was doing now, exactly that: raking over the past and causing them both pain.

'Valerie told me that she had made a mistake, that she had chosen the wrong man. She asked me if there was a chance we could try again. And I told her no. She asked me if I was in love with someone else. I said yes, I was. And then she said goodbye and walked away. And you know how it felt, Agnes?'

Agnes doesn't answer.

'I felt so happy, because I knew it was the right thing. And of course I went back to Selfridges to tell you, and you were marrying Victor, and you were so certain that it was going to happen. I could not say anything to try and stop you because it would have been wrong. I was too late. And even then, even knowing you loved another and that you were soon to be married, I did not, for one moment, think that I had made a mistake in saying goodbye to Valerie.'

Henri turns to face her, reaches out a hand and strokes her hair softly, winding the length of it around a finger.

'So you see - it was like Madama Butterfly in the beginning, maybe, but we have rewritten the ending. In our story, Pinkerton goes to America and makes his mistakes with other women. And then he returns to Japan and sees Butterfly and realises that he has been wrong, he was wrong to leave her because he was in love with her the whole time and didn't even realise until it was nearly too late. And then he and Butterfly make love, and they stay in each other's arms, and they are happy forever.'

He laughs, and then she does too. And catches her smile with his lips in a kiss that is long overdue.

Agnes thinks: he means it. He is telling the truth…

—