“Why not? Do you like her?”
“I do,” I admit, hesitating. I didn’t bring my sewing with me because I wanted to be very mature and self-assured in his flat. I miss it, though. What’s it like living with the Phantom? I ask Christine’s sweet, pretty face. Does he confuse you as much as he confuses me?
“Well, there you are. And she’s not much different to the ones you make. She’s just bigger.” He goes back to the piano and plays a few bars of “All I Ask of You,” looking at me from beneath his brows.
“Silly,” I mutter, but I’m smiling. I contemplate Christine. I like her very much, but she reminds me so much of the sort of dolls little girls cart about with them and I want to put her down. But that would be rude. Or at least that’s what I tell myself as I tuck her under my chin and wrap my arms around her.
Frederic keeps playing the love song from Phantom, the b
right notes stringing out on the night air, and I feel a rush of emotion as I listen. Despite all the weirdness of the last few days I suddenly feel very comforted. I roll my head to the right, toward the piano. Frederic can be comforting, too, in his way. Comforting, and—
I look away again because I can feel affection for him welling up. Thoughts of going to bed with him are bad enough. A crush would be disastrous. I spent several of my teenage years crushing on him from afar. It wouldn’t do to get silly about him all over again, especially when I have to be objective and write about him.
I’m a grown woman, not a girl, I say to Christine as I pick up my book again and scan the page. Now, where were we?
At eleven thirty I yawn and head off to bed. I’m tempted to take Christine with me but I have to draw the line somewhere. I’m not going to sleep with a doll, so I leave her propped up against the sofa cushions so she can listen to the music.
Frederic’s still bent over the piano. He’s been playing the same three bars for the last forty minutes and he looks terribly annoyed. The sheet music is a mess of scribble and crossings-out.
“Bonne nuit, Frederic.”
“'Night,” he mutters, not looking up as I pass him.
He’s still tinkering when I turn my light out and get into bed, the soft notes rising and falling in the darkness. He seems to have a breakthrough finally, and the completed refrain makes me smile as I drift off to sleep.
When I wake in the morning and stretch, my elbow bumps against something soft. It’s Christine, and her hair is mussed and she’s warm as if I’ve hugged her close all night.
Chapter Seven
Frederic
When I wake up my voice coach’s words of yesterday afternoon are ringing in my ears. Frederic, you’re being ridiculous. Why do you have to do these recordings and the show? Can’t you pick one or the other?
Rolling my shoulders to work the tension out of them I stalk to the kitchen, which is cool and dim at this hour of the morning. Choose between recording all my most beloved songs, like I always thought I had time to do, and starring in a final show? She knows me better than that. It’s now or never, and I’m not a never sort of person.
Giselle was pissed about that. Overusing your voice will make your disorder progress faster. You will grow hoarse, and your voice will deepen by an octave or more. Then there are complications like airway obstructions. You could choke.
I waved off her scare tactics. I’ve read up about Reinke’s edema, a progressive, benign swelling of the vocal cords. Benign, but fucking disastrous if you’re a singer. There’s no medication and no cure and in time my voice will be toast. I don’t know how much time, no one does, but I’m betting on it holding out till the end of January, when Jane Eyre closes, and for now it is.
Give me vocal exercises to help or just leave me alone, all right? Giselle gave me the exercises, but she brought up the surgery again.
Over my dead body I’m getting the surgery now. It won’t cure the disorder, I’ll take months to recover, and if I’m admitted to hospital there’s a good chance it will get out that I’m damaged goods. Most days I feel like I’m racing against time, trying to squeeze as much out of my voice as I can while it’s still sharp, still has range, all the while knowing the more I use it the faster I will lose it.
The recordings, Jane Eyre, and then I’m done. That’s not too much to ask, is it? All right, a compromise: I’ll take a day off. How’s that?
Two days, Frederic, though I’d be happier if it was a week. I’ll see you on Wednesday.
Alone in the studio after Giselle had gone I felt a pang of regret for being sharp with her. It’s distressing for her, as a coach, to see me going through this. But I will not be treated like an invalid by anyone.
I look around the kitchen for something to do. It’s a quarter to nine, so I suppose I’ll cook breakfast. Evie’s still sleeping but she should be awake soon. I head for the fridge, wondering if I have eggs.
Evie. I noticed that my agent’s daughter was very attractive from the moment I saw her lying in the road in front of my car, startled and embarrassed, that pretty pink mouth parted. And then what happened the other day when I spanked her made the beast stir. Hit me again. It’s not worked yet. Fucking hell. Just remembering her say those words makes me harden. I’d intended it to be an experiment into whether she liked a little submission in real life as well as on the page, but as well as uncovering the answer—a resounding yes—I uncovered a whole lot of unhappiness, too. What kind of prick was she dating to put her through such misery, again and again? How many times did he fuck her and just let her cry? I’m not a violent person but it would be a pleasure to find this man and punch him in the face.
Now I don’t know what to do about Evie, because as much as I’d enjoy discovering how wet and flustered another spanking would get her, I don’t want to push her to inconsolable tears again.
By the time she comes yawning out of her bedroom in her pj’s at nine thirty, clutching Christine in her arms, I’ve made a mess of counters with my clumsy cooking. She looks sleepy and cute in an oversized T-shirt with her feet bare. Every now and then I come across a submissive who likes to be babied and coddled a bit more than others, and I find it supremely satisfying to oblige. They tend to cry a bit more than others, too, and as long as it isn’t crying from actual misery I find it to be a huge fucking turn-on. Baby, you think I’ll be merciful if you shed a few tears? Go ahead, I’m just going to fuck you harder.
She puts up a hand to muffle another yawn. “Morning. Not recording today?”