by Kailin Gow
the phantom diaries
kailingow
the phantom diaries
Published by THE EDGE
THE EDGE is an imprint of Sparklesoup LLC
Copyright © 2010 Kailin Gow
All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the permission in writing from the publisher except in case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
For information, please contact:
Sparklesoup LLC
c/o Kailin Gow
P.O. Box 60834
Irvine, CA 92602
www.sparklesoup.com
First Edition.
Printed in the United States of America.
ISBN: 978-159748-912-6
dedication
To the remarkably talented people who helped make this series come alive - especially Diane, Darla, Lindsey, and Jim. THANK YOU!
Prologue
Annette Binoche stepped out of the cab and had her first taste of a Manhattan sidewalk beneath her feet. Staring up at The New York Metropolitan Opera House, a cool breeze rustled through her long dark hair and tickled her nostrils. This was not the hot and lazy breeze of the bayou back home in New Orleans. It felt different. Smelled different. Even tasted different.
Despite her jeans, warm black sweater and leather jacket the chill in the air squeezed through the collar at the back of her neck, traveled down her spine and left her skin tingling all the way down into her boots.
The excitement of this new adventure added to that tingling sensation. She pushed through the doors of the back entrance of the Opera House and went in search of the head seamstress. As soon as her eyes adjusted to the gloom, she glimpse the grand stage through a door left ajar.
Her desire to find the seamstress was overtaken with the need to view the splendid stage she’d long dreamed of. The silly childhood fantasy of singing to a full house had her heart pumping with envy. It was majestic and unending. The ceiling seemed to go on forever and she couldn’t even see to the back seat of the top balconies.
“Can I help you?”
With a start she turned to the unexpected voice and faced a small elderly gentleman who smiled politely.
“I’m looking for Mrs. Henley. She came down to Louisiana a while back to visit with my mom and liked my abilities as a seamstress and suggested I come up here to work for her.”
The old man’s smile broadened and Annette realized she was rambling, but just couldn’t stop. “I may be only eighteen, but I’ve worked at my mother’s dress shop since I was thirteen and my mother has been a great teacher and even though I lack formal training, I know I can do this…”
“Right through there,” he said as he pointed to his left. “Up the stairs, second floor, third door on your right. She should just be getting back from her lunch.”
With a tight and nervous nod, she turned on her heel, repeating his directions in her mind over and over again.
Her heels echoed up the steps and the cool chill at her back followed her. She turned to glance behind her and could have sworn her breath frosted in the air. The echo of her steps reverberated in an odd cadence that didn’t quite match the pace of her steps.
Though her body shivered, her hands were clammy and heated. Her fingers reached for the cross hung at her neck. Her index played repeatedly over the rubies that formed a rose pattern at the center of the cross. Her breathing soon returned to normal and she proceeded while remaining cautious and aware of the sensations around her.
“Mrs. Henley?” Annette asked upon reaching the correct door.
A pleasantly plump woman turned and grinned. “Miss Binoche? Is that you?”
Annette realized her frumpy seamstress clothes back home were a far stretch from her fashionable, meant to impress New York attire. She’d gone out of her way to assure her clothes didn’t make her stick out like a tourist.
“Don’t really understand why a pretty girl like you wants to come and stick your fingers with pins and needles, but I’m sure happy to have you.”
“I’m happy to see you again, Mrs. Henley, and I look forward to doing my best work for you.” Annette gave her a warm hug and kissed her cheek. “Mother says hello and wants to thank you once again for being so gracious as to allow me this opportunity. You have no idea what this means to me.”
Mrs. Henley waved the compliments and pleasant words aside. “Nonsense, I need a good hard working girl who has the imagination as well as the work ethic you have. I have one girl who left to get married and three who dumped me once the school year resumed.”
Annette smiled and nodded, pleased to be given such praise and responsibility.
“You’re not going to go off and get married, are you?”
“Heaven’s no.”
“And you’re not going on to college, right?”
At this, Annette hesitated. She had once dreamed of attending a performance art school. Finances had not really allowed such a dream for now, but this was no doubt a step in the right direction. “Not for quite a while, if at all.”
“You know with all that pretty dark hair and soft innocent eyes, New York will eat you up. Just let me know if any of the young men here give you a hard time. Oh, and watch out for Marie, our house diva. She can get a little testy when she’s not the prettiest thing in a room.”
Chapter 1
October 14, 2009
Dear Diary,
After two long weeks of stitching, unstitching, mending and ironing, the day is finally at my doorstep. I’m so excited as rehearsals are set to begin tomorrow and the wardrobe department is buzzing with activity in order to have everything ready. I look forward to hearing the first notes of this opera I’ve been burning my fingers for. My love for this Opera House has grown and I relish every day here. Mrs. Henley, who insists I call her Roberta, is a dear and I adore working for her.
While I do miss my mom, I’m thankful to have Roberta as a surrogate.
“Is that music I hear?” I set down the petticoat I’d been sewing lace to and listened to the faint rumblings of a distant piano.
Knowing my eagerness to hear more of the music from The Masquerade at the Met, Roberta nodded, giving me her silent permission to sneak a peek downstairs.
With every step I took, the music came in clearer and my excitement grew. I’d heard so much about this mysterious opera that had been found in the crypts beneath the old Opera House in Paris. Word had it an obscure maestro from the Paris Opera House, rumored to be the phantom of the opera, had written the haunting and unforgettable music.
The music stopped momentarily, started again and stopped once more. By the time I arrived, the lead singer was taking her place and setting to sing her first note.
A few haunting notes from the piano filled the auditorium and a shiver of anticipation ran over every inch of my skin. I’d participated in several school plays in New Orleans and I had heard a multitude of musicians as I’d strolled down Bourbon Street, but nothing could compare to the excitement that now filled me.
The singer, pretty in her long blond tresses, opened her mouth and my anticipation grew. Her eyes, green and piercing, gazed all around her and quickly narrowed in annoyance. The lips that had been poised to let out the first notes quickly clamped down shut and set into a straight and grim line.
I glanced around to see what had caused her to become suddenly irate, and by the time my gaze returned to her, her hate filled eyes were pinned on me.
“Who are you and what are you doing here?”
Her words were so biting and her tone so shrill, I could barely imagine her
singing could be anything remotely resembling melodious.
“I… I… just…” I had no justifiable reason for being there. I’d not thought to drag along a garment to be fitted as an excuse.
“Get out!” she shouted.
Stunned, I just stood there for a moment. This was far from the southern hospitality I’d grown up with, and while I’d heard New Yorkers could be a bit harder and colder, I had in no way expected such a reaction from this diva.
“Get out! Get out! Get out!”
With my face heating up like iced-tea left out in the noonday sun, I turned away from the stage and marched up the aisle to the door at the back of the auditorium. I could feel the tears working their way to my eyes and hated the thought of crying over some snit who thought she was a star.
“Don’t let her get to you.”
The pleasant voice followed me out to the main hall of the Opera House. I turned to the toned and muscular build of a girl who was several inches shorter than me, but who carried herself with the confidence I presently lacked. Her short red hair was sassy, almost quirky, as was her style of dress, and she exuded an air of artistic flamboyance that I immediately liked.
“I’m Judy, one of the dancers. You’re new here, right?”
“Working with Mrs. Henley.”
“Roberta, great woman. Easier to work with than Prima Donna out there.” She thinks that just because she’s playing Adelle, leading princess of this Masquerade, she can push everyone around.”
“So she’s like that with everyone?”
“Hmm, not usually quite so quick to be so nasty. No, I’d say she clearly doesn’t like you.”
“But I don’t even know her. I don’t think I’ve even worked on any of her garments so it can’t be my workmanship she’s unhappy with. And I didn’t make a sound while I was in there. Is my simple presence enough to send her on a tirade?”
“Yes.”
I stared dumbly at her. It seemed impossible and was completely insane.
“Marie Abere is not only the star of this extravaganza, but she is also the most beautiful woman in all of the New York Metropolitan Opera House, if not all of Manhattan, or so she likes to think. You’re obviously more beautiful than she is, and she’s not taking it too well.”
“That’s absurd.”
“That’s Marie.”
Her matter of fact attitude was amusing and refreshing. It was funny how in one short minute I could meet someone who I could detest so instantly and also meet someone I could find so irresistibly likable.
“How can one girl be so obnoxious?”
“Some blame it on the Legend of the Masquerade. Personally, I think she’s just nuts.”
“The Legend?” Now I was intrigued.
“Roberta hasn’t told you about the Legend yet?”
An excited thrill ran through me and I silently berated Roberta for not letting me in on this juicy bit of information. A legend in New York. It was almost as exciting as VooDoo in New Orleans.
“I’ll admit she’d warned me about Marie, though I still wouldn’t have expected such a reaction, but she said nothing about a legend.
“Well, when The Masquerade first ran in Paris, it was hugely successful. It was the talk of the opera world and was touted as being a work of musical genius. Kristine, the lead in the opera, was said to be the next big thing. Then a story leaked that she’d been involved with the Phantom composer and her lover was not too happy about it. Turned out the Phantom had been accused of murder and he just disappeared one night. No one ever saw him again. And poor Kristin died heartbroken because her lover refused to marry her following the scandal.”
It was all so unbelievably romantic.
“Some are already taking bets on what scandal Marie will create. Personally, I think she’s having an affair with more than one man involved with this production. How else could she have gotten this job?”
“I don’t know, but I got this job thanks to my mom and I better hurry back or I’ll lose it.”
I returned to the wardrobe department while Judy set off for rehearsal. A few notes continued to make their way up, but not enough for me to judge the quality of the diva’s voice. By the time I resumed my seat, I put Marie out of my mind and concentrated on the length of lace that still had to be stitched to that petticoat.
An hour later, Roberta got to her feet. “I’m going to bring our lovely leading lady the costume for her opening number,” she declared as she thrust the heavy garment over her shoulder. “Come along, Annette, in case she needs any adjustments.”
I turned to her in disbelief. Did she really want me to go back down there and face that tigress? I wanted to protest, but she was already halfway out the door. Reluctantly, I got up and dragged my feet to follow behind her.
“And bring your pin cushion.”
I’d come to think the pincushion attached to my wrist was a permanent fixture. Were it not for the fact that it didn’t easily slip into the sleeve of my leather jacket, I probably would have absentmindedly left with it every night. It was bad enough I sometimes took the subway with lint, lengths of thread and tuffs of fur clinging to my pants, without having this bright red pin cushion advertising to everyone what I did for a living.
Not that I was ashamed of my line of profession. I was actually quite proud. I just didn’t want to walk about town with remnants of my work on my sleeve, as it were.
Chatting about trousers that needed mending, overcoats to embellish and bejeweled ball gowns that had yet to be assembled at all, Roberta led me down to the dressing rooms. The corridors were brightly lit and Marie’s door was clearly identified. Though curious to see the inside of the dressing room, I remained in the hall as Roberta brought the dress in to be fitted.
Marie was curt, even with Roberta. “Really, Roberta. Did you know that we have a show starting soon and that I still have hours of rehearsal and that waiting for you to finally make your way here isn’t really in my plans.”
“Is that so, dear?” Roberta hardly seemed fazed by Marie’s outburst. “Here you go. I’ll help you get this on.”
I heard the rustling of luxurious fabrics, and few groans and grunts then the sound no seamstress ever wants to hear.
“My God! What did you do?” Marie shouted.
“You pulled up too quickly.”
“No. You made the damn thing too tight,” Marie screeched.
I peeked in to see a large tear at the back of the dress and Marie’s bare back. Roberta glanced at me and waved me in.
Damn it.
Not wanting Marie to hear me enter, I didn’t risk pushing the door open and simply slid in through the tight opening where the door was barely ajar. I silently stood there, dreading Marie’s wrath.
“I don’t understand,” Roberta said. “I took your measurements just days ago and I’ve adhered to them in the most stringent way. I never miss a measurement. If anything, I usually leave a little leeway.”
Marie turned and shot Roberta such a venomous glare. I shuddered.
“Are you insinuating I’ve gained weight in the past few days?”
“No, absolutely not.”
Her venom was then aimed at me. “You. The hillbilly from the south. I bet you worked on this piece of crap and got the measurements all wrong.” She stepped out of the garment and kicked it away. “Go back and get it right this time.”
Not bothering to cover her nude body, she turned to the mirror in the corner and almost smiled at her reflection. I’d never seen someone so enamored with their own beauty. She whipped her head around towards us and she spat, “Are you still there? What are you waiting for? Fix that stupid thing.”
Roberta and I hurried out and while I felt my nerves frazzle like never before, I glimpsed Roberta chuckling. She shot me a funny face, made an obscene gesture towards Marie’s door and led me back to the stairs.
By the time we reached the landing, we were howling with laughter.
“The only way to deal with that girl is to laugh it of
f,” Roberta said. “Don’t let her get to you.”
“I’ve never seen someone be so nasty.” I smiled, happy to be sharing this moment with her. Had I been alone with Marie, no doubt I would have left the dressing room in tears.
After three hours spent mending the tight garment, Roberta sent me to see Marie again. Finding her dressing room empty, I laid the heavy gown on the back of a chair and went in search of her in the auditorium.
On opening the door, I heard her lamentations aimed at the orchestra pit.
“How many times do I have to tell you, Renfrew? There is no modulation after the first verse. And who gave you permission to change the key. This was supposed to be in B minor. What key are you giving me?”
Renfrew, the piano player who already seemed out of patience, inspected the music sheets. “The B minor has been scratched out and replaced with C minor.” He pointed to the second sheet. “And right here, there is a modulation.”
Marie bundled her fists together and pounded them into her thighs. Her face reddened to an almost purple hue. A tense hush fell over the stage and the entire auditorium. The few cast members in attendance shifted their gaze between Marie and Renfrew with nervous anticipation.
A stage hand, unaware of the goings-on, crossed the stage and inspected the scattered contents of the set.
“What the hell are you doing?” Marie turned away from the Renfrew and pointed her anger at the hapless worker.
Renfrew, stood, rolled his eyes to the ceiling high above and ran his hand over the sweaty top of his bald head. The day of rehearsal had been long and it was evident in his face.
The stage hand, unperturbed by Miss Diva’s ire, was calm as could be as he continued with his inspection.
“Hey! You!” Marie called out. “Broadway reject! I’m rehearsing here.”
He turned a cool eye her way, smirked then turned to Tom, the stage director, who appeared from side stage. “Tom, it’s even worse than I thought. In addition to the gold sword, we’re missing the candelabrum and the emerald encrusted dagger.”
