"Hi babe, I'm home!"

Christine's key echoed loudly on the marble of the hall stand.

At her call, Erik crawled out of the music room. Under the cheerfulness of her greeting – usually indicating a good day at work – there was a faint note of something else, so faint that most people would not have perceived it. But Erik was not most people, and his finely attuned ear picked up every harmonics in Christine's delicious voice. And whatever today's extra note stemmed from, it was faintly disquieting.

His unease grew when he saw her lovely face. She had evidently walked most of the way to their underground home – nothing wrong or unusual about that, of course – but there was a glint in her eye, an energy in her movement, which were inconsistent with a lengthy rehearsal day and a long walk.

And then he caught sight of the tote back on the table. Inside one of Christine's innumerable goodie-two-shoes cotton or jute bags, printed with environmental or feminist messages, was a box. Rectangular. Could have been anything, really. A new teapot perhaps? But he had already replaced the one he had broken in his ire when Christine had not been selected to sing Maria Stuarda at the Met. Some Russian diva had piped her to the post. What was wrong with these people? Were they deaf? Or blind for that matter – the other woman was not a patch on his luminous darling. Baksheesh was involved, he was certain! She had been very upset when he had flung the teapot at the nearest wall, and furious when he had suggested he would make the kind of counter-proposal they could not refuse. He had understood neither reaction: the teapot was old and already chipped; it had not featured among the sparse belongings that had moved into his flat with Christine the previous year. As for the other thing… He understood her desire to be considered on her own merits, but not her fanatical sticking to old-fashioned rules that no-one else followed any more.

Anyway, even if she had not liked the Villeroy & Boch beauty he had purchased – which, judging by her cooing over it, was not a risk - she would never buy a duplicate item. So, not a teapot.

Following his gaze, she placed a peck on his cheek and said, in a voice that brooked no disagreement: "No peeking into that bag. It's a surprise for dinner".

As she sauntered to the bathroom to freshen up, Erik battled with a powerful itch to satisfy his curiosity.

Pair of shoes? The box was too big for hers and too small for his. And she would not buy him shoes anyway. She had learnt her lesson from trying to buy him a shirt and utterly failing to get something that fitted his frame.

He was wasting his time on this guessing game. He would have to wait. With regret, he ambled into the kitchen and started peeling vegetables.

There was definitely something cooking, and not just on the stove. Christine was alternately singing to herself in a manically cheerful way, or harbouring a silent expression which would have looked like happy serenity to anyone but Erik, or she had none-to-subtly steered the conversation away from his questions with anecdotes about her day.

But sure as the Daroga was the most annoying meddler on the planet, she was hiding something.