It was everything she had ever imagined, and more. Try as she might, she couldn’t find words to describe it. Beautiful seemed woefully inadequate. Awesome came close, but still fell short. She owed her fascination with the Paris Opera House solely to Andrew Lloyd Webber – or to be more exact – to her fascination with the amazing production The Phantom of the Opera. She had seen the movie, of course, but it didn’t hold a candle to the stage play. She had seen the play once, and once had not been enough. The music had enthralled her; the plight of the Phantom had touched her every emotion from joy to despair, and she had eagerly joined the ranks of those feeling emotionally drained when the Phantom’s last anguished cry faded away. She had become obsessed with all things Phantom. She had collected everything she could find with that world-famous logo: music boxes and posters, ads in the paper, books and magazine articles. If it related to the Phantom, she simply had to have it: dolls and figurines; snow globes and playing cards; picture frames and jewellery; Christmas ornaments and collector plates; every version of the music on tape or CD that she could find.
