Musical Beds (11 page)

“Well, since I’m not likely to have any other company…”

“I’m sorry. I had to come.”

“His Master’s Voice, eh?” The disapproving edge was impossible to ignore.

“No, he sounded so…”

“Needy?”

“No.” Yes. “I mean, he’s struggling, Ness. You know he is. I can’t stand by and watch him sink.”

“You aren’t responsible for him.”

“I know, I know, I know.” Lydia heaved a sigh.

“So, is he okay? Can you come back? We’re in All Bar One.”

“He’s okay, yeah. The thing is… I’ve kind of said I’ll move in with him.”

“You’ve said what?” Vanessa’s voice rose to a squawk and Lydia winced.

“Can we just take the lecture as read? I’ve said I’ll move in with him until the first night of the Proms, then, once that’s over, we’ll rethink.”

“He’s got you exactly where he wants you, hasn’t he?”

Lydia thought about herself, underneath Milan, impaled on his cock, her body snaking to the left then the right. Exactly where he wanted her. But that was exactly where she wanted to be.

“Ness,” she said, softly, sadly. “I don’t want to lose your friendship. And I’m so happy for you and Ben…” She let the sentence tail off, not sure if she wanted to end it.

“You mean—lots of people wouldn’t be? That’s what you’re saying, isn’t it? That we’re both in relationships that might raise people’s eyebrows?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You meant it. Fuck you, Lydia. Thanks a million for your support. But Ben and I are fine—no co-dependency issues, no emotional blackmail, no head games. And that’s just the way it should be. Good luck, love. You’re going to need it.”

The line clicked and went dead. Lydia sank down onto the side of the bath and stared at the blank display screen. Was Milan worth losing Vanessa’s friendship over? He had better be, she thought grimly.

Chapter Eight

It wasn’t just the violin strings that were tense on the day of the next rehearsal. Everyone from the flautists to the double basses was abuzz with curiosity, waiting for the grand entrance of Herr Karl-Heinz von Ritter.

Milan, no longer attached to the first violinists, sat in his own chair a little apart from the others, while Lydia was party to a long stream of nervous chatter from Leonard, who expected to be hauled over the coals for the state the orchestra was in.

Lydia did her best to reassure him—nothing had slid so far that it was irrecoverable, after all—but he wouldn’t hear it.

Ben and Vanessa were not so much nervous as excited, and their excitement wasn’t entirely connected to the arrival of the new conductor. Other considerations drove and heightened it, most specifically their plan to take a weekend mini-break in the Cotswolds for the Bank Holiday.

Vanessa couldn’t help but feel her natural caution and reserve melt, molecule by molecule, in the sunshine of Ben’s frank regard for her. Much as she regretted Lydia’s new accommodation arrangements, she couldn’t regret the Saturday night and Sunday morning of uninterrupted, rampant sex they had led to.

She had thought that, at forty-two, her days of being able to do it morning, noon and night might be over. Apparently not.

Her toes curled in memory of one particularly hot episode on the dining room table. What a lot of polishing that had needed afterwards…

Her reverie was interrupted by the brisk swinging open of the double doors behind them, heralding the entrance of Lord Davenport and a tall, dark and distinguished man of around forty. His bearing was proud and his manner somewhat imperious, with no hint of an ingratiating smile or even acknowledgement of the orchestra’s presence to be seen.

“Well, good afternoon, one and all,” said Lord Davenport. “And it’s a momentous day in the long and illustrious history of our orchestra, as we have the honour of welcoming Karl-Heinz von Ritter, whose reputation I’m sure you’re aware of. I know that our association is going to be long and fruitful. Now I’ll hand you over and let him speak for himself.”

With a nod, Lord Davenport retired to the sidelines. Lydia noted that he picked the particular sideline that gave the best view of Milan and his reactions. She wondered if Mary-Ann McKenzie had ever said anything about her treatment at Milan’s hands before she’d resigned. If so, it had never been mentioned.

The orchestra gave von Ritter politely enthusiastic applause, at which he held up a hand and smiled modestly.

“Thank you, thank you,” he said, with the refined trace of a German accent. “You are very kind. I don’t know what you might have heard about me, but I can assure you that I am very familiar with you and your works and have held an ambition to conduct you for a long, long time. I am delighted to have this opportunity to work with one of the world’s best orchestras. I know, from my conversations with the trustees, that you have had a slightly rough patch lately.”

Lydia prayed he wouldn’t look at Milan. He didn’t.

“But I have always enjoyed the challenge of steering an orchestra through the most dangerous waters to safety and triumph. Perhaps it’s because I am a sailor!”

There were some coughs of disbelief and a ripple of laughter. As far as anyone knew, von Ritter was not a sailor.

“Oh yes, I served my German national service in the Navy,” he said. “Perhaps it was a long time ago now, but I have never forgotten what I learnt there.”

“And what was that?” Milan’s voice, dark irony underlying the politeness.

“Self-discipline, the importance of teamwork, everything polished to the last detail. You will, I am sure, agree with me on these.”

Several hands went to mouths, hiding smiles at ‘the importance of teamwork’.

“
Natürlich
,” said Milan in a bored tone.

“That’s good to hear. Now, which of you is Leonard Prentiss?”

Leonard raised a hand, somewhat half-heartedly.

“I must thank you for keeping the ship afloat between conductors. And, without further ado, let’s get to work. The Elgar Violin Concerto, yes?”

Milan stood with a flourish while the others shambled to their feet. Lydia observed that he was not best pleased at not being thanked alongside Leonard. But, then, why would he be? Why must Milan be such a diva about these things?

The rehearsal went well, Milan enjoying his spotlight while the orchestra responded thankfully to von Ritter’s competent hand with the baton.

Afterwards, a group gathered in the Delius Arms garden for a debrief.

“What do you think?” Leonard opened, once drinks—lime and soda for Milan—were on the table.

“Brilliant,” said Lydia. “I think the Prom is going to be amazing.”

“Yeah, he’s cool,” contributed Sarah the harpist.

Milan shrugged, seemingly unwilling to give due praise.

“Early days,” he said. “Time will tell.”

“Ooh, the oracle of doom,” teased Lydia, thinking he needed taking down a peg. “Come on, Milan. He’s good.”

“Better than me, I guess,” he said moodily.

“He isn’t drunk, for one thing,” she snapped, but she followed it up with a swift apology. Perhaps that was going too far.

“Oh, God, trouble in paradise?” drawled Sarah. “I hate public tiffs—so uncool.”

Lydia glared at her, then lifted her eyes to where Vanessa and Ben sat on the other side of the patio garden, studiedly avoiding them.

“Excuse me,” she said. “I just want to have a word…”

She made her way over to them.

“Let me buy you a drink,” she opened. “I don’t want us to fight. Please?”

Ben smiled in a friendly way, but Vanessa simply pursed her lips.

“C’mon, Ness,” said Ben, nudging her shoulder. “I don’t want to be a bone of contention. I’m thin enough as it is.”

Vanessa’s mouth twisted into a grudging smile.

“Stupid boy,” she growled, but then she looked at Lydia and nodded.

“Okay. Bygones. Mine’s a gin and lime. Ben’ll have a lager.”

At the bar, Lydia drew a huge breath and enjoyed the novel sensation of everything being right with the world. She had Milan for a lover, Vanessa for a friend and the orchestra was back on track.

She enjoyed picking apart von Ritter and his techniques with Vanessa and Ben so much that she didn’t notice the others rising to leave. Leonard tapped her on the shoulder on their way out.

“We’re going back to Milan’s,” he said. “Are you coming?”

“Oh…can I meet you there? I might stay for another.”

“Great. See you later.”

She looked around to wave at Milan, but he had disappeared already.

It was a beautiful, late spring evening and even the London air smelt sweet and beguiling. She sat in the garden, drinking cloudy lemonade and feeling the promise of summer on her skin.

Something nagged at the back of her mind, though. What was it?

Oh. Yes. A memory—the first time she had been to Milan’s apartment. A sex party in full swing, involving a good number of the orchestra’s string section. As far as she knew, Milan was out of that scene now, but he had never said so. Since Evgeny’s death…

Suddenly the lemonade was too bitter on her tongue.

“I might go home, actually,” she said to Vanessa.

“Milan’s home.”

“And mine.”

“Okay, love. See you tomorrow.” Lydia sensed the resignation in her friend’s tone.

When she looked back at Vanessa and Ben, they were kissing.

* * * *

She heard loud voices all the way down the corridor—booming laughter and shouts. It sounded like quite a party. The nagging feeling was stuck in the pit of her stomach.

She pushed open the door and put down her violin case in the lobby.

Further on, in the living room, the sofas and chairs and rugs heaved with the bodies of string players—mercifully clothed—doing nothing more decadent than helping themselves to Milan’s drinks cabinet.

In the far corner, to Lydia’s surprise, sat von Ritter.

Leonard, catching sight of her, leapt from his chair and tried to head her off. She couldn’t see Milan anywhere.

“Ah, Lydia,” he said anxiously. “A little impromptu gathering in honour of our new conductor. Will you join us in a glass?”

“Where’s Milan?”

“He, uh, popped out for a moment.”

“Why are you being so weird? You’re not being honest with me. Where is he?”

The bedroom
.

She dodged past Leonard, catching sight of a number of grimaces and shaken heads as she moved towards the bedroom. He was definitely in there. With…?

She opened the door gently, not wanting to charge in there and start a screaming match. She just needed to know. She had to keep calm. And know the worst.

The first thing she saw was a toned, fake-tanned bottom belonging, judging by the crown of platinum blonde hair, to Sarah the harpist. The fingers wrapped around her slim hips were most definitely Milan’s, as were the long legs stretched out towards Lydia.

This wasn’t all, though. Lying beside them on the bed, his head bent over Milan’s, kissing him fervently, was the orchestra’s famously camp clarinettist, Maurice. Attractive, exuberant and very Parisian, he had blatantly admired and crushed on Milan since joining the WSO.

A replacement for Evgeny
, thought Lydia, her heart sinking so low she thought it might end up in the concert hall on the ground floor.

What should she do? Speak up? Or leave?

She didn’t know what to say, and whatever came out of her mouth would certainly end up in ugly words of recrimination.

So she left, walking back through the living room as unobtrusively as she could, breaking into a run once she’d picked up her violin case and made it through the front door.

Waiting for the lift, she clutched the instrument case to her chest, taking in great gasping breaths that threatened to turn into sobs.

Before the digital indicator had placed the elevator halfway to her floor, she was disturbed by a hand on her shoulder.

“Lydia,” said a German-accented voice.

She spun around to see Herr von Ritter standing behind her, his rather severe face relaxed into an expression of concern.

“Yes. You know my name?”

“It was mentioned a few times, back there. Are you okay?”

She nodded mechanically, eyeing the digital indicator, keen to get away somewhere she could bawl her heart out in peace.

“No, you aren’t,” he contradicted, placing a palm beneath her elbow. “Not at all. Let’s go. I’ll buy you dinner. Are there any good places around here?”

“Loads. But please… I just want to go home…”

“I need to talk to you, Lydia. Professional business. Boss and employee.”

“You don’t employ me.”

“No, I know that, but…”

He paused. The elevator had arrived. They both stepped inside.

“I’ve heard some interesting rumours. You might be able to confirm or deny them for me.”

“You want me to dish the dirt?” Lydia felt resentful and irritated at von Ritter’s presumption. Milan might be breaking her heart, but that didn’t mean she was going to avenge herself by breaking his confidences.

“I want to start my career with the WSO forearmed with as much knowledge as possible about its inner workings.” He looked down at her and smiled. “As a conductor, my instrument is all of you. I need to know how to tune you up. How to keep you in good condition. You see?”

“Yes, yes. Okay. Dinner. There’s a Thai place near here Milan always…” she sighed, “recommends.”

“Thai is good for me,” he said, striding with her out into the lobby.

Within minutes they were ensconced in a hidden booth in the restaurant, looking at menus and sipping aperitifs.

“Mr Kaspar certainly throws an interesting party,” said von Ritter mildly.

“He’s a dreadful host,” said Lydia. “Throwing a party in your honour then buggering off to shag the other guests. Bad manners. He’s always had those, though.”

“I’m sorry, Lydia. He’s upset you. I’d had the impression that you and he…”

“Yeah. It’s a long and stupid and complicated story. But it’s ended. I’m drawing a line under it. He can ruin himself as much as he wants. I couldn’t care less anymore.”

“Ah.” Von Ritter gave her a melancholy look. “I don’t think that’s quite true, is it? This is bravado. You know him well, I observe. What would you say makes him, what’s the phrase, like a clock?”