Musical Beds (13 page)

“Not anymore.”

“Good. Because you are exactly the kind of person he preys on, Lydia. Star-struck and vulnerable.”

“I’m not those things! Well, perhaps I was. I’m not anymore.”

“I think he’s a narcissist. Narcissists like to keep plenty of people who adore and validate them close. They don’t like to lose their sources of adoration and validation. They are very important to them—but not as people. As fans, if you like.”

Lydia’s jaw dropped. This sounded incredibly harsh and, angry as she was with Milan, she was not prepared to accept it.

“Milan did not love me as a
fan
. He really did love me—deeply. Does! Still does!”

“So much that he sleeps with other women when he knows it will upset you?”

“We had a ménage dynamic before. I suppose he thought I’d be cool with it again.”

“You suppose? You didn’t think to ask him?”

“He didn’t think to ask me.”

Von Ritter shook his head.

“Communication failure,” he said, then he gave Lydia a long, searching look. “You were really in a ménage?”

She nodded, reluctant to discuss it, too full of animosity at the way this man had taken a scalpel to her private life and dissected it with a few short remarks.

“That surprises me,” he said.

He seemed to understand that he was taking the probing questions a little too far, though, for he drank up and stood.

“We should find our seats. The concert begins in five minutes.”

Von Ritter garnered quite a lot of attention from the auditorium, people nodding and greeting him as they moved along the aisle. Lydia had grown used to this, as Milan’s partner, but she was surprised at its extent.

“You’re really quite famous,” she said, sitting beside him.

“Among the cognoscenti,” he replied, waving at somebody in another row. “We’ve been invited backstage after the concert, for a little party. Would you like that?”

“I’d like to meet Julius Hackmeyer. I think he’s such an exciting talent.”

“Then you shall.”

The concert was wonderful, but Lydia found herself always a little too conscious of von Ritter’s presence at her side to truly lose herself in the music. Every time he shifted in his seat, she was intensely aware of it, watching his long legs cross and re-cross, his hands clasp in his lap or rest on the arm. She kept glancing sideways at his face in profile. It was noble and handsome, like a Roman emperor’s face. He would look perfect in some kind of uniform with a chest full of medals. His military bearing made quite a contrast with Milan’s long-limbed languor. Which was more attractive? At that moment, she couldn’t decide.

They stood at the end to applaud the orchestra and its esteemed conductor. Then, as the audience began to drain away through the back and side doors, von Ritter beckoned her up to the now-empty stage.

In the Green Room, instrumentalists milled around, quaffing champagne and munching on smoked salmon pinwheels. In the centre of a large group of press people, Julius Hackmeyer was holding forth. He broke off when he saw von Ritter and waved.

“Karl-Heinz!”

There followed a great deal of back-slapping and catching up, to which Lydia could not really contribute.

“And who is your friend?” asked Hackmeyer at last. “You didn’t introduce us.”

“Excuse my terrible manners. Julius Hackmeyer, this is Lydia… Oh, I’ve forgotten your surname.”

“Foster.”

“Lydia Foster.”

“Pleased to meet you, Lydia Foster,” said Hackmeyer, shaking her by the hand. “How are you acquainted with Karl-Heinz?”

“I play in the WSO. He’s our new conductor, as he just told you.”

“You work with Karl-Heinz? And you haven’t been driven to drink yet?”

“Actually…perhaps a drink would be nice,” said Lydia, and they all laughed.

“Please excuse me—I have another interview to give. Enjoy the party—and I hope you enjoyed the concert,” said Hackmeyer, backing away with an apologetic grimace.

“It was perfect,” Lydia assured him, watching him go.

She felt a little bit exposed after his departure, as if something might be expected of her, now she was alone with von Ritter, though she wasn’t sure what.

“He seems very nice,” she said nervously.

“He is a good man. We go back a long way. We studied together in Paris.”

Paris. Where Milan studied.

“How old are you?” she blurted, curious to know if he and Milan were contemporaries.

“I’m old enough to know better,” he said. “Probably too old for you.” He sighed.

The hairs on the back of Lydia’s neck prickled. That sounded dangerous.

“I wondered if you were in Paris at the same time as Milan, that’s all.”

“Milan, Milan. Always Milan.”

It was all very well for him to chide her for bringing him up, but he was just as guilty of doing it, if not more so.

Karl-Heinz looked over at the door and sucked in a breath. “Speak of the devil,” he said.

Lydia followed the direction of von Ritter’s gaze, her stomach knotting.

Milan had swept into the Green Room, diverting all eyes away from Hackmeyer and towards him. A couple of the journalist types ran towards him, looking for an inflammatory quote or a moment of photogenic charisma. He could be relied upon for both.

Lydia noted with appalled fascination how Hackmeyer’s face fell and his jaw set at the sight of her erstwhile lover. She also noted how Milan waved the journalists away, almost savagely. The last and most dismaying observation she made was that Sarah slunk along in Milan’s wake, looking very like a woman who had spent the last few hours on a bed underneath a man.

“Julius Hackmeyer,” said Milan, extravagant and overly effusive.

“Milan Kaspar,” said Hackmeyer, with studied calm.

“I suppose my invitation was lost in the post?”

“I’m sure that would explain it.”

“I had another engagement, as it happens.” He took Sarah’s hand, lifted it to his lips and kissed it. “I expect you were very good.”

Hackmeyer had nothing to say to that. There wasn’t a lot
to
say to it. He simply smirked, as if in disbelief, and looked around him, probably for an escape route.

“Anyway,” resumed Milan. “I wanted to pay my respects, you know. Just…catch up. Are you in London for long?”

“No.”

“Such a pity. Maybe next time, eh?”

Hackmeyer nodded slowly.

Milan turned on his heel.

Lydia shrank behind von Ritter, desperate not to be seen. But it was too late.

Milan halted in mid-wheel and stared, his eyes flicking between von Ritter and Lydia as if he were a cobra deciding whom to lash out at first.

In the event, he confined himself to a low hiss of, “I see,” and took Sarah quite roughly by the elbow, storming out of the room with her.

“Fuck,” muttered Lydia, feeling sick.

“Are you okay?” Von Ritter leant down, all dark-eyed, handsome concern.

She shook her head, nodded, shook again.

“I’m not sure.”

“Would you like to get out of here?”

“I think… Look, I’ll get a cab. You stay. You’ve come here to see your friend.”

She drew away, but he halted her with a hand on her forearm.

“No, Lydia. I’m seeing Julius for brunch tomorrow. It’s okay. Come on, let’s go somewhere quiet and get a drink. I’ll go and say our goodbyes.”

She watched while von Ritter exchanged a few words with a rather pale Hackmeyer. The visiting conductor nodded over at her and gave her a little wave of parting, releasing von Ritter from his social obligation.

Safe on a high stool in a low-lit cocktail bar, Lydia breathed in the fragrant fumes of her martini and tried to restore herself.

“He’ll be okay,” said von Ritter, giving her a look that seemed to penetrate to the very heart of her concerns. “He’ll have to be.”

“He thinks we’re seeing each other now.”

“Well, I can see you. And you can see me.”

“You know what I mean. He thinks we’re…”

She didn’t want to say any of the words.
Together. Lovers. Partners.
They all seemed too suggestive, somehow—too presumptuous. As if she bracketed herself mentally with von Ritter.

“Does it matter what he thinks?” asked von Ritter softly.

“It does if it isn’t true.”

Von Ritter smiled wistfully into his drink.

“Ah.”

“What on earth was that between Milan and Hackmeyer anyway? I’ve never seen sheer, naked hatred like it.”

“Oh, there is history between those two. A terrible, chequered history.”

“You know about it?”

Lydia stirred her cocktail restlessly, not sure if she wanted to hear or not. Did everything always have to be about Milan?

“I know about it from Julius’ side. It’s not really my tale to tell. Broken hearts, rivalries, bitter jealousy… You can guess the kind of thing.”

“Milan all over.”

Von Ritter shook his head and drained his glass.

“You know what he’s like, yet you all still adore him. Why is that?”

“If I had a hundred pounds for every time I’ve asked myself that question…”

“I know. You’d be a millionaire.”

“Are you getting another drink?”

“You know, I think there’s a danger of drink making us maudlin tonight, Lydia. Let’s not. Let’s go down to the river and walk off our troubles.”

They walked down through the silent canyons of the financial centre of London, all closed up for the night, towards the Thames. Lydia found that she had her hand in von Ritter’s arm, and she felt like a character from a glamorous old movie with her strong, silent beau.

The silence wasn’t uncomfortable. They both had things on their minds, and walking seemed to help the thinking process. Here, in the quiet and the dark, Milan and his woes seemed far away.

They passed under the shadow of St Paul’s and ended up on Southwark Bridge, looking upriver. Towers and peaks and spires and dozens upon dozens of cranes lit up the night sky.

“So, is your heart broken?” Von Ritter spoke at last, after a long stretch of communion with the vista before him.

“Broken? I wouldn’t say that. Battered, certainly. And bruised. But it isn’t broken.”

“That’s good.” He put his hand on her shoulder.

She realised she had missed the physical contact with him since he had unlinked their arms, and she shut her eyes and made the most of his palm’s weight and warmth.

“I suppose,” he continued, “you won’t be interested in anything romantic for a while.”

She turned to him, shivering a little, though it still wasn’t cold.

“What do you mean?”

“You know. You’ll want to lie in your room, eating ice cream, talking to your friends about how all men are bastards.”

Lydia laughed. “You’ve watched too many chick flicks. Funny, you don’t seem the type.”

“No? I don’t seem the type for chick flicks? What am I the type for, then? Tell me.”

“War films. Detective dramas. Mysteries. You know. Manly stuff.”

Von Ritter’s smile was broad and white in the darkness.

“You see me in a very masculine light.”

“Yes, I do. That straight back and no-nonsense manner you have.”

“Do you think it ridiculous?”

Lydia was surprised at the flash of vulnerability his words revealed.

“Gosh, no, not ridiculous. That’s definitely not the word I’d use.”

“So what word would you use?”

Attractive. Sexy.

“Er…interesting.”

Von Ritter leant down, his shoulder nudging hers, and spoke directly into her ear.

“What word would you really use?”

“Stop it. Stop being so… Argh! Stop trying to read my mind.”

“Oh, but I like reading your mind. It’s the best one I’ve had to work with for a long time. Come on. Look at me. Let me read it for you.”

Lydia turned her face away, but he waited with such patient self-assurance that she felt certain she would have to give in eventually. So she looked back at him, pursing her lips in defiance, daring him to do his worst.

“Now, let me see…” He put one finger beneath her chin, tilting it for the optimum view of her eyes. “She’s a little bit scared and a little bit excited. What is she thinking of?”

Lydia obstinately pictured a tin of pears in syrup she’d seen in her food cupboard earlier that evening.

“Is it…music?”

She shook her head.

“Is it…? No, it isn’t Milan Kaspar. She doesn’t look pissed enough.”

A corner of her lip curled up. Damn him. He was fun and desirable and… God, would it be such a bad idea?

“Maybe… She’s smiling and she looks a little bit wicked, so maybe it’s…” He bent closer. She felt his breath. Everything tensed.

“Pears,” she blurted, pre-empting him.

“Excuse me?”

“I’m thinking about pears.”

“Pairs of what?”

“No, the fruit. Pears.”

He stared, nonplussed, for a moment.

“Why pears?”

“Why not?”

He nodded, as if considering this proposition seriously.

“Yes. Why not? Pears. Why not? I guessed wrong. You have to read me now.”

“I can’t.”

“You have to try. Look at me. A good, long look, right into the eyes. Can you see what is behind them, in my mind? Can you see it?”

His voice was low and hypnotic—only the glint in his eye gave away the lighthearted intention of his words.

“No,” said Lydia, but she could. So much so that her cheeks were hot and she was acutely aware of the danger of her position.

“Look closer. Look harder. What’s there?”

Sex.

“Optic nerves,” she said, flustered.

“Oh, Lydia.” He shook his head. “You disappoint me. Okay, forget about reading my eyes. Try my lips.”

He bent his head closer.

“Read your lips?”

“Mm-hmm.” He puckered them.

“How do I do that?” she whispered.

“You want me to show you?”

She nodded. She had crossed the line. It was going to happen now.

He put his hands on her cheeks, fingers reaching into her hair, and pressed his mouth to hers.

It felt so good to have all the angst, and the weighing up of pros and cons and rights and wrongs, taken out of her hands like this. To cede control to him was bizarrely liberating. All the worries about Milan and Sarah and the orchestra and everything spiralled up and away from her, replaced entirely by the delicious sensation of Karl-Heinz’s lips on hers.