“You really want this?” she said, clinking rims with Ben. “You really want to spend your life with an old crock like me?”
“I really want to spend my life with a strong, passionate, incredible woman. You seem to fit the bill. Not sure why you want to bother with a silly little squirt like me, though.”
“I want to spend my life with a warm, funny, sexy, kind man, as it happens. And there’s one of those right here.”
* * * *
Once the taxi had left the Leipzig city limits behind, Lydia felt Karl-Heinz really owed her an explanation.
“Karl-Heinz, with respect, where the hell are we going?”
“I’m glad you included the respect,” said Karl-Heinz, “or I’d be considering stopping this cab and warming your bottom on the side of the road for that.”
Lydia eyed the cabbie nervously, hoping he didn’t speak English.
“I’m only asking."
“I’m only telling you. Wait and see.”
“I thought we were going to the Thomaskirche.”
“Later.”
When signs for Leipzig/Halle airport began to appear on the side of the road, Lydia thought she might have some idea of what was going on, but she decided to play oblivious, punctuating the journey with little sighs of confusion for Karl-Heinz’s benefit.
She kept these up even when they left the motorway and swept on to the airport access road, so Karl-Heinz turned to her, eyes narrowed.
“You knew all along, didn’t you?” he accused.
She laughed. “You were enjoying your little game so much. I didn’t like to spoil it for you.”
“Humph. This is not the game—the game comes later, when we are back at the hotel.”
“We’re meeting Milan, aren’t we? He’s come to spend the weekend.”
She had never been so pleased with a correct guess, especially when the sight of Milan striding across the concourse, overnight bag slung across one shoulder, gave her heart the kind of jolt usually only achieved by electricity.
“You didn’t tell me,” she accused while he laughed at her from the other side of the barrier.
“We wanted to surprise you,” he said, oblivious to the nudges and over-the-shoulder glances cast in their direction as he took Lydia into his arms, then kissed Karl-Heinz on both cheeks. The three of them, arm-in-arm-in-arm, marched off to the taxi rank, with a stride that suggested high spirits and anticipation.
* * * *
Once back in Leipzig, Lydia, and, she was sure, both of the others, tried to spend some of the evening pretending that they weren’t all thinking about getting back to the hotel bedroom. They wandered the market, quaffed ale in the Auerbach cellar, ate a meal heavy on sausages and sauerkraut then, once the central European chill was temporarily banished, the question of where to go next had only one answer.
Milan took a shower, eager to get the plane dust off him, while Karl-Heinz and Lydia sat side by side on the big bed, watching cable TV and drinking Sekt, the German version of cheap sparkling wine. Karl-Heinz’s arm was slung around Lydia’s shoulders and, every so often, they rubbed noses or kissed, until Sekt was spilled and Karl-Heinz scolded and mopped it up with a handkerchief.
“Oops,” said Lydia carelessly.
“You are over-excited,” he said sternly. “Perhaps I should send Milan home again.”
“He wouldn’t go.”
Karl-Heinz nodded, obviously resigned to the truth of the matter. He might assert his mastery over Lydia, but over Milan he had none. Lydia had thought at first that this might bother him, but it didn’t seem to. Both men seemed happy to read each other’s cues. Milan didn’t mind playing bottom in bed sometimes, but he wouldn’t be told what to do by anybody.
It was just as well Lydia had a wide submissive streak, or the three of them might not co-exist quite so harmoniously. She had been a valuable intercessor in the first days of their ménage, trying her best to smooth over any rumples caused by Milan’s impulsivity and Karl-Heinz’s rigidity. The men were such temperamental opposites and yet, in a funny way, this seemed to work for them.
Karl-Heinz played the indulgent father figure, Milan the rebellious child, until he grew tired of it and asserted himself as a man, at which times, Karl-Heinz became his colleague and co-conspirator. Usually this occurred at Lydia’s expense. Or rather, to her benefit, because she was developing a distinct taste for being double-topped.
“I’m spoilt,” she said, putting down her Sekt and stretching out on the bed. “The most spoilt woman in the world.”
“That’s true,” said Karl-Heinz. “And tonight you’ll get spoilt even more.”
The shower shut off, its splashes abruptly ceasing.
Lydia shivered with delight. She had already taken off her outer clothing and now lay in her underwear and a short silk robe, making the most of the hotel’s tropical levels of central heating.
“I don’t suppose he’ll bother to get dressed,” commented Karl-Heinz. “Come on, let’s finish the drink and put it away. It’s not fair to drink in front of him.”
“No,” Lydia agreed, tipping the remains of the glass down her throat and watching Karl-Heinz return the bottle to the minibar. “Not now he’s doing so well.”
They were both back on the bed, Karl-Heinz perched on the side, Lydia stretched out with her arm across her face, when Milan opened the en-suite door and came back into the room.
Lydia, never able to resist a peek at his splendid body, propped herself up, gloating at the toned expanse that emerged from the towel around his waist, and the long legs below. His damp hair was swept back from his brow, revealing the high forehead and noble profile she loved so much. Not to mention the devilish grin.
“You have started without me,” he accused.
“Not at all,” said Karl-Heinz, still in his shirt and trousers, though shoes and jacket had been neatly stowed away. “We have better manners than that, don’t we, Lydia?”
“Oh yes, we’re well up in threesome etiquette, Karl-Heinz and I.”
“Threesome etiquette?” Milan frowned down at her, folding his arms across his bare chest. “Will you teach it to me?”
“Don’t you know it?” She sat up, smiling impishly.
“I don’t think so.”
“Okay. Well, there are a few rules to learn, aren’t there, Karl-Heinz? Like, rule number one, never leave one person out of the mix.”
“Or that would be a twosome,” Milan pointed out.
“True.”
“Number two,” said Karl-Heinz, removing his socks. “Each person must come at least once, ja?”
“Ja,” agreed Milan. “At least. Rule number three, Karl-Heinz loves to make rules.”
Lydia laughed and Karl-Heinz put his socks neatly in the laundry hamper and mock-frowned at his teasing lover.
“That is not a rule, it is an observation. But I can make a rule for you. Rule number three, anybody who is rude to Karl-Heinz will be punished.”
“Oops,” said Lydia delightedly.
Milan sat down beside her.
“Rule number four,” he said. “If Milan isn’t in the mood to be punished, Lydia is his proxy.”
“Not fair!” squealed Lydia.
“Rule number five, fairness doesn’t come into it,” said Milan, lunging at her.
She had no room for escape and she found herself rapidly upended over Milan’s lap while he bared her bottom for a vengeful Karl-Heinz, now kneeling on the bed in only his shirt.
* * * *
More than her bottom was sore by the time she lay, sandwiched between her two satiated lovers, drenched in sweat and semen, tingling, emotionally raw and yet with such a feeling of comfort and safety.
“I think this really works,” she said with a yawn.
“It’s not what I ever expected,” said Karl-Heinz, facing her. “But I think you’re right. We seem to know each other on an instinctive level. What do you think, Milan?”
“I think you are both very lovely,” he said, but
he was not far from sleep and neither was Lydia, so she didn’t pursue the conversation.
The three of them drifted into blissful sleep, and the Thomaskirche remained unvisited.
Chapter Seventeen
On the roof garden of the Skinners’ Hall, Lydia took a glass of champagne cocktail for herself and a fruit punch for Milan and went to stand with him by the fountain.
“What a beautiful place to get married,” she said, looking around at the stone towers dedicated to God and the glass towers dedicated to Mammon that surrounded them.
“You are getting ideas,” said Milan, regarding her through hooded eyes.
“No, I’m not. Besides, two grooms and one bride—I’m not sure how many wedding venues offer that kind of service.”
He smiled and looked over at Karl-Heinz, who was chatting with a dark-haired woman in an exquisitely cut violet trouser suit.
“I ought to go and apologise to her,” he said.
“Yes, you bloody well should. I’m so glad she could make it. I’ve missed Mary-Ann.”
“Roof gardens are great, but December might not be the best month for them,” remarked Milan, shivering and pulling his long wool coat further around him.
“Come on, I’m going over to say hello to her.”
Lydia, in deep red velvet sheath and fake-fur cape, tottered unsteadily on still-unaccustomed heels over to her former conductor and friend.
“Mary-Ann!” she cried.
There was a wholehearted embrace, while Milan and Karl-Heinz looked on indulgently, and a fast five-minute catch-up, leaving both women clearly breathless.
“And I’d like to introduce Shona,” said Mary-Ann, blushing and bringing forward a smiling sandy-haired woman in a Chanel suit. “My very own bride-to-be.”
Lydia squealed and they embraced again, a complicated three-way affair. But then, Lydia was used to those now.
“Congratulations,” said Milan, speaking for the first time.
“Thank you,” said Mary-Ann, civilly but guardedly, looking him up and down. “And congratulations to you, on your new solo career.”
He nodded. “I am a better violinist than a conductor,” he said. “I know that now. And I owe you an apology. You were badly treated and it was my fault. I’m sorry.”
“That’s, well, that’s good of you to say so,” said Mary-Ann, clearly rather surprised at this new and humble version of her old adversary. “Good luck with your concert tomorrow night. I’ll be in the audience, cheering you all on.”
“You must come backstage,” said Karl-Heinz. “Have a drink with us all. The orchestra will be so happy to see you again.”
“Really? That’s sweet. I’m touched. But you’re obviously doing a bang-up job with them.”
“Half of it is keeping control,” he said with a rueful smile.
“Only half?” said Mary-Ann, laughing.
“Well, Milan left, of course, so that cut it down a lot.”
And now they were all grinning together, the old bad feeling melting away in the crucible of this beautiful new beginning.
“Ah, the bride and groom!” announced Karl-Heinz, looking to the roof garden door, and cheering and clapping rose in the muffling winter air.
Ben and Vanessa walked slowly down the steps, he resplendent in three-piece dove-grey morning suit with blue-and-gold brocade waistcoat, she in a cream strapless dress with full skirt and sweetheart neckline, crimson velvet wrap about her shoulders, matching with her high-heeled shoes.
Photographs ensued, the endless family groupings, then friends and finally the whole crowd of fifty guests together, trying not to shiver by the fountain.
“Does anyone know where Dafydd is today?” asked Karl-Heinz in an undertone of Lydia as they paraded, rather thankfully, indoors to the reception room.
“Leonard says he texted him from New York. He’s got interviews lined up with one of the orchestras there.”
“Okay, that’s a safe distance,” said Milan.
* * * *
The reception room was a handsome, venerable hall with wood-panelled walls, over which Italianate frescoes of medieval appearance looked down on the guests, lit by three great arched windows at the far end. The pillars at the entrance were wound around with twinkling fairy lights and each circular table bore a huge centrepiece of crimson hellebores with gold-sprayed ferns.
Vanessa, standing at the end of the reception line with Ben, her own elderly parents and Ben’s somewhat younger counterparts, felt as if she might be dreaming.
Everything was so beautiful, so perfect, after it had all almost crashed down around her ears. She was here, in this beautiful room, wearing this beautiful dress, with her gorgeous new husband and all her closest friends and family.
She’d been blinking back tears for hours, but she was determined not to ruin her makeup and she kept her chin high and her stomach sucked in as she accepted the warm greetings of each passing guest.
“Mary-Ann, so pleased you could make it—all the way from Northern Ireland. Pleased to meet you, Shona. Leonard! Hello. Karl-Heinz, that’s an amazing buttonhole. Thanks for coming, Milan. Lydia.”
Vanessa risked her perfect posture to give her friend a heartfelt hug.
“All’s well that ends well,” she whispered.
“However unconventional,” Lydia whispered back, with a broad smile.
“The more unconventional, the better,” she said, squeezing Lydia tight once more.
They took their seats at the top table, in front of a red plush-lined cabinet full of precious crockery and silverware.
“How do you feel, Mrs Chancellor?” asked Ben, pouring her a glass of wine.
“Hey, I’m keeping my own name, remember.”
“I know. I kind of want yours, though. Can I be Mr Robertson?”
“Shall we be Chancellor-Robertsons? That sounds fantastically grand.”
“Yes, I like that. D’you think it’ll fit on the concert programmes though?”
Vanessa was infected by his mischievous smile and she leant forward to rub noses and swap a brief kiss.
“Chancellor-Robertson,” she said, raising her glass in a private toast.
“Robertson-Chancellor,” he replied, clinking.
She could barely eat a thing out of excitement, turning instead to her wine glass until Ben put his hand over it.
“Don’t get wasted, Ness,” he hissed. “What about that hotel? It seems a lot of money to spend to pass out on the bed.”
She felt her cheeks burst into flame.
“I’m not getting wasted,” she objected, but she took his point and slowed down.
The night in the boutique hotel around the corner was going to be a highlight of the day. She and Ben had not spent a night together all week, as a way of building anticipation. It would be wrong of her to waste all that on too much Dutch courage.
So she kept her glass empty during the speeches—Ben’s funny and touching, her father’s hilarious, Ben’s best man—an old school friend—so nervous he dropped his notes all over the floor.
She looked out over the tables, trying to memorise the outfit each of the guests wore, enjoying a little glow of satisfaction when she saw Lydia, perfectly glamorous, sitting between her two lovers. Who would have foreseen that, back in January, when the anxious girl in the battered fleece and round spectacles showed up for her first rehearsal?
After dinner, the guests mingled with drinks while Milan, Lydia and two of the other string players formed a quartet and entertained.
Later on, when a band took over, Ben and Vanessa said their goodbyes and departed, on foot, for the hotel.
“Oh, it’s snowing!” Vanessa held out her hand and watched snowflakes fall, in the twilight, on to her fingertips.
“About time. I was going to ask for my money back if the snow didn’t show up soon,” said Ben, in a mock-huff.
“You numpty,” said Vanessa, giving the tip of his nose a kiss of forbearance. “This is what I’ve signed up for, isn’t it? A lifeti
me of your daft jokes.”
“For better, for worse,” said Ben. “Mostly worse. You should hire that therapist as soon as you get a minute.”
He wrapped an arm around her waist and began to run with her, through the thickening snowfall, to the hotel around the corner.
“Careful, it’s slippery,” she cried. “I don’t want to ruin this dress.”
But they made it without accident and were soon in their honeymoon suite, the bed covered in dried rose petals, a bottle of champagne in an ice bucket on the dresser.
“Hooray for speedy internet divorce services,” said Vanessa, uncorking the champagne and pouring them each a glass.
“I thought we’d have to postpone for a moment there,” admitted Ben. “Or have a little bigamous overlap.”
Vanessa laughed, putting her glass on the nightstand and falling backwards on to the petal-strewn bed.
“A bigamous overlap sounds very pervy,” she said. “I could have kissed the postman when he brought the decree absolute.”
“Yesterday,” added Ben pointedly. “Yeah, I could have kissed him too. I was pretty close to forgetting how to breathe for a while back there.”
She sat up and reached out for Ben’s hands, pulling him down to sit beside her on the bed.
“Thank you,” she said seriously.
“What for?” he asked with a puppy-eyed little smile.
“For sticking with me. Despite me being an old bat.”
“I won’t hear that.”
“And despite all that horrible stuff with Dafydd,” she persisted. “Lots of men would have backed off. You’re very special.”
“I know.”
He put his hand to the side of her face, his long fingers pushing against the glittering leaves of her tiara.
“You really are.”
“You’re the most special woman in the world,” he said softly. “You’re my wife. Kiss me.”
She couldn’t think of a single thing she’d rather do.
His beloved face, sometimes so boyish, sometimes so serious, was bent towards her, blue eyes intent, lips slightly pouting, ready for her.
Close Harmony Page 17