She pressed her lips to his, for once not caring about lipstick or mascara or her hair or any of the things that usually held her back. Here was the man who had saved her from the long shadow of Dafydd ap Hughes and showed her how to live again. She would throw every particle of herself into making him feel as happy and loved as he made her.
His lips, like hers, were a little cold from the snow and the champagne, but they soon heated up, their skin vibrating with the beat of two liberated hearts.
Before long, teeth and noses clashed, then tongues. Arms wrapped around bodies, legs around each other. Bodies fell sideways with a thud onto the duvet.
“Ouch, this tiara!” Vanessa sat back up again, hand on head. “I’m going to have to take it off, sorry. Or I’ll stab myself in the skull.”
Ben helped her remove the hundreds of pins until the twisted glistering wire was off and Vanessa’s hair fell loose.
“God, I must look a state,” she fretted.
“I command you to repeat after me—I am beautiful,” said Ben, wagging a finger at her.
“Don’t be silly.”
“No, I command it. Whether your hair is up or down or halfway off your head, you are beautiful. Say it.”
“No!”
He lunged for her wrists and held them tight above her head in one hand, using the other to tickle her armpits.
She screamed and twisted but couldn’t get free.
“That’s not fair! No! Oh God, all right. I am beautiful, okay?”
“Say it again.”
Another tickle. Another scream.
“I am beautiful, you swine. No, stop.”
He took pity on her, dropping her wrists and moving his fingers to his cravat.
“Got to get this off before it strangles me.”
“Aww, it suits you. Such a gent.”
But she helped him loosen the knot and slide the blue-patterned silk from around his neck.
“That’s no gent, that’s your husband,” he said in a wisecracking Brooklyn twang. “Look, we’re both very overdressed. Shall we relieve ourselves of our finery?”
“I thought you’d never ask. Unbutton me.”
She stood up, shrugging off her wrap and presenting her back view to Ben.
“I’ve been wondering all day,” he murmured, unbuttoning slowly down her back towards her hips, “what’s under here. Fuck, why can’t they have wedding dresses with Velcro fasteners? These are so bloody fiddly.”
Vanessa laughed. “Velcro, classy. Maybe I’ll design a line, make my fortune. For the groom who can’t wait.”
“That’ll be me,” said Ben, sliding his hand under the parted material, around to cup her breast in its lacy corset cup. “Can. Not. Wait.” He emphasised his point by pressing his lips firmly to her neck.
She helped him remove the dress, pushing the boned bodice down, letting the yards of silk fall in creamy ripples around her feet.
She’d chosen his favourite underwear especially. The cream lace corset was accompanied by tissue-thin French knickers and hold-up stockings—their elastic helped along by a garter that fulfilled two of the ‘something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue’ functions in one.
He growled at the revelation and pulled her closer to him, so that his erection could be felt between her lace-covered bottom cheeks.
Now she felt his fingers creep inside her corset cups, palming her breast, rubbing her nipple, which had been stiff ever since they set foot in this room.
He continued to feast on her neck like a vampire until she laughingly pushed him off. “Don’t give me love bites. I don’t like them.”
“No, I don’t either, come to that,” said Ben.
For a moment, Vanessa regretted the reminder of Dafydd and his bad works. Perhaps not the ideal thing to mention on one’s wedding night.
But then Ben spun her around to face him and put his cheek to hers, resting his lips against her ears.
“That part of your life is over now, Ness. You never have to see or hear from him ever again.
“I know,” she whispered. “I’m free.”
“And I want to say,” he said, drawing his head back so that she could see the seriousness of his face, “that I’m so, so sorry. I let you down. I freaked out when I saw that photograph and I didn’t know what to believe, when I should have believed you.”
“It’s okay. You had a shock. Don’t beat yourself up.”
“It should be you beating me up,” he said with a sad smile.
“That’s not my kink,” she said, darting forward to kiss his lips.
“Mmm,” he sighed. “I’m so glad. So, what is your kink, dear wife of mine?”
“I love to seduce gorgeous young men,” she whispered. “Gorgeous young men in morning suits are my particular favourite.”
“Ooh, do tell me more.”
“I was thinking I might do more showing than telling.”
“Even better.”
She enjoyed every moment of the undressing, from slinking out the knot from his silken cravat to releasing his straining cock from a pair of brand new boxers.
Even better than that was ordering him onto his back, looking down at his body as it lay amongst the petals, then straddling him—still in her corset and special underwear—and putting her crimson-painted lips over his swollen tip.
Nothing could have been sweeter to her than the way he twitched his hips and gasped to catch his breath as she ran her mouth up and down, transferring some of her lipstick to his shaft in the process. She was marking him, in her own way, and he was helpless to resist.
She cupped his balls in her hands and sucked him right to the edge, crossing off the signs one by one—the clenched fists, the sudden chaotic rise and fall of his chest, the fluttering little noises—then she released him.
“Oh God!” He mouthed the words but couldn’t give them voice.
She knelt up, smiling tenderly at him.
“I don’t want it wasted,” she said. “That’s for me. I want it inside me.”
“Take it, take it,” he whispered frantically.
She didn’t remove her knickers, but simply moved the lace gusset aside, then hovered above him, rotating her pussy over his cock tip, dipping it shallowly in her, getting her wet and ready.
She touched her clit at the same time and, once she was sure she could take him all the way inside in one swift downward movement, she took the plunge.
“Oh, Ness,” he moaned.
“Ohhh, yes,” she replied. “God, yes. You always feel so good. And now this is mine, really mine.”
“Really yours,” he echoed.
He said it again at the moment of climax, which Vanessa skilfully held off, despite several near-misses, by pulling herself off him and waiting for him to calm down. He wasn’t going to get his rocks off until she’d had hers, of that she was quite determined.
She took him through a rocky journey of ups and downs until her own orgasm signalled its beginnings, then she rode him hard. He tried to control himself, obviously thinking this would end in another cruel truncation of his road to ecstasy, but it was delightful to watch him lose that control and surrender to her and all the sensations she aroused in him.
“You can come, lover,” she said, at the height of her own extremity, and he took the advice with relish.
“Really yours.”
“Oh yes. Really mine.”
Chapter Eighteen
In the Green Room at the Barbican the following night, Lydia stopped Karl-Heinz as he crossed the room full of instrumentalists, all slightly hyped up and nervous ahead of the concert.
“How is he?”
“He is fine. Asking for you. Go and see him—we have five minutes.”
The conductor would never be so unprofessional as to kiss his lover in front of the entire orchestra before an important concert, but he leaned into her and put his hand on her shoulder, the gesture every bit as intimate.
She accepted this looked-for permission and dar
ted off to Milan’s dressing room, drawn to the right location by a brilliant cadenza being played at the far end of the corridor. That would be him all right.
She knocked on the door. “It’s me.”
The music broke off.
“Come in, you.”
There was no trace of nervous jitter about him at all. He looked taller and straighter and more confident than Lydia had ever seen him.
“Are you ready?” she asked.
“I have never been readier,” he said.
She bit back the immense temptation to tell him about the surprise she had arranged for after the show, knowing this was the wrong time and would upset the delicate balance of his emotions.
“You’re going to be brilliant,” she said. “Today, London, tomorrow, the world.”
He put his bow in the same hand as his violin and pulled her in for a kiss. This was his stage-fright kiss, Lydia thought. He put all his passion into it, dismissing all possibility of failure. When he broke off, his lips stretched wide over gleaming teeth.
“I’m going to kill them, Lydia,” he said. “Stone dead.”
She nodded, while in the distance a bell shrilled.
“Five-minute warning,” she said breathlessly, reaching for his hand. “I love you.”
“Miluji tĕ,” he replied.
Lydia darted from the room and joined the throng of orchestral players milling towards the wings.
“Good luck,” she whispered, passing Leonard, who was, once again, the orchestra’s leader. This time it was to be hoped he would retain the position. Now that the string section had settled down after Milan’s departure, the job was substantially less challenging than it had once been.
Behind Leonard’s shoulder, Karl-Heinz winked down at her and she glowed, a little spring in her step as she walked on to the stage and found her chair.
There was nothing like a concert. She loved everything about it, from the static roar from the stalls as they tuned up to the anticipatory silence afterwards to the first flurry of clapping as Leonard walked on to the stage.
He took his bow and sat down beside her, fist clenched nervously around his bow. A bigger shower of applause greeted Karl-Heinz, dapper as ever in white tie and tails. When Milan walked on, there was a kind of frenzy. He had to stand at the front of stage, endlessly tossing his head and waving his hand until it died down.
Lydia felt a stab of pure anxiety. The expectations surrounding his performance were off the scale. How was he ever going to live up to them?
Karl-Heinz looked over to make sure Milan was ready to start, but he was holding a hand up to the audience, apparently about to speak into the new stillness.
Lydia and Karl-Heinz exchanged a glance. What was he going to say?
“Thank you,” he said into a pin-drop silence. “I know it is not usual to speak before a performance, but I just want to dedicate this beautiful concerto to two very special people I lost from my life this year. To Evgeny Voronov, a much-loved friend and fine musician, and to my mother, Irena Kasparova. I pray that my playing will do justice to their memories.”
Lydia bit her lip hard. Leonard put a steadying hand on her forearm, for which she was deeply grateful. The tears receded after a moment or two, and she found herself inspired by the memory of the two departed souls. Yes, it was quite right that this concert was for Evgeny and Milan’s mother. And for all the past loves now gone. This would be their elegy.
Karl-Heinz gave a brief nod and the orchestra held their instruments ready, then he beat them in.
So much beauty, Lydia always thought, almost too much to bear. She would never underestimate the enormous privilege of being able to take part in its creation.
When Milan came in, his instrument was like a messenger from the heavens, an unearthly and wonderful voice.
Yes. Lydia knew at once that this was going to be remarkable. She breathed again and kept her eyes on Karl-Heinz, her conductor in music and in life.
Between conductor and virtuoso, there was an unparalleled level of understanding, Karl-Heinz and Milan almost anticipating each other throughout with infallible accuracy. Lydia wondered how much of this could be attributed to their intimacy outside the concert hall. She had to conclude that it played its part—in the last weeks, they had become almost telepathic in the bedroom. What one wanted, the other would provide. Then they would both turn their attention to her. Oh, yes.
As she bowed away, the music took her away to the love and passion she shared with these two unique men, making something transcendent of it.
It was all she could do not to spill tears all over her strings.
But there had been enough crying this year. Now the time had come for peace and joy. It sounded like a Christmas carol, appropriately enough.
Once the last note had died away, the audience leapt to its feet, roaring and cheering as one. This was too much for Lydia and the tears began to flow as she watched Milan, his own face transformed by disbelieving wonder at the strength of his reception.
“Hey,” whispered Leonard, “don’t cry. The applause is for you too. It’s for all of us.”
At the concert’s end, Lydia walked straight through the wings and into the arms of Karl-Heinz, who had been first off the stage.
“Did we do well?” he asked, murmuring into her ear over the background sounds of clinking glasses and excited congratulations.
“Oh, Karl-Heinz,” was all she could say. “Oh, Karl-Heinz.”
“I think that’s a yes,” he whispered, kissing her earlobe.
“Where’s Milan?”
Karl-Heinz laughed, slightly ruefully, as if he acknowledged that their mutual lover would always come first in Lydia’s heart. But he made no reference to it.
“In the Green Room, mobbed by reporters and agents and publicists and fans. He’s having the time of his life.”
Lydia giggled. “I’ll bet. So, where’s the party?”
“Step this way.”
The Green Room was clogged with revellers, clustered around little columns wound with ivy and fairy lights in honour of the season. Champagne was everywhere, and so were familiar faces.
“Mary-Ann! What did you think?”
“That was absolutely stunning, love. I’m almost speechless.”
She moved on, past Julius Hackmeyer, who was with Sarah Latimer, sipping champagne that you might have thought was neat lemon juice from his expression.
She waved at Vanessa and Ben, feeding each other canapés from a paper plate.
“You can start your honeymoon now,” she called over.
“Oh, we didn’t wait,” said Ben, leaning into his new wife for a smooch.
Milan stood a little farther on, virtually invisible behind the crowd of people holding mobile phones and tablets in the air to record his post-concert exhilaration.
But where was the guest Lydia was counting on? She almost wished he might not turn up. This was a risk, after all. There was no knowing how Milan might take it. Would she even recognise him? She’d only seen pictures on the internet.
Her heart performed a sudden backflip. There he was, by the door, showing a security guard his backstage pass.
He had to be close to seventy, but his resemblance to Milan was still striking. He held himself in the same way and his eyes were no less piercing, despite the round-framed spectacles that partly concealed them.
“Mr Kaspar?” she breathed, hastening towards him. “I’m Lydia.”
He nodded politely, looking all the time towards Milan’s mob.
“Thank you,” he said, “for contacting me.” He still carried a trace of Czech accent, but his enunciation was strongly North American.
“I couldn’t help myself,” she said. “Oh, I hope he’s going to be all right. Why don’t you sit down over there and I’ll bring him over?”
“Sure.” He took a glass from a passing tray—Dutch courage, no doubt—and went to sit down.
Lydia noticed that Karl-Heinz, who knew all about this, made a beeline f
or him, keeping him company while she pushed through the throng and made hand-flapping signals to Milan.
“Excuse me,” he said to his admirers. “One moment.”
“You know you’re brilliant, don’t you?” said Lydia. “But I thought I ought to say it anyway.”
He grinned and bent to kiss her.
“Thank you, miláčku,” he said. “Is this what you have come to say?”
“No, not quite.”
Oh God, could she say it? Could she tell him now?
“There’s someone here who’s very keen to see you. Someone you haven’t seen in a very long time.”
Milan, detecting her nervousness, went from elated to concerned, a shadow fleeting across his face. “Darling? You look scared. Who is it?”
“Just—come. Please? Oh, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done it.”
Milan took her arm and followed her through the crowds.
They were five yards away when he saw and recognised his visitor. He stopped dead and stared.
“I’m sorry,” whimpered Lydia. “I thought it was the right thing to do.”
“Hush, hush. It’s okay.”
Milan’s father rose and took a step or two towards his son. “Milan,” he said, halting, waiting for his response.
“Táta,” said Milan, almost inaudibly.
His father came closer, speaking all the time in impassioned Czech.
Lydia hated not being able to understand what was being said. The exchange looked for a moment as if it might turn to anger, then Milan shook his head, his father held his arms wide and the pair embraced, sobbing so that Lydia felt it polite to turn aside and tiptoe over to Karl-Heinz.
“Is it okay?” she asked him anxiously.
“I don’t speak Czech, but I think so,” he said, putting an arm around her. “Come on, let’s leave them alone for a little while. I think you deserve champagne. I know I do.”
* * * *
On the morning of Christmas Eve, Lydia woke up between two sleeping men in Karl-Heinz’s giant bed.
She had a few hours before she had to get her train to Surrey. Karl-Heinz needed to check in for his flight to Berlin after lunch. As for Milan, he would be off to join his father at his Barbican flat and she had heard that his brother was hoping to fly over for New Year.
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