Musical Beds

by Justine Elyot

  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 o
f 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?”

  “Tick?”

  “Yes, this is it, what makes him tick?”

  “In a word, ego and naked ambition. Sorry, that’s four words.”

  “You think he is an egotist?”

  “God, yes. Don’t you?”

  “I don’t know him as well as you. He has a reputation for being difficult to deal with. We knew about that even as far away as Nürnberg.”

  “I’m sorry, Herr von Ritter.”

  “Oh, call me Karl-Heinz.”

  “I’m sorry, but I’m not sure I’m comfortable discussing him like this. I feel disloyal. I know that’s illogical, given how he’s treated me, but there it is.”

  “So perhaps I should find out the hard way. Like Ms McKenzie did?”

  “Oh, don’t. That was awful. She was lovely and he was a bastard to her.”

  “She let him, I think. I won’t let him.”

  “No.” Lydia studied him. “I don’t think you will. Which is good.”

  The waiter appeared to take their order, providing a natural break in the conversation, after which Karl-Heinz seemed to steer the conversation away from Milan.

  “So, you are still pretty new to the orchestra, right?”

  “Yes, I joined in January.”

  “How are you finding it?”

  “It was a dream come true, of course. But, I must admit, I’ve had a rough introduction, with one thing and another. All the same, I wouldn’t exchange positions for the world. When we work together, when we’re on the concert platform and the music pours out of us, it’s like nothing else on earth. It’s what life’s all about.”

  “Strong words.” Karl-Heinz smiled his approval over his wine glass. A particular glint in his eye made Lydia’s cheeks flame into heat. “Spoken like a true musician. Well, I hope I can repay your enthusiasm. I feel I’ve been called here, in a way—something like a vocation. This orchestra needs a firm hand, and I can give it.”

  His authoritative demeanour did little to reduce the giddiness he seemed to be inducing in Lydia. She put it down to emotional confusion and good wine.

  “Have you had this kind of experience before? Wayward instrumentalists, an orchestra in crisis?”

  “Why yes, I have. There was terrible disorder in Nürnberg before I took up the post. I’m known now as a, what is it, a fixer. A troubleshooter.”

  Lydia thought about Milan. Was that what he was—trouble to be shot at? She entertained a satisfying mental image of him being targeted and hit, a big sucker attaching to his forehead.

  “You have a couple of months to work your magic,” she said. “And to keep Milan sober and on course.”

  “He is undergoing counselling, I thought, for his issues?”

  “Yes, but, you know. He’s not really the counselling type. He has his own ways. Most of them are stupid and involve sex or alcohol, or both.”

  “Well, you know, sex and alcohol can be good things. But only in moderation. Don’t you agree?”

  Lydia didn’t want to meet Karl-Heinz’s gaze. She had the feeling it might be more than a little inflammatory.

  “What do you think of London so far?” she asked brightly.

  “Oh, I’ve always loved London. I like its size. Any and every taste can be catered for in a city this big.”

  “You have some odd tastes, then?”

  He bit his lip, looked as if he was about to say something, then thought better of it.

  “I don’t consider my tastes odd. But the world might not a
gree with me. For instance, I love laksa!”

  The food arrived at the perfect moment.

  Lydia was almost grateful to be able to turn the conversation to the concert programme and the orchestra’s future. It wasn’t long, though, before the subject of Milan arose again.

  “How was Milan Kaspar as a conductor?” Karl-Heinz wanted to know.

  “Oh, he was good, actually. He could be very good. If he really bothered to work at it.”

  “You see, I think this is where he and I are different. He has no discipline.”

  “And you do.”

  “I learned it in the Navy and it has made my career what it is today.”

  Lydia grinned.

  “Sorry. I still find it a bit weird that you were a sailor.”

  “Why? Rimsky-Korsakov was a sailor, too.” He gave a guarded smile.

  “I know, but…you know, musicians. They aren’t generally the type.”

  “You think a man must have long flowing hair and a bohemian lifestyle to be a musician? Like Milan Kaspar?”

  “No, I don’t mean that. I mean… It’s just unusual. I don’t know what I mean, actually. I should just stop talking.”

  “No, you shouldn’t,” said Karl-Heinz, with a melting smile. “Unless you’re told to.”

  She caught her breath. It sounded like flirtation, of a dramatic, steely kind. She should beware. These were dangerous waters when she was on the high-speed rebound from a man she adored.

  “Told to? By you, you mean?”

  He smirked down at his half-eaten laksa.

  “Forget it. I’m only teasing.”

  But was he?

  Lydia twirled noodles round and round her fork, watching him.

  “There’s a great concert tomorrow at the Barbican,” he said abruptly. “A good friend is conducting. Some Mahler, some Bruckner. I’ve got two free tickets, but nobody to come with me. Would you, perhaps…?”

  “Go with you?”

  “As a friend. A colleague. Whatever you want.”

  Why the hell not?

  “All right, then. I’d like that. Thanks.”

  They finished the meal companionably, talking music until the plates were clean and the glasses drained. Karl-Heinz saw her into a taxi and waved her off.