Back in the cramped Shepherd’s Bush flat she hadn’t expected to be returning to, she looked in the mirror and was surprised at how un-devastated she looked.
Perhaps the devastation would kick in tomorrow.
Chapter Nine
Devastation was still noticeable by its absence when Lydia woke up.
Her appetite for her breakfast was strong as ever, though she only had half a bag of dusty muesli in the cupboard and no milk, so she had to put ice cream on it. The black coffee was bitter but bracing.
She thought about the day’s rehearsal and tried to put a number on how much she was dreading it. But she wasn’t dreading it at all. Milan would be there, with Sarah the bitch-faced harpist and Maurice, but they could do their worst. Tonight she had a date with Karl-Heinz von Ritter. She stuck two fingers up at an imaginary Milan.
“So there,” she said. “Stick that in your pipe and smoke it, twat.”
Pulling a face at the strange muesli, she thought about von Ritter. He had searching, dark eyes that could turn from amused to thoughtful to flinty in milliseconds. He was classically handsome and impeccably smart. She tried to find a flaw, but she couldn’t put her finger on one.
Oh, there was the ‘Herr Trigger’ reputation. He could lose his temper spectacularly. But she hadn’t seen any evidence of it as yet.
She ignored the irritating voice within her that kept reminding her of the way Milan made her feel—the huge rush of love and desire that was almost madness. Could she say goodbye to that? Could she really?
“No choice,” she said to herself, lips on her coffee cup. “He doesn’t want me. Not when it comes right down to it. I have to learn to accept that.”
Walking into the rehearsal hall, she made a beeline for Vanessa and Ben, needing friendly faces to hide behind.
“What’s going on?” Vanessa demanded the minute Lydia arrived at the kettledrums. “Those two are all over each other.”
She nodded in the direction of the harp, where Milan stood talking to Sarah, who had a hand on his shoulder and was leaning in so close they could have kissed.
“Oh,” said Lydia, looking away swiftly and trying to bury the rising pang deep within her. “We broke up.”
“Christ, Lydia. I can’t keep up with all this. Can you just wear a badge with ‘On’ or ‘Off’ printed on it or something?” She smiled ruefully. “Sorry. Not very sympathetic there. But, you know. It never seems to end.”
“Well, it has now. It’s over. He’s got no respect for me and I deserve better.”
“Atta girl.”
Lydia noticed Milan looking over at her and she turned away, her cheeks warming rapidly.
“I’d better get ready. Von Ritter will be here in a minute.”
“On the dot, I bet,” said Ben with a grin. “He’s the type.”
“Yes, isn’t he?” A little flush of more welcome heat joined the Milan-induced version, and she scurried away.
“Lydia.”
Milan had followed her, leaving his harpist harpy to her strings.
“I don’t want to talk to you.”
“But I want to talk to you. Please.” She saw the anxiety in his expression but she turned her face from it.
“I refuse to be at the centre of a public scene. Go away.”
“Talk to me. If not now, then later. Tonight.”
“I’m busy tonight,” said Lydia with vengeful satisfaction.
“You can cancel. Come on—who is it? Vanessa?”
“No. None of your business, actually.”
The hour struck and von Ritter walked in, dead on time. Everybody made a great show of looking ready, tuning up and breaking off their conversations.
Milan, with a ferocious scowl, left Lydia alone and went to his soloist seat.
“Good morning,” said von Ritter, beaming around the hall and tapping the music stand with his baton. “And it certainly is a very good morning for me.”
His eyes rested on Lydia, who ducked down to her violin case, took out some rosin, and distracted herself by applying it to her bow.
The rehearsal was a revelation, von Ritter having a level of expertise beyond any that they had experienced before. It was clear that the orchestra relished and responded to his sureness of touch and firmness of purpose. He was a perfectionist, but that was what was needed. Lydia could almost see the rough edges being smoothed and the ragged moments being sewn together.
The only person who seemed to have any objection to von Ritter’s style was Milan—not that he said anything, but the slight sneer that crossed his face whenever the conductor corrected a passage told its own story.
After a rousing Planets and a moving Lark Ascending, the orchestra was dismissed.
“You left early last night,” Milan commented to von Ritter, just loud enough for Lydia to hear. “You didn’t like the party?”
“On the contrary, it was very kind of you to throw it. I had a nice time. Thank you.”
“You left just after she did.” Milan jerked a thumb in Lydia’s direction.
“Did I?”
Milan looked between the pair of them. Lydia clicked shut her violin case in haste and stood to leave.
“Yes.”
But Lydia didn’t stay to hear how the discussion developed. When she checked her messages, on surfacing from the Tube in Shepherd’s Bush, there was one from Milan and one from von Ritter.
Von Ritter’s was first, a voicemail. “Hi, Lydia, just confirming plans for tonight. I think it’s easiest if we meet in the concert hall bar, maybe about seven. Call me if this isn’t good for you. See you tonight.”
Then she endured Milan’s beloved voice, scolding her for something that was his fault. “Hey, Lydia, why have you left me? Because of Sarah? It’s just sex. It doesn’t change the way I feel about you. Please call me, miláčku. I can’t let it end like this. I won’t let it end like this.”
“Oh, God, you wanker,” she said out loud, so forcefully that a passer-by stopped to stare at her. “Sorry. Not you.”
Milan bombarded her with text messages for the next two hours, but Lydia was too busy deciding what to wear for her date with von Ritter to check them. Not that she wasn’t tempted.
“Ignore, ignore,” she muttered to herself, staring with some dismay at her meagre wardrobe. Maybe the gold dress that she had worn to the Viennese sex party? She stroked its scanty fabric and shook her head, picturing von Ritter’s face if she rolled up at the Barbican in that. A definite no.
Eventually she went for the plain black shift dress she had worn for string quartet performances at college. Dressed up with chunky beads and a peacock-feather brooch, it looked quite classy in a retro, sixties kind of way. Inspired by this, she tried to pile up her hair à la Audrey Hepburn, but she ended up with a messy chignon that would have to do.
“Sophistication, when will you be mine?” she moped at the mirror, pouting at her bespectacled face. A pair of ballet flats completed the ensemble, but the only lightweight jacket she possessed was a battered denim thing that really didn’t strike the right note. Better to do without and just stow everything in her handbag. They’d be indoors for the most part, surely.
The city was busy on such a fine spring night, and Lydia arrived at the Barbican ten minutes late.
She had a feeling von Ritter’s tolerance for unpunctuality would be quite low, so she was nervous when she entered the bar and saw him sitting alone, nursing a glass of some dark spirit, but he stood and smiled and didn’t mention her lateness.
“I hope you haven’t been waiting long,” she said.
“Not long. You look very nice.”
“Oh, I don’t. I find looking nice a bit of a struggle, really—”
He raised his hand, silencing her.
“Hush. You do look nice. Accept a compliment, Lydia.”
“Sorry.” Oh, dear. She seemed to be playing this all wrong.
“And don’t apologise. What would you like to drink?”
“Just some water, plea
se.”
She watched him at the bar. He was absurdly self-assured. He had the air of a man who owned the world and was very happy to do so. He nodded and smiled at the bartender as if they were great friends before taking the water bottle and glass of ice and bringing them back to Lydia.
“So,” he said. “We have a few minutes until the concert starts. Why don’t you tell me about yourself?”
“About myself? Oh, no. There’s not much to tell. It’s a dull story.”
“You are very self-deprecating, aren’t you?” He didn’t make it sound like a compliment.
“I feel uncomfortable bigging myself up, if that’s what you mean.”
“Kind of. You really think you are boring and unattractive? Really?”
“Well…I try not to think about myself too much. I prefer to be thinking about music or…other people.”
“Okay. Other people. Like Milan.”
“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 s
ick.
“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.
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