Highly Strung (12 page)

But Mary-Ann was not to be found there, so Lydia left the building and scanned the street beyond. On a park bench in a small garden to the side of the concert hall, the routed conductor sat with her face in a handkerchief.

Lydia dashed down the steps, calling her name.

“Go ‘way, please,” said Mary-Ann, but Lydia took a seat beside her.

“Hey,” she said awkwardly. “Don’t be upset.”

Mary-Ann sniffed and laughed without mirth.

“How does that work, then? Everybody works together to trash my career and I’m supposed to be happy about it?”

“Not everybody.”

Mary-Ann turned pink-rimmed eyes to Lydia and grimaced in concession.

“No. You’re right. Some of you aren’t in league with the devil himself.”

“The devil himself?”

“Milan.” She laughed hollowly. “I wonder where he hides his horns and his forked tail.”

“Oh, he…” Lydia quelled her impulse to defend him. What he was doing was indefensible. “He wants what you’ve got,” she said instead. “He’s jealous of you. That’s all.”

“I don’t understand it,” said Mary-Ann. “He’s famous, a brilliant musician, everyone seems to think he’s some kind of sex god. Why the hell would he be jealous of me?”

“He wants to be in charge. He hates being told what to do.”

Mary-Ann put her handkerchief back in her jacket pocket and frowned at Lydia.

“You’ve made quite a study of him.”

“No, not really. It’s common knowledge. In the orchestra, anyway.”

“So tell me. What else should I know? About Milan, and the WSO in general?”

“Oh, I’m no expert. I’m the rookie.”

“I know that. It means you haven’t been sucked in yet. You see things with a clearer, more objective eye. Perhaps you can help me, Lydia.”

“Do you really think so? Why don’t you come back up? We need you, you know.”

Mary-Ann exhaled her dismissal of this idea.

“Nah. I’m done with backbiting violinists for the day. Tell you what. Why don’t we go and get some lunch and let them get on with it. Maybe I’ll come back tomorrow for the concert, maybe I won’t…”

“Well, okay,” agreed Lydia, seeing a spark of hope present itself. “Where shall we go?”

“Have you been to Margaret Island?”

“Not yet.”

“What are we waiting for, then?”

Lydia emerged from the ladies’, having texted Milan a message about what was going on. Now she was free to relax and chill out in the company of a person she liked and respected. Milan could do his worst, but she wasn’t going to join in with the sabotage of Mary-Ann’s conductorship.

Margaret Island was a beautiful green oasis in the middle of the Danube, boasting its own thermal spa resort, and it was in the cafe of this healing environment that Mary-Ann and Lydia chose to escape the hurly-burly of orchestral life.

“What am I going to do, Lydia?” asked Mary-Ann, pouring the first of many glasses of wine.

“Come back and conduct the concert,” said Lydia, more confidently than she felt. “It’s not just the reputation of the orchestra at stake—it’s your reputation too. Don’t ruin that for the sake of some silly spat with Milan.”

“It’s a nightmare, though, Lyd. I’ve never experienced anything like this. Don’t you find the atmosphere awful to work in?”

“Well, I’ll admit, it’s not what I was expecting.”

“What would happen, do you think, if I complained to the trustees about Milan?”

The wine glass tilted in Lydia’s hand, almost slopping rich Hungarian red over the rim. “Oh, don’t do that,” she said quickly.

“Why not?”

“Because most of the orchestra, and pretty much all of the strings, would go with him if he left. And he would leave. And the trustees don’t want that. He’s a money-spinner, now he’s done all that media-darling stuff.”

Mary-Ann contemplated this. “Yes, I do see that. So what’s the solution? I leave and let him take over?”

“Stick it out for this tour, at least,” said Lydia. “I don’t think he’ll mess up the concert. His own pride wouldn’t let him do that.”

“You’re right. Good. Okay, let’s finish this bottle, then how about a boat trip on the Danube?”

Much later, after a trip on a boat and a walk up to the Fisherman’s Bastion, Lydia and Mary-Ann found themselves in a bar near the hotel, still avoiding the rest of the orchestra, continuing a long and rambling conversation about their childhoods, families, musical influences and adolescent crises.

“God, it was painful,” lamented Mary-Ann over yet another glass of Bull’s Blood, her spectacles now a little crooked over her nose. “I literally thought I was the only lesbian at my school and nobody else ever, ever had those kinds of feelings about other girls. I couldn’t tell anyone. Then I got friendly with a tuba player at youth orchestra—Joanne, her name was—and thought perhaps she might understand. She tweaked my underdeveloped gaydar—cropped hair, lumberjack shirt and so on. But my gaydar was rubbish. I came out to her and she just laughed and told the rest of the brass section, who kind of avoided me after that.”

“That’s awful! Why were they so mean?”

“Oh, you know what kids are like.” Mary-Ann seemed to intend the comment to be throwaway, but Lydia saw the telltale dazzle of tears at the corner of her eye. She put one of her hands over the conductor’s and squeezed it.

“Not just kids,” she whispered.

A teardrop fell onto Mary-Ann’s cheek. She rubbed it away angrily. “Oh God, Lydia, ignore me. I’ve just had too much to drink and it always makes me sentimental and self-pitying.”

“No, that must have been devastating. I know how sensitive I was when I was fifteen.”

“Well, that wasn’t so long ago, was it?” said Mary-Ann softly. “Listen, Lydia…I might be way off-beam here…and I did tell you my gaydar was dodgy…but…”

She leant forward. A sudden surge of enormous panic sobered Lydia within seconds.

“Oh, look, we’re both a bit squiffy, Mary-Ann. Might not be the time for anything that can’t be taken back.”

Mary-Ann halted, a little waveringly, and narrowed her unfocused eyes.

“God, yeah,” she slurred. “Not the time…not the place…sorry. Just want some company… So lonely in my hotel room…”

“I’ll keep you company,” offered Lydia, her brain instantly screaming,
What are you thinking?
“Just for tonight. If you like. If you promise to come back to rehearsal tomorrow.”

“Of course. Was going to anyway. Right then.” Mary-Ann fumbled in her jacket pocket for money and dropped a fountain of forints ostentatiously on to a beer mat. “Lesh go.”

Lydia had to help Mary-Ann get undressed—the Bull’s Blood seemed to have overtaken her own blood in her veins, and she was barely able to stand by the time they had barrelled into the hotel room.

By the time she laid her on the bed in her pyjamas, Mary-Ann’s eyes were shut. She began to snore gently a few moments later.

Lydia tried to text Milan, but her fingers were clumsy and the words didn’t come out right. Eventually, after several attempts, she managed to get ‘Am with Mary-Ann, she is ok, c u 2moro xxx,’ on to the screen without too many typos. Her work for the day done, she fell onto the bed next to Mary-Ann and plunged into a fully-clothed sleep.

“So, how are you today?”

“Shh, not so loud.” Lydia winced as Milan slid into the seat beside her at the breakfast table.

He laughed. “Did she get you drunk and take advantage of you?”

“No, she didn’t. Well, not the taking advantage part anyway. And she’s in a worse way than I am this morning. She’s gone for room service. I suspect the rehearsal will be pretty short today.”

“Are you sure there was no girl-on-girl action?”

“Don’t sound so disappointed.”

“You can tell me. I won’t judge.”

“Shut up, Milan. The main thing is, she’s going to conduct tonight. In the meantime, have you got any Advil?”

Despite Mary-Ann’s feverish eyes and ghostly pallor, the Budapest concert was a triumph, and standing ovations were their reward for all the aggravation and difficulty of the past months. As she rushed past Milan and Lydia, clutching a vast bouquet, she muttered, “Thanks.”

Milan laughed, watching her scurry backstage on the way to the Green Room.

“Thanks, she says,” he remarked. “She doesn’t have a clue. Wait till we get to Prague.”

Vienna came first, though, and as the tour bus bowled through the Hungarian countryside and over the border to Austria, the sun came out, promising more than Lydia thought the visit might deliver.

She sat next to Mary-Ann on the coach, listening to her hyper-excited chatter about a series of Mahler centenary concerts, but when they arrived in the heart of the old baroque city she disengaged from the conductor and sought out Milan.

“I have a treat for you tonight,” he said, inviting her into his room.

Evgeny was already there, fresh from the shower in a towel and nothing else.

“Really?” asked Lydia, envisaging a grand banquet in some archducal palace, or perhaps a night at the opera.

“I’ve just had a call from my old friend Werner. He’s put us on the VIP list for his club tonight.”

“Club? I didn’t think you were into clubbing.”

Lydia’s imagination turned to some strobe-lit cattle market for gilded Euro-princelings, where a bottle of water would set you back a small fortune and shady-looking DJs spun Lady Gaga discs all night long.

“Not that kind of club,” said Milan obliquely. “It’s very exclusive. Let me help you dress.”

To Lydia’s surprise, Milan produced from his case a tiny scrap of golden fabric, shimmery and thin, and put it on the bed.

“What’s that?”

“It’s your outfit. I brought it with me, just in case Werner was in town.”

“I don’t understand. You packed clothes…for me?”

Milan nodded impatiently while Evgeny lay back on the bed, chortling.

“What’s this club, Milan? What’s it about?”

“It’s a sex club.”

“A sex club? You want me to go to some club to have sex? Jesus, Milan!”

“No, it’s not like that. I thought you might like to watch the show, that’s all. If you don’t want to join in, that’s up to you. Evgeny and I probably will, though.”

“What is it? Like burlesque? Strippers?”

“No, nothing like that. Just like-minded people who enjoy performing. Exhibitionists, you could say. And voyeurs. I think you know me well enough to decide which one of those I am.”

Lydia’s mouth flapped open and shut.

“Come, Lydia. Nobody will make you do anything you don’t want to. It’s on a voluntary basis. If you just want to watch, that’s okay. If you don’t want to watch, you can leave.”

“I…” Lydia looked again at the tiny scrap of fabric on the bed.

Evgeny sat up, grinning.

“And the food is amazing,” he said. “It’s an old palace from the days of the Hapsburg Empire. You feel like old-fashioned royalty when you’re there. Old-fashioned, decadent royalty.”

“Do you?” Lydia’s curiosity began nibbling at the edges of her reserve. This sounded less like the pit of sleaze Milan had painted.

“Absolutely,” said Evgeny. “It’s not some backstreet brothel. You might even find somebody famous at the table with you.”

“More famous than me?” Milan pouted, then grinned devilishly.

“Well…okay,” said Lydia. “It sounds interesting, at least. But do I have to wear that?”

“Well, you can’t wear a fleece,
miláčku
. Not to take supper with the Crown Prince of Mauretania.”

“Okay, okay, but I could wear my concert gown.”

“That thing? Drab black sack. No. This is what you wear if you go.”

Milan’s word was final.

Lydia shrugged and picked up the dress. It would skim the very tops of her thighs and the neckline plunged as low as was decently possible.

“You can’t wear anything underneath,” said Milan helpfully.

“What? Not even a thong?”

“Nothing. Just that and a pair of heels.”

Lydia, feeling a little like a lamb being prepared for the slaughterhouse, allowed Evgeny and Milan to lead her into the shower.

They washed, lathered and perfumed her, lotioned her naked body, then rubbed it all over with golden sparkly gel that made her skin gleam in the light.

Evgeny treated her breasts, while Milan helped the unguent sink into her buttocks, working them thoroughly with a cupped palm.

“Do I really need a golden bum for this?” she asked aloud.

“Oh yes,” Milan purred into her ear. “For us, if no one else.”

Breathless and aroused by her lovers’ attentions, Lydia tried to draw their attention to the wetness between her legs, parting her thighs a little and pressing them into Evgeny’s groin.

He laughed and patted her hip.

“Later, darling. We must all wait our turn.”

She was short of breath and flushed beneath the gold flecks by the time Milan wrestled her into the dress. If you could call it a dress. A scanty sheath of almost-sheer gold stretch material, it outlined every single curve and left her erect nipples plainly visible. The plunging neckline reached almost to her navel—a hand would only have to brush against her lightly to draw the fabric aside and expose a breast. The flirty, flippy skirt rustled just beneath the swell of her arse cheeks—the most minimal pivot of the pelvis would lift it up and reveal all.

“You look like a whore,” said Evgeny admiringly.

“I know,” said Lydia, dubious at her reflection in the mirror.

“You look like
our
whore,” expanded Milan. “Which is how we want you to look.”

In the mirror, Lydia watched as Milan stepped up behind her and clasped her around the waist, his long, white hands crossed over her belly, fingertips resting lightly at the top of her pubic triangle.
Move lower
, she silently implored, but he simply rested his chin on her bare shoulder and turned to kiss her neck.

“What do you think, Evgeny? Too fresh-faced. We need to plaster on some makeup.”

By the time they were ready to leave the hotel room, Lydia had lips dripping with scarlet gloss, eyelids of gold and eyelashes blacker and thicker than midnight. Her feet were strapped into golden stilettos with four-inch heels, on which she tottered unsteadily, still unused to anything without a thick, grippy sole. She had to rely on Milan’s and Evgeny’s arms to support her as they travelled down in the lift and out through the lobby. Thankfully, her long velvet coat concealed her shockingly explicit attire, but all the same, passers-by would likely mistake her for a prostitute.