Musical Beds (12 page)

“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 agree 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.

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, please.”

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.”