Highly Strung (2 page)

Some applause and a few ragged cheers indicated approval of Milan’s words.

“You are learning,” he said with a wicked flash of a grin. “In my country, we are experienced in revolution. More than you British. But you are learning.”

God, he was even more handsome in the flesh, if that was remotely possible. Lydia drank in his strong, rangy body, his arrogant posture, his high cheekbones and prominent nose. The gesture he had performed so often on
The Next Big String
—the sweep of the brow and toss of the hair—was such a familiar lust-trigger that Lydia’s knees weakened. He was six feet and one inch of undiluted charisma and he was…oh, God. He was looking straight at her.

He jabbed his bow in her direction.

“Who are you?”

Dozens of necks swivelled, dozens of pairs of eyes roved over Lydia, who shrank back self-consciously.

“Er, Lydia Foster. Violinist.”

He frowned and she quailed.

“You are late.”

“Sorry. Bomb scare on the Victoria Line.” The words came out somehow, but they sounded foreign. And what was this meek, squeaky little voice?

“Bombs? We let bombs stand between us and our music? No. We don’t.”

Lydia tried to breathe in, but found that her lungs were full. Her urge to scream ‘
Stop staring!’
at the rest of the orchestra was mercifully quashed by the closed-up state of her throat.

Milan waved his bow impatiently.

“Come on, then,” he snapped. “Sit down. Get your violin out.”

Eyes fixed on the floor, Lydia scurried through the banks of chairs to the back row of the first violins, too mortified to hear Milan’s subsequent words about how to play the Weber piece to his satisfaction. Her fingers fumbled with the catch of her case and she almost broke a string trying to get the instrument out, conscious of the curious gazes of all the other violinists.

“Nice fiddle,” whispered the middle-aged man next to her, a note of sympathy in his voice. “Don’t worry about Milan. That’s just the way he is. It isn’t personal.”

“No?” she whispered back, grateful for the reassurance.

“He’ll have forgotten all about it by the time we’ve finished this piece.” The man winked, settling his chin on the edge of his instrument, bow poised across the strings.

Lydia thought she ought to do the same. Milan finished his spiel and came off the platform to his chair on the outer perimeter of the first violinists, though he remained standing, needing to be visible to the whole orchestra.

He held up his bow for a few seconds before counting in the beautiful cellist, who played the opening bars solo before being joined by the woodwind for the slow introduction.

Lydia watched the cellist’s smooth, dark hair fall, fringing his face as he bent over his instrument. Then Milan raised his bow, ready for the tumble into waltz tempo, and she began to play.

Surrounded by exhilarating dance music, Lydia forgot the woes of the moment and became nothing but a bow hand and fingers pressing on strings, her head whirling along with the imaginary waltzers, keeping pace with the black notes that whizzed past her eyes. Yes, she belonged here. Yes, this was right. Everything would be all right after all.

Incredible to think that she was working with the man whose deft bowing she followed, taking her cue from the speed of his arm and the wild flying of his hair.
I am working with Milan Kaspar! I am his colleague!

It was two hours before they made it to the end of the piece, two hours of stopping and starting, picking every phrase apart, being shouted at or coaxed or charmed by Milan along the way. Once those two hours were over, Lydia felt that she had fought and won a battle. She was a member of the orchestra now and it held her undying loyalty.

“Good, that’s good, that’s promising.” Milan, clearly enjoying his new conducting role, treated the orchestra to a full-beam smile. “We see what tomorrow brings when Clayton hands in his resignation. I hope the Trust will think we can do this.”

‘
I
can do this’, you mean
, thought Lydia cynically, packing away her violin.

She was craning her neck, looking for the friendly percussionist, planning to invite her for a post-rehearsal coffee, when her attention was distracted by an imperious click of the fingers.

“You. New girl.”

Lydia couldn’t quite believe it, but Milan was pointing at her, his eyes intent. He tossed his head and beckoned a long, pale finger.

Struggling to contain her breath, Lydia trotted up to him, wondering whether to expect an apology, a welcome, a scolding or a proposition, or something else completely.

“You know where Chappell’s is?” he asked brusquely.

“Of course.” Everyone knew where Chappell’s was. It was the most famous music shop in the UK.

He fumbled in his pocket and proffered a twenty-pound note.

“I need an A string. Eudoxa.”

Lydia’s mouth fell open. She looked from Milan to the banknote and back again. He was serious.

“Well? Why wait? Take it. I’ll be in the Delius Arms. You know it?”

“Next door,” said Lydia, taking the note before she could stop herself.

“Good, good. I’ll see you there.”

He nodded formally then swung around, dismissing her in favour of a group of other string players who appeared to be waiting for him.

Chapter Two

Lydia crumpled the twenty pounds in her fist, dumbfounded by irritation.

Armani Diamonds signalled an advance warning of Vanessa the percussionist’s presence. “What’s he done?”

“He…he expects me to run his errands for him!”

“Oh dear. He’s a terrible prima donna, you know. Well, you saw him on TV, I expect.”

“Why the hell did I say yes? Why did I take this money?”

“Believe me, it’s easier than saying no. I’m not sure anyone’s ever said no to Milan.”

“He’s like a hypnotist,” agreed Lydia. “But a spectacularly twatty and annoying one.”

“Ah well. What’s he asked you to do?”

“Get him a new string from Chappell’s. But it’s in Soho! Bloody miles away.”

“I’ll come with you if you like.”

“Oh, would you? Thanks. We can get a coffee or something after.”

“I’d love to. Come on then, before it gets too dark out there. I hate the winter, don’t you?”

“Mmm.”

Bitter rain was falling in the street outside and the light was dull enough to justify headlights on the buses and taxis thundering past.

Lydia had exaggerated the distance from Victoria to Soho—in better weather, it would be a pleasant walk around the perimeter of Buckingham Palace, over Green Park and along Piccadilly, but today the prospect was far from appealing. She and Vanessa headed down below ground, assuming from the lack of warning chalkboards and yellow cones that the bomb scare was over.

“So what was going on today?” asked Lydia as their train jolted out of the station. “With Clayton? Why were the violinists playing at the wrong tempo? I didn’t think his conducting was
that
bad.”

“It wasn’t. He’s a good conductor.” Vanessa sighed. “It’s Milan. He’s got it into his head that, if he scares off enough conductors, the Trust will offer him the gig.”

“What?” Lydia stared. “Do the trustees know about this?”

“No, no. Well, not explicitly. Milan’s pretty good at not getting caught out, and he’s got at least two-thirds of the orchestra on side. The others just don’t want to get involved.”

“Surely they’ll start to suspect, if enough conductors walk out.”

“They won’t want to lose Milan. He’s a celeb now. Audiences have been stratospheric since that silly talent show. They all want to see the man in action.”

Can’t say I blame them. Shame he’s such a knob, though. Such a gorgeous, sexy…ugh.

“He is rather…you know.” Lydia bit her lip, giving Vanessa a sidelong glance.

“Oh, no, my girl, don’t go there,” said Vanessa firmly. “We’ve lost too many good players that way. He’s a heartbreaker. He’s too wrapped up in himself to offer anything useful to anyone else. Steer clear.”

“I had a feeling you’d say that.” Lydia sighed.

“He never wanted to be an orchestral player, not that he’s ever said so,” continued Vanessa. “But he can’t be part of a team. He has to be the leader, the one that stands out, the one in control. I think he wanted a virtuoso career, but it didn’t work out and now everyone’s paying for it.”

“He
could
have been a virtuoso, though. He’s a fantastic violinist. And with the charisma of Paganini too.”

“Hush, don’t let him hear you say that! He’s unbearable enough as it is.”

“It’s such a shame.”

“Don’t,” barked Vanessa, “go there.”

“I get the message! I won’t go there! But isn’t he seeing that Tilda from the telly?”

“I think they split,” said Vanessa vaguely. “We get off here, don’t we?”

“Oh, yeah. Dangerous game, though, isn’t it? Trying to get the conductors to quit. What if the orchestra’s reputation goes down the pan?”

“It won’t. He’s clever enough to be all sweetness and light every time we do a recital with a guest conductor. We’ve had stellar endorsements from the likes of Simon Rattle and Valery Gergiev. He just gaslights the salaried ones until they throw in the towel. Or the baton.”

“Wow, quite sneaky.”

“Yes. Not a nice man, Lydia.”

“No. Right.”

A sleety dusk was falling in Wardour Street, and they were Chappell’s last customers before closing time, hastily slapping down the twenty pounds, taking their change and heading back out into the gathering gloom.

“He said he’d be in the Delius Arms. God, I don’t know if I can face rush hour on the Tube again. Shall we walk back?”

“Oh, go on. I’ve got my umbrella.”

Vanessa sheltered them both as they made their way through the city, weaving in and out of all the people on their way home from work. Lydia often thought that her special superpower should be feet that could walk endless distances—she loved to tramp the streets of London and found it frustrating that she could only manage a few miles at a time. Even in the cold and dark, she found enchantment in its vastness and its endless possibilities.

Lifting her face to the icy drops, shivering but not miserable, she reminded herself again that she was a violinist with the Westminster Symphony Orchestra. No matter what life threw at her by way of imperious men and shambolic relationships with conductors, nobody was going to take that away from her.

The Delius Arms was warm and cheery, but Lydia felt the need to dive into the ladies’ toilets to check herself in the mirror before completing her errand. Her hair was stuffed inside the hood of her parka and her face was red with cold and streaked with rain, her spectacles steaming up rapidly in the more temperate air. Nothing for a man like Milan to pay attention to. Nothing at all. She exhaled deeply and trudged back out, not daring to tell Vanessa what she had been doing instead of relieving her bladder.

A large and rather rowdy group of string players had colonised the far corner of the bar, bonding over their pint glasses. Milan sat at the end of a cushioned bench, engrossed in conversation with the pretty-boy cellist.

“I’ll wait here,” said Vanessa, maintaining a position by the door that would aid a quick escape. “Just hand it over. No eye contact. And get out of there.”

“Yes, Captain,” said Lydia with a salute and a giggle. “Cover me. I’m going in.”

Milan did not notice her at first until, one by one, the other members of the group broke off their conversations to stare at her. She removed the packet from her handbag and held it out.

“Your string,” she said, her tone noticeably mutinous.

“Ah.” Milan turned round and sent a beaming smile in her direction, a deadly weapon in the armoury of seduction. “Good girl.”

Lydia almost growled.

He took the packet and stowed it in a jacket pocket before turning back to her.

“My change?”

Lydia’s fist closed around the few coins.

“Don’t I get commission?” she found herself saying. “It’s cold out there. And wet.”

Milan raised his eyebrows, tilting his head to one side in curious scrutiny. Lydia wished she looked a little less like a drowned rat crossed with a fishwife, but she held her ground.

“Commission, huh? Okay.”

He made his friends shift up the bench until a small space became available beside him, then he patted the cushion.

“Sit down. I buy you a drink.”

“No, I didn’t mean…”

The roguish glint in his eye stripped the steel plating from her resolve.
Milan Kaspar offered to buy me a drink. I could have a drink with Milan Kaspar.

“Come on. What do you like? Wine? Vodka? I’ll buy it for you. As a thank you.”

The steel plating was gone and now the core was melting. The curve of his lips, the way the smile accentuated his cheekbones, the lock of hair falling in one eye…

“Lydia!”

It was Vanessa, a long way behind, hissing to her, waving her gloved hand furiously.

“No. Thank you,” she said, dropping the coins on the table.

Milan raised a hand to cup his ear, as if straining to catch her words.

“What’s that I heard? It wasn’t a no, was it?”

“Yes.”

“Yes? Then come and sit down.”

“I mean yes, it was a no.” Lydia’s voice grew shrill and flustered. “No!”

“You’re frozen,” crooned Milan, reaching out and taking one of her icy hands. “
Che gelida manina!
Come and get warm,
miláčku
.”

Lydia’s vigorous shake of the head transferred to the whole of her body. Her pelvis twisted in panic as she wrenched her hand out of his.

“I said no. I have to go,” she blurted, turning and half running while the going was good, hating herself for looking an idiot in front of her new colleagues, who were guffawing behind her.

“Oh, my God!” exclaimed Vanessa, hustling her outside into the frozen wastes of Westminster. “You said no to Milan. Is that the sound of a mould breaking I can hear? Come on, let’s get to Starbucks. I’d kill for a mochaccino right now.”

“He called me something.” Lydia shivered. “Sounded like ‘milch cow’.”

“Heaven help you.” Vanessa held open the door of the coffee shop. “You’re next.”