“There are a couple of new people I should introduce you to,” said Vanessa, steering Lydia away from some cellists who were getting a little too emotional about the loss of their fellow player. “That’s the new harpist, Sarah.” She pointed out a polished blonde in a scarlet wrap dress, who looked over and smiled one of those professional smiles that don’t reach the eyes.
“Who’s the man on the timpani? What happened to Vernon?”
“He decided to retire early.”
“Yes, but who is that?”
The timpanist was tall and rangy, with a mop of dark curls and a face made of shadows and angles. One second he looked like an endearingly gawky student, the next like a warrior poet. He was immediately intriguing.
“That’s…Ben.”
Vanessa’s voice had gone all soft and fond. Lydia, forgetting her woes for a moment, widened her eyes, noting the twin spots of cherry red on her friend’s cheeks.
“Do you fancy him?”
“Of course not. He’s young enough to be my son.”
“He’s a bit of a fox, though. Don’t you think?”
“I’ve no idea.”
“You do fancy him!”
“No, I don’t! Oh, the trustees are coming in. They must have appointed a conductor at last. We’ve been muddling through with Leonard as leader-conductor for the last few weeks, but it’s not been going so well. He’s too inexperienced. Anyway, you’d better go to your section.”
She air-kissed Lydia an affectionate goodbye before scuttling back to her eyrie amongst the percussion instruments.
Lydia found the only free chair in the first violin section and took it, directing her gaze, along with everyone around her, to the podium where Lord Davenport, the chief trustee, stood ready to address them.
“Good afternoon,” he opened. “I’m sure you’ll all join me in extending the warmest gratitude to Leonard, who has done such a fine job of keeping us on track during this difficult time. His efforts—and all of yours—have been very much appreciated.
“I have several pieces of news for you this afternoon. The first relates to our summer concert season. You’ll have the details handed out in the newsletter at the end of the rehearsal, but the big story is that we are opening the Proms this year—the first night is ours.”
Rustling and chattering greeted this remark, accompanied by a couple of whistles.
“We’ve committed to a programme of English music, which your conductor will run through with you as soon as possible.”
Expectant silence fell. The C word had been spoken. Lord Davenport coughed, shrinking beneath the intensity of the attention that had fallen upon him.
“Yes, your conductor. We have made an appointment, on a temporary basis at first, but the contract may well be extended if everything works out. I’m sure you’ll all join me in welcoming back our great friend and colleague, Milan Kaspar.”
Lydia shook her head. This must be a dream. Surely she had tuned out and hadn’t caught the words correctly? Looking around the room wildly, she saw an orchestra frozen in space and time, all of them staring at the podium in disbelief.
Nobody spoke, nobody moved for a long, long second.
Then heads were bent to their neighbours, frantic whisperings pouring from shocked mouths.
“Is this for real?” somebody asked.
The back doors opened.
“Ah, here he is.” Lord Davenport was visibly discomfited by the orchestra’s reaction to the news—it wasn't the unalloyed rejoicing he might have expected.
Milan skirted the edge of the woodwind and double basses like a catwalk model, head high, hips swinging, until he reached the podium, where he shook hands with Lord Davenport, then faced his new constituency.
Lydia half rose, then sat back down again. Her body and mind floundered in confused anarchy. Was there a good way to deal with this situation? She wasn’t one for drama—that was part of what had made her and Milan such a good fit. All the same, her eyes filled with tears again, the physical presence of him knocking her for six.
She had dreamt of seeing him again and now, oh, it was all wrong. It shouldn’t have happened like this.