She pushed open the door and put down her violin case in the lobby.
Further on, in the living room, the sofas and chairs and rugs heaved with the bodies of string players—mercifully clothed—doing nothing more decadent than helping themselves to Milan’s drinks cabinet.
In the far corner, to Lydia’s surprise, sat von Ritter.
Leonard, catching sight o
f her, leapt from his chair and tried to head her off. She couldn’t see Milan anywhere.
“Ah, Lydia,” he said anxiously. “A little impromptu gathering in honour of our new conductor. Will you join us in a glass?”
“Where’s Milan?”
“He, uh, popped out for a moment.”
“Why are you being so weird? You’re not being honest with me. Where is he?”
The bedroom.
She dodged past Leonard, catching sight of a number of grimaces and shaken heads as she moved towards the bedroom. He was definitely in there. With…?
She opened the door gently, not wanting to charge in there and start a screaming match. She just needed to know. She had to keep calm. And know the worst.
The first thing she saw was a toned, fake-tanned bottom belonging, judging by the crown of platinum blonde hair, to Sarah the harpist. The fingers wrapped around her slim hips were most definitely Milan’s, as were the long legs stretched out towards Lydia.
This wasn’t all, though. Lying beside them on the bed, his head bent over Milan’s, kissing him fervently, was the orchestra’s famously camp clarinettist, Maurice. Attractive, exuberant and very Parisian, he had blatantly admired and crushed on Milan since joining the WSO.
A replacement for Evgeny, thought Lydia, her heart sinking so low she thought it might end up in the concert hall on the ground floor.
What should she do? Speak up? Or leave?
She didn’t know what to say, and whatever came out of her mouth would certainly end up in ugly words of recrimination.
So she left, walking back through the living room as unobtrusively as she could, breaking into a run once she’d picked up her violin case and made it through the front door.
Waiting for the lift, she clutched the instrument case to her chest, taking in great gasping breaths that threatened to turn into sobs.
Before the digital indicator had placed the elevator halfway to her floor, she was disturbed by a hand on her shoulder.
“Lydia,” said a German-accented voice.
She spun around to see Herr von Ritter standing behind her, his rather severe face relaxed into an expression of concern.
“Yes. You know my name?”
“It was mentioned a few times, back there. Are you okay?”
She nodded mechanically, eyeing the digital indicator, keen to get away somewhere she could bawl her heart out in peace.
“No, you aren’t,” he contradicted, placing a palm beneath her elbow. “Not at all. Let’s go. I’ll buy you dinner. Are there any good places around here?”
“Loads. But please… I just want to go home…”
“I need to talk to you, Lydia. Professional business. Boss and employee.”
“You don’t employ me.”
“No, I know that, but…”