“We had a ménage dynamic before. I suppose he thought I’d be cool with it again.”
“You suppose? You didn’t think to ask him?”
“He didn’t think to ask me.”
Von Ritter shook his head.
“Communication failure,” he said, then he gave Lydia a long, searching look. “You were really in a ménage?”
She nodded, reluctant to discuss it, too full of animosity at the way this man had taken a scalpel to her private life and dissected it with a few short remarks.
“That surprises me,” he said.
He seemed to understand that he was taking the probing questions a little too far, though, for he drank up and stood.
“We should find our seats. The concert begins in five minutes.”
Von Ritter garnered quite a lot of attention from the auditorium, people nodding and greeting him as they moved along the aisle. Lydia had grown used to this, as Milan’s partner, but she was surprised at its extent.
“You’re really quite famous,” she said, sitting beside him.
“Among the cognoscenti,” he replied, waving at somebody in another row. “We’ve been invited backstage after the concert, for a little party. Would you like that?”
“I’d like to meet Julius Hackmeyer. I think he’s such an exciting talent.”
“Then you shall.”
The concert was wonderful, but Lydia found herself always a little too conscious of von Ritter’s presence at her side to truly lose herself in the music. Every time he shifted in his seat, she was intensely aware of it, watching his long legs cross and re-cross, his hands clasp in his lap or rest on the arm. She kept glancing sideways at his face in profile. It was noble and handsome, like a Roman emperor’s face. He would look perfect in some kind of uniform with a chest full of medals. His military bearing made quite a contrast with Milan’s long-limbed languor. Which was more attractive? At that moment, she couldn’t decide.
They stood at the end to applaud the orchestra and its esteemed conductor. Then, as the audience began to drain away through the back and side doors, von Ritter beckoned her up to the now-empty stage.
In the Green Room, instrumentalists milled around, quaffing champagne and munching on smoked salmon pinwheels. In the centre of a large group of press people, Julius Hackmeyer was holding forth. He broke off when he saw von Ritter and waved.
“Karl-Heinz!”
There followed a great deal of back-slapping and catching up, to which Lydia could not really contribute.
“And who is your friend?” asked Hackmeyer at last. “You didn’t introduce us.”
“Excuse my terrible manners. Julius Hackmeyer, this is Lydia… Oh, I’ve forgotten your surname.”
“Foster.”
“Lydia Foster.”
“Pleased to meet you, Lydia Foster,” said Hackmeyer, shaking her by the hand. “How are you acquainted with Karl-Heinz?”
“I play in the WSO. He’s our new conductor, as he just told you.”
“You work with Karl-Heinz? And you haven’t been driven to drink yet?”
“Actually…perhaps a drink would be nice,” said Lydia, and they all laughed.
“Please excuse me—I have another interview to give. Enjoy the party—and I hope you enjoyed the concert,” said Hackmeyer, backing away with an apologetic grimace.
“It was perfect,” Lydia assured him, watching him go.
She felt a little bit exposed after his departure, as if something might be expected of her, now she was alone with von Ritter, though she wasn’t sure what.