“No.”
The call to the stage for the second half cut into the dispute, echoing between them.
“Fine,” said von Ritter. “You’d better go. Lydia, you come straight to me after the concert. I mean it. Straight to me.”
His tone was still authoritative, as ever, but there was something else mixed in as well—a plea. Don’t leave me.
Well, it was his own fault, she thought crossly, following Sarah back to the wings. What the hell had he expected her to think? Did he really think she wanted to be with a man who wouldn’t fuck her, for some unknown reason, but was happy to pop his cock between any available pair of lips? It was too much to ask.
Milan was surrounded by his friends and fans, so she wasn’t able to go up to him and tell him how wonderfully she thought he’d played. But she would. She would find him and tell him, straight after the concert. To hell with von Ritter.
The Elgar was even better received than the first half. There was a standing ovation, ecstatic applause, and curtain calls for Milan, who held his violin aloft like a conquering hero, basking in the camera flashes that surrounded him.
He strode off the stage, all whole again, the man Lydia had fallen in love with. She could see that the audience felt the same way about him. He had a way of capturing hearts that was so effortless. If only he had one himself, she thought sourly.
But no. She wasn’t going to think ungenerous thoughts about him tonight. It was his moment of glory and, whatever he was guilty of, he had worked hard for it and didn’t deserve to have it spoilt.
“You win,” said Sarah, sidling up behind her in the Green Room while they watched Milan getting mobbed by enthusiastic admirers. “He was brilliant. I have to admit it.”
“No thanks to you.”
“Look, I don’t want us to be enemies—”
“Oh, do fuck off, there’s a dear.”
“Fine.” She went and joined the edge of the hangers-on.
Milan reached out for her, drawing her into the centre with him. Lydia felt as if she couldn’t breathe. She physically ached to push Sarah away and take her place.
Milan, tiring of his courtiers, began to cut through the crowd, hand in hand with Sarah, fending off the back-slaps as he went.
He noticed Lydia and stopped—something in her expression seemed to halt him in his tracks.
“Lydia?” he said.
“Congratulations.” The word came out in a loud whisper, not the way she had intended.
“Thanks,” he said uncertainly.
“Can I talk to you? In private?”
“Milan, come on.” Sarah tugged at his hand, but he extricated himself.
“Sure,” he said.
“Milan.” Sarah’s voice was urgent.
“You go to the bar. I’ll be one moment. Yes?”
“No.”
“Yes,” said Milan firmly. “Go.”
Sarah shut her eyes in defeat and moved onwards with the thirsty mob.
“Can we go somewhere? Outside, maybe? I need to avoid Karl-Heinz.”
“Why?” Milan sounded amused as they slipped into the corridor that led to some back stairs and one of the many emergency exits.