“Mules!” A cellist stood up, shoulders back, spoiling for a fight. Despite the aggressive stance, Lydia thought he must have been one of the most beautiful men she had ever seen, if you liked pale, delicate youths with eyelashes like road sweepers. On balance, she preferred the more muscular Milan, but all the same, she found herself mesmerised by the cellist's bottomless eyes. “Do not insult us! We are musicians, not animals!”
“If you’re musicians, prove it!” thundered Clayton. Then, clutching his forehead, “Oh, you know what? Forget it. I’m done here. Fuck you. Good luck.”
He flung his baton to the ground and marched off, pushing Lydia out of his way with his shoulder so that she fell gracelessly to the floor in his wake.
“Oh my God, are you okay?” The female percussionist rushed over and knelt by her side, transmitting a strong waft of Armani Diamon
ds to Lydia’s nostrils.
“Yes, yes, fine, just a bump.” Lydia allowed the woman to help her up.
When she looked over towards Milan, she noticed him high-fiving the cellist, while a great deal of rowdy laughter and gossip seemed to be going on.
“Are you the new violinist? Sorry you’ve seen us like this, what an introduction.” The woman patted Lydia down, tutting. She was very Mother Hen-ish for such a sleek and glamorous-looking woman, Lydia thought. There wasn’t a hair of her black bob out of place, and her makeup looked professionally applied.
“I’m Vanessa, on percussion, as I’m sure you’ve worked out. Welcome to the WSO. Oh, dear. Milan’s so naughty.”
Vanessa shook her head as they both watched the first violinist hold court in the centre of the string section before mounting the conductor’s podium, taking his place as the orchestra’s leader.
He held his bow in the air and waved it with one powerful arm. Silence fell.
“Okay!” he said, eyes flashing, a picture of triumph and exuberance. “We are, once more, minus a conductor. But we still work! The music can still be played. For now, I lead from the violin. Yes?”
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.