Lydia thought she ought to do the same. Milan finished his spiel and came off the platform to his chair on the outer perimeter of the first violinists, though he remained standing, needing to be visible to the whole orchestra.
He held up his bow for a few seconds before counting in the beautiful cellist, who played the opening bars solo before being joined by the woodwind for the slow introduction.
Lydia watched the cellist’s smooth, dark hair fall, fringing his face as he bent over his instrument. Then Milan raised his bow, ready for the tumble into waltz tempo, and she began to play.
Surrounded by exhilarating dance music, Lydia forgot the woes of the moment and became nothing but a bow hand and fingers pressing on strings, her head whirling along with the imaginary waltzers, keeping pace with the black notes that whizzed past her eyes. Yes, she belonged here. Yes, this was right. Everything would be all right after all.
Incredible to think that she was working with the man whose deft bowing she followed, taking her cue from the speed of his arm and the wild flying of his hair. I am working with Milan Kaspar! I am his colleague!
It was two hours before they made it to the end of the piece, two hours of stopping and starting, picking every phrase apart, being shouted at or coaxed or charmed by Milan along the way. Once those two hours were over, Lydia felt that she had fought and won a battle. She was a member of the orchestra now and it held her undying loyalty.
“Good, that’s good, that’s promising.” Milan, clearly enjoying his new conducting role, treated the orchestra to a full-beam smile. “We see what tomorrow brings when Clayton hands in his resignation. I hope the Trust will think we can do this.”
‘I can do this’, you mean, thought Lydia cynically, packing away her violin.
She was craning her neck, looking for the friendly percussionist, planning to invite her for a post-rehearsal coffee, when her attention was distracted by an imperious click of the fingers.
“You. New girl.”
Lydia couldn’t quite believe it, but Milan was pointing at her, his eyes intent. He tossed his head and beckoned a long, pale finger.
Struggling to contain her breath, Lydia trotted up to him, wondering whether to expect an apology, a welcome, a scolding or a proposition, or something else completely.
“You know where Chappell’s is?” he asked brusquely.
“Of course.” Everyone knew where Chappell’s was. It was the most famous music shop in the UK.
He fumbled in his pocket and proffered a twenty-pound note.
“I need an A string. Eudoxa.”
Lydia’s mouth fell open. She looked from Milan to the banknote and back again. He was serious.
“Well? Why wait? Take it. I’ll be in the Delius Arms. You know it?”
“Next door,” said Lydia, taking the note before she could stop herself.
“Good, good. I’ll see you there.”
He nodded formally then swung around, dismissing her in favour of a group of other string players who appeared to be waiting for him.