“Hey,” whispered Leonard, “don’t cry. The applause is for you too. It’s for all of us.”
At the concert’s end, Lydia walked straight through the wings and into the arms of Karl-Heinz, who had been first off the stage.
“Did we do well?” he asked, murmuring into her ear over the background sounds of clinking glasses and excited congratulations.
“Oh, Karl-Heinz,” was all she could say. “Oh, Karl-Heinz.”
“I think that’s a yes,” he whispered, kissing her earlobe.
“Where’s Milan?”
Karl-Heinz laughed, slightly ruefully, as if he acknowledged that their mutual lover would always come first in Lydia’s heart. But he made no reference to it.
“In the Green Room, mobbed by reporters and agents and publicists and fans. He’s having the time of his life.”
Lydia giggled. “I’ll bet. So, where’s the party?”
“Step this way.”
The Green Room was clogged with revellers, clustered around little columns wound with ivy and fairy lights in honour of the season. Champagne was everywhere, and so were familiar faces.
“Mary-Ann! What did you think?”
“That was absolutely stunning, love. I’m almost speechless.”
She moved on, past Julius Hackmeyer, who was with Sarah Latimer, sipping champagne that you might have thought was neat lemon juice from his expression.
She waved at Vanessa and Ben, feeding each other canapés from a paper plate.
“You can start your honeymoon now,” she called over.
“Oh, we didn’t wait,” said Ben, leaning into his new wife for a smooch.
Milan stood a little farther on, virtually invisible behind the crowd of people holding mobile phones and tablets in the air to record his post-concert exhilaration.
But where was the guest Lydia was counting on? She almost wished he might not turn up. This was a risk, after all. There was no knowing how Milan might take it. Would she even recognise him? She’d only seen pictures on the internet.
Her heart performed a sudden backflip. There he was, by the door, showing a security guard his backstage pass.
He had to be close to seventy, but his resemblance to Milan was still striking. He held himself in the same way and his eyes were no less piercing, despite the round-framed spectacles that partly concealed them.
“Mr Kaspar?” she breathed, hastening towards him. “I’m Lydia.”
He nodded politely, looking all the time towards Milan’s mob.
“Thank you,” he said, “for contacting me.” He still carried a trace of Czech accent, but his enunciation was strongly North American.
“I couldn’t help myself,” she said. “Oh, I hope he’s going to be all right. Why don’t you sit down over there and I’ll bring him over?”
“Sure.” He took a glass from a passing tray—Dutch courage, no doubt—and went to sit down.
Lydia noticed that Karl-Heinz, who knew all about this, made a beeline f
or him, keeping him company while she pushed through the throng and made hand-flapping signals to Milan.
“Excuse me,” he said to his admirers. “One moment.”
“You know you’re brilliant, don’t you?” said Lydia. “But I thought I ought to say it anyway.”