Highly Strung (Food Of Love 1)

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.

Chapter Two

Lydia crumpled the twenty pounds in her fist, dumbfounded by irritation.

Armani Diamonds signalled an advance warning of Vanessa the percussionist’s presence. “What’s he done?”

“He…he expects me to run his errands for him!”

“Oh dear. He’s a terrible prima donna, you know. Well, you saw him on TV, I expect.”

“Why the hell did I say yes? Why did I take this money?”

“Believe me, it’s easier than saying no. I’m not sure anyone’s ever said no to Milan.”

“He’s like a hypnotist,” agreed Lydia. “But a spectacularly twatty and annoying one.”

“Ah well. What’s he asked you to do?”

“Get him a new string from Chappell’s. But it’s in Soho! Bloody miles away.”

“I’ll come with you if you like.”

“Oh, would you? Thanks. We can get a coffee or something after.”

“I’d love to. Come on then, before it gets too dark out there. I hate the winter, don’t you?”

“Mmm.”

Bitter rain was falling in the street outside and the light was dull enough to justify headlights on the buses and taxis thundering past.

Lydia had exaggerated the distance from Victoria to Soho—in better weather, it would be a pleasant walk around the perimeter of Buckingham Palace, over Green Park and along Piccadilly, but today the prospect was far from appealing. She and Vanessa headed down below ground, assuming from the lack of warning chalkboards and yellow cones that the bomb scare was over.

“So what was going on today?” asked Lydia as their train jolted out of the station. “With Clayton? Why were the violinists playing at the wrong tempo? I didn’t think his conducting was that bad.”

“It wasn’t. He’s a good conductor.” Vanessa sighed. “It’s Milan. He’s got it into his head that, if he scares off enough conductors, the Trust will offer him the gig.”

“What?” Lydia stared. “Do the trustees know about this?”