“No, no. Well, not explicitly. Milan’s pretty good at not getting caught out, and he’s got at least two-thirds of the orchestra on side. The others just don’t want to get involved.”
“Surely they’ll start to suspect, if enough conductors walk out.”
“They won’t want to lose Milan. He’s a celeb now. Audiences have been stratospheric since that silly talent show. They all want to see the man in action.”
Can’t say I blame them. Shame he’s such a knob, though. Such a gorgeous, sexy…ugh.
“He is rather…you know.” Lydia bit her lip, giving Vanessa a sidelong glance.
“Oh, no, my girl, don’t go there,” said Vanessa firmly. “We’ve lost too many good players that way. He’s a heartbreaker. He’s too wrapped up in himself to offer anything useful to anyone else. Steer clear.”
“I had a feeling you’d say that.” Lydia sighed.
“He never wanted to be an orchestral player, not that he’s ever said so,” continued Vanessa. “But he can’t be part of a team. He has to be the leader, the one that stands out, the one in control. I think he wanted a virtuoso career, but it didn’t work out and now everyone’s paying for it.”
“He could have been a virtuoso, though. He’s a fantastic violinist. And with the charisma of Paganini too.”
“Hush, don’t let him hear you say that! He’s unbearable enough as it is.”
“It’s such a shame.”
“Don’t,” barked Vanessa, “go there.”
“I get the message! I won’t go there! But isn’t he seeing that Tilda from the telly?”
“I think they split,” said Vanessa vaguely. “We get off here, don’t we?”
“Oh, yeah. Dangerous game, though, isn’t it? Trying to get the conductors to quit. What if the orchestra’s reputation goes down the pan?”
“It won’t. He’s clever enough to be all sweetness and light every time we do a recital with a guest conductor. We’ve had stellar endorsements from the likes of Simon Rattle and Valery Gergiev. He just gaslights the salaried ones until they throw in the towel. Or the baton.”
“Wow, quite sneaky.”
“Yes. Not a nice man, Lydia.”
“No. Right.”
A sleety dusk was falling in Wardour Street, and they were Chappell’s last customers before closing time, hastily slapping down the twenty pounds, taking their change and heading back out into the gathering gloom.
“He said he’d be in the Delius Arms. God, I don’t know if I can face rush hour on the Tube again. Shall we walk back?”
“Oh, go on. I’ve got my umbrella.”
Vanessa sheltered them both as they made their way through the city, weaving in and out of all the people on their way home from work. Lydia often thought that her special superpower should be feet that could walk endless distances—she loved to tramp the streets of London and found it frustrating that she could only manage a few miles at a time. Even in the cold and dark, she found enchantment in its vastness and its endless possibilities.
Lifting her face to the icy drops, shivering but not miserable, she reminded herself again that she was a violinist with the Westminster Symphony Orchestra. No matter what life threw at her by way of imperious men and shambolic relationships with conductors, nobody was going to take that away from her.
The Delius Arms was warm and cheery, but Lydia felt the need to dive into the ladies’ toilets to check herself in the mirror before completing her errand. Her hair was stuffed inside the hood of her parka and her face was red with cold and streaked with rain, her spectacles steaming up rapidly in the more temperate air. Nothing for a man like Milan to pay attention to. Nothing at all. She exhaled deeply and trudged back out, not daring to tell Vanessa what she had been doing instead of relieving her bladder.
A large and rather rowdy group of string players had colonised the far corner of the bar, bonding over their pint glasses. Milan sat at the end of a cushioned bench, engrossed in conversation with the pretty-boy cellist.
“I’ll wait here,” said Vanessa, maintaining a position by the door that would aid a quick escape. “Just hand it over. No eye contact. And get out of there.”
“Yes, Captain,” said Lydia with a salute and a giggle. “Cover me. I’m going in.”
Milan did not notice her at first until, one by one, the other members of the group broke off their conversations to stare at her. She removed the packet from her handbag and held it out.
“Your string,” she said, her tone noticeably mutinous.