Highly Strung (Food Of Love 1)
Lydia dashed down the steps, calling her name.
“Go ‘way, please,” said Mary-Ann, but Lydia took a seat beside her.
“Hey,” she said awkwardly. “Don’t be upset.”
Mary-Ann sniffed and laughed without mirth.
“How does that work, then? Everybody works together to trash my career and I’m supposed to be happy about it?”
“Not everybody.”
Mary-Ann turned pink-rimmed eyes to Lydia and grimaced in concession.
“No. You’re right. Some of you aren’t in league with the devil himself.”
“The devil himself?”
“Milan.” She laughed hollowly. “I wonder where he hides his horns and his forked tail.”
“Oh, he…” Lydia quelled her impulse to defend him. What he was doing was indefensible. “He wants what you’ve got,” she said instead. “He’s jealous of you. That’s all.”
“I don’t understand it,” said Mary-Ann. “He’s famous, a brilliant musician, everyone seems to think he’s some kind of sex god. Why the hell would he be jealous of me?”
“He wants to be in charge. He hates being told what to do.”
Mary-Ann put her handkerchief back in her jacket pocket and frowned at Lydia.
“You’ve made quite a study of him.”
“No, not really. It’s common knowledge. In the orchestra, anyway.”
“So tell me. What else should I know? About Milan, and the WSO in general?”
“Oh, I’m no expert. I’m the rookie.”
“I know that. It means you haven’t been sucked in yet. You see things with a clearer, more objective eye. Perhaps you can help me, Lydia.”
“Do you really think so? Why don’t you come back up? We need you, you know.”
Mary-Ann exhaled her dismissal of this idea.
“Nah. I’m done with backbiting violinists for the day. Tell you what. Why don’t we go and get some lunch and let them get on with it. Maybe I’ll come back tomorrow for the concert, maybe I won’t…”
“Well, okay,” agreed Lydia, seeing a spark of hope present itself. “Where shall we go?”
“Have you been to Margaret Island?”
“Not yet.”
“What are we waiting for, then?”
Lydia emerged from the ladies’, having texted Milan a message about what was going on. Now she was free to relax and chill out in the company of a person she liked and respected. Milan could do his worst, but she wasn’t going to join in with the sabotage of Mary-Ann’s conductorship.
Margaret Island was a beautiful green oasis in the middle of the Danube, boasting its own thermal spa resort, and it was in the cafe of this healing environment that Mary-Ann and Lydia chose to escape the hurly-burly of orchestral life.
“What am I going to do, Lydia?” asked Mary-Ann, pouring the first of many glasses of wine.
“Come back and conduct the concert,” said Lydia, more confidently than she felt. “It’s not just the reputation of the orchestra at stake—it’s your reputation too. Don’t ruin that for the sake of some silly s