Highly Strung (Food Of Love 1)
“No, she didn’t. Well, not the taking advantage part anyway. And she’s in a worse way than I am this morning. She’s gone for room service. I suspect the rehearsal will be pretty short today.”
“Are you sure there was no girl-on-girl action?”
“Don’t sound so disappointed.”
“You can tell me. I won’t judge.”
“Shut up, Milan. The main thing is, she’s going to conduct tonight. In the meantime, have you got any Advil?”
Despite Mary-Ann’s feverish eyes and ghostly pallor, the Budapest concert was a triumph, and standing ovations were their reward for all the aggravation and difficulty of the past months. As she rushed past Milan and Lydia, clutching a vast bouquet, she muttered, “Thanks.”
Milan laughed, watching her scurry backstage on the way to the Green Room.
“Thanks, she says,” he remarked. “She doesn’t have a clue. Wait till we get to Prague.”
Vienna came first, though, and as the tour bus bowled through the Hungarian countryside and over the border to Austria, the sun came out, promising more than Lydia thought the visit might deliver.
She sat next to Mary-Ann on the coach, listening to her hyper-excited chatter about a series of Mahler centenary concerts, but when they arrived in the heart of the old baroque city she disengaged from the conductor and sought out Milan.
“I have a treat for you tonight,” he said, inviting her into his room.
Evgeny was already there, fresh from the shower in a towel and nothing else.
“Really?” asked Lydia, envisaging a grand banquet in some archducal palace, or perhaps a night at the opera.
“I’ve just had a call from my old friend Werner. He’s put us on the VIP list for his club tonight.”
“Club? I didn’t think you were into clubbing.”
Lydia’s imagination turned to some strobe-lit cattle market for gilded Euro-princelings, where a bottle of water would set you back a small fortune and shady-looking DJs spun Lady Gaga discs all night long.
“Not that kind of club,” said Milan obliquely. “It’s very exclusive. Let me help you dress.”
To Lydia’s surprise, Milan produced from his case a tiny scrap of golden fabric, shimmery and thin, and put it on the bed.
“What’s that?”
“It’s your outfit. I brought it with me, just in case Werner was in town.”
“I don’t understand. You packed clothes…for me?”
Milan nodded impatiently while Evgeny lay back on the bed, chortling.
“What’s this club, Milan? What’s it about?”
“It’s a sex club.”
“A sex club? You want me to go to some club to have sex? Jesus, Milan!”
“No, it’s not like that. I thought you might like to watch the show, that’s all. If you don’t want to join in, that’s up to you. Evgeny and I probably will, though.”
“What is it? Like burlesque? Strippers?”
“No, nothing like that. Just like-minded people who enjoy performing. Exhibitionists, you could say. And voyeurs. I think you know me well enough to decide which one of those I am.”
Lydia’s mouth flapped open and shut.
“Come, Lydia. Nobody will make you do anything you don’t want to. It’s on a voluntary basis. If you just want to watch, that’s okay. If you don’t want to watch, you can leave.”