“That’s right. It wasn’t called that when I lived there. It was Czechoslovakia, and before that Bohemia.”
“How lovely. A true Bohemian. Do you fit the description?”
Milan smiled over his brandy glass.
“I suppose I do. I’m an artist and my hair is a bit longer than most men’s. Bohemian by nationality and by disposition. How about you?”
“Oh, well, I’m not from anywhere exciting, like you. Boring old Guildford. I live in London now, though. London’s exciting.”
“Yes, it is. I like it.”
“Do you ever miss your homeland?”
“All the time. Every day.”
“Would you ever go back?”
“Why are we talking about me? That is not why I invited you here.”
Lydia was beguiled by Milan’s intense look, head cocked to one side.
“Oh… Why…did you? Invite me here, I mean.”
Unnervingly, Milan did not reply, but simply let his eyes rest on her face as if seeking some higher truth in it.
“Take off your glasses,” he said at last.
Lydia obeyed, laying them on the table.
“Are you going to ask me to let down my hair?” she asked with a nervous laugh.
“Why not? Go on.”
With shaking fingers she loosened her ponytail, letting her straight, mid-brown hair fall freely over her shoulders.
“Now you are not the mouse any more. You are very pretty. Why do you hide? And those clothes—fleeces are for middle-aged people who like to ramble in the countryside.”
“Oh, I’m not very good at shopping.” Lydia hid her flush with a deep gulp of the wine. “Takes up too much rehearsal time.”
“You are unworldly. And you don’t wear makeup. You don’t need to.” He leant forward, so suddenly that Lydia spilled a little of the wine on her derided fleece. “Are you scared, Lydia?”
“Scared? Of what?”
“Of male attention. Men. Sex. Love.”
“No, no, of course not!”
“I hope not. Fear makes a poor musician. A good violinist is open, with herself and others.”
“Is this some kind of interview? I must say, I don’t think my appearance or personal relationships are really—”
“Relevant? Yes, they are. I’ll get you another drink, wait there.”
He gave Lydia a few moments of recovery time while he bought another round. She wanted to ask him to get her something non-alcoholic, but she knew he would refuse. She could not work out how she felt. Intimidated? A little. Infatuated? A lot. Imperilled? Most definitely. He had called her pretty. And the way he’d looked at her…
The same look set her to fluttering when he returned and put down the drinks.
“Show me your hands,” he said, taking them in his before she had a chance. “Good violinist’s hands. But small. Maybe you couldn’t play the piano, eh?”