“What?”
“It’s true. I will play at the opening night of the Proms. Instead of the Thomas Tallis fantasia, we do The Lark Ascending, and I play it. Then I do the Elgar Violin Concerto. So, not so bad, huh?”
For a moment, Lydia was speechless. They had sacked Milan as conductor, yet given him an even dearer wish—one he had thought impossible to achieve at his age. It was both wonderful and mystifying.
“But I am orchestra leader again,” he clarified. “Leonard won’t be so happy.”
“And you’re going to do the counselling thing? Give up the booze?”
He shrugged.
“I’ll go to the sessions, I guess. The deal is too sweet to jeopardise. Lydia, this could be the start of my real career—the one I was meant for. International tours, recording deals. My God. It could all happen. I can’t fuck it up. Don’t let me fuck it up.”
“I’m here for you. You know I am.”
He pulled her close, kissing her while the squirrels frolicked on the sandwich packs. Eventually one jumped on her leg and they broke apart, laughing.
For a moment, the sun was dazzling, the blossom bright with promise. New beginnings were carried on the scented breeze.
“I guess you’ll be coming to rehearsal this afternoon then?”
“Of course. Better eat these sandwiches.”
* * * *
The rehearsal was interesting, to say the least. Not everyone was content with the trustees’ way of dealing with the Milan issue, but nobody dared comment.
Of more positive note was the speed with which they had managed to engage a new conductor. The gentleman in question was the musical director of the Bavaria Philharmonic, a certain Karl-Heinz von Ritter of some international renown, and he was expected in London as soon as his current contract had expired.
Afterwards, in the beer garden at the Delius Arms, Lydia, Vanessa, Ben and a couple of string players waited for Milan to get the round in at the bar.
“How the fuck did he swing that?” Martin, the viola player, directed his question at Lydia, who looked sheepish.
“You know what the trustees are like when it comes to Milan.”
“Too right,” said Vanessa. “It’s like a fatal attraction. They just can’t let him go. Well, he’d better not let them down, that’s all I can say.”
“Do you think he’ll come through?” asked Ben of Lydia.
Milan appeared at the door, bearing a tray of drinks, not one of which looked non-alcoholic.
“I hope so,” she said.
“So,” said Milan, distributing the beverages. “Who’s worked with Karl-Heinz von Ritter?”
He paused to look at Lydia, who had pinched her lips tight on catching sight of his double—or was it a triple?—brandy.
“What? Don’t look like that. This is a final fling, right? My last.”
“It has to be, Milan.” Lydia’s lips stayed pressed together as she tried to keep her frustrations in check.
“Hey, I am paying somebody to be my counsellor. You don’t have to do their job for them.” Milan’s famous inability to take criticism was in full force.
“I know, just…”
“Just nothing. Who are you, my…” He stopped, the word ‘mother’ still on his lips.
Everyone concentrated on their drink, especially Milan, who emptied half the glass in one gulp.