Quietly, she put down her instrument and walked out of the hall.
Nobody said anything. The music continued all the way to the doors. Milan hadn’t even noticed her leave.
Exiting the building, she broke into a run. It was absurd when she thought about it, because nobody was likely to be chasing her, but her legs wouldn’t stop, propelling her onwards as if possessing a will of their own.
That will seemed to be driving her back to the park, where she could stop, double over and breathe in huge lungfuls of blossom-scented air, while curious tourists and small children wove around her.
Once her heart had stopped pounding in her ears, she went to sit down on a bench. On the lake, ducks and swans glided around, just the way they always did. For them, everything was normal. For the ice-cream eaters and the playground toddlers, the elderly promenaders and the slacking government officials, everything was normal. For her, everything was wrong.
Look what he had made of her—the kind of person who would walk out of a rehearsal to avoid an embarrassingly public tearful scene. That wasn’t Lydia, the diligent, focused girl she’d thought she knew. That was some drama queen.
Worst of all, she had left her violin in there, so she would have to go back at some point. Couldn't she just leave it until tomorrow? Going back was unthinkable. Milan should understand. How had he expected her to react? Had he even thought about her reaction at all? Or was she just some piece of debris from the past, to be swept away and forgotten about? It certainly seemed so, from his manner in the rehearsal hall.
A fresh breeze whipped up, chasing the fallen blossom along the pathways and over the grass. Darkening cloud cover promised showers. The park strollers upped their pace, producing umbrellas from Harrods shopping bags.
The weather made Lydia’s decision for her.
She would go home and deal with it all tomorrow.
Chapter Two
The tiny Shepherd’s Bush basement flat she had taken on in January had turned fairly swiftly into a seldom-used bolthole. Once she had fallen under Milan’s spell, most of her London nights had been spent in his Barbican apartment. Then there had been the tour…
So the place lacked the homely feel she had originally planned for it. The weekends she had assumed she might spend in markets, looking for treasures and trinkets to brighten up the living room, had been spent instead in Milan’s bed. Consequently, the flat had a transient, student atmosphere to it, with just a sofa, television, computer and ‘rehearsal corner’—a piano squeezed into the tightest space with a metronome on top, plus a music stand.
She made herself a hot chocolate with lots of cream, dragged the quilt off her bed and lay on her sofa beneath it, watching stupid programmes about buying property abroad until the rain eased and dusk began to fall.
“It’s a sick day, that’s all,” she said to herself. “I’m not feeling too good. Nobody can prove I’m lying.”
Then she started to cry in earnest, until her exhaustion granted her the small mercy of sleep.
She was awoken by her doorbell, the jangle cutting through an actor on TV urging her to claim compensation for her accident. She reached for the remote control and turned off the volume, listening for a repeat of the bell, in case she had dreamt it.
Again, it shrilled through the flat. Lydia hated her bell—so demanding and alarming. She needed to get one of those mellow, dual-toned ones.
Maybe it was Vanessa. Vanessa, bringing her violin back. Yeah. It would be her. They could get that bottle of wine out of the fridge and talk about the shock of the day.
Or maybe it was just a charity collector, or a person seeking election, or a drunk staggering off the high street and falling down the area steps. That had happened before.
Or maybe it’s Milan.
Stupid thought, stupid hope. Immediately she cursed herself for allowing it into her brain. Now she was bound to be disappointed and her welcome, if it was Vanessa, would be lukewarm.
Whoever was at the door knocked, knuckles rapping impatiently. Vanessa wouldn’t do that.
She put the chain on and opened it the two inches it would allow.
She had to look up at the visitor.
“Oh!”
She unchained the door and opened it wide.
“It’s you.”
Milan held out her instrument case.
“You forgot your violin.”