She caught her breath. It sounded like flirtation, of a dramatic, steely kind. She should beware. These were dangerous waters when she was on the high-speed rebound from a man she adored.
“Told to? By you, you mean?”
He smirked down at his half-eaten laksa.
“Forget it. I’m only teasing.”
But was he?
Lydia twirled noodles round and round her fork, watching him.
“There’s a great concert tomorrow at the Barbican,” he said abruptly. “A good friend is conducting. Some Mahler, some Bruckner. I’ve got two free tickets, but nobody to come with me. Would you, perhaps…?”
“Go with you?”
“As a friend. A colleague. Whatever you want.”
Why the hell not?
“All right, then. I’d like that. Thanks.”
They finished the meal companionably, talking music until the plates were clean and the glasses drained. Karl-Heinz saw her into a taxi and waved her off.
Back in the cramped Shepherd’s Bush flat she hadn’t expected to be returning to, she looked in the mirror and was surprised at how un-devastated she looked.
Perhaps the devastation would kick in tomorrow.
Chapter Nine
Devastation was still noticeable by its absence when Lydia woke up.
Her appetite for her breakfast was strong as ever, though she only had half a bag of dusty muesli in the cupboard and no milk, so she had to put ice cream on it. The black coffee was bitter but bracing.
She thought about the day’s rehearsal and tried to put a number on how much she was dreading it. But she wasn’t dreading it at all. Milan would be there, with Sarah the bitch-faced harpist and Maurice, but they could do their worst. Tonight she had a date with Karl-Heinz von Ritter. She stuck two fingers up at an imaginary Milan.
“So there,” she said. “Stick that in your pipe and smoke it, twat.”
Pulling a face at the strange muesli, she thought about von Ritter. He had searching, dark eyes that could turn from amused to thoughtful to flinty in milliseconds. He was classically handsome and impeccably smart. She tried to find a flaw, but she couldn’t put her finger on one.
Oh, there was the ‘Herr Trigger’ reputation. He could lose his temper spectacularly. But she hadn’t seen any evidence of it as yet.
She ignored the irritating voice within her that kept reminding her of the way Milan made her feel—the huge rush of love and desire that was almost madness. Could she say goodbye to that? Could she really?
“No choice,” she said to herself, lips on her coffee cup. “He doesn’t want me. Not when it comes right down to it. I have to learn to accept that.”
Walking into the rehearsal hall, she made a beeline for Vanessa and Ben, needing friendly faces to hide behind.
“What’s going on?” Vanessa demanded the minute Lydia arrived at the kettledrums. “Those two are all over each other.”
She nodded in the direction of the harp, where Milan stood talking to Sarah, who had a hand on his shoulder and was leaning in so close they could have kissed.
“Oh,” said Lydia, looking away swiftly and trying to bury the rising pang deep within her. “We broke up.”
“Christ, Lydia. I can’t keep up with all this. Can you just wear a badge with ‘On’ or ‘Off’ printed on it or something?” She smiled ruefully. “Sorry. Not very sympathetic there. But, you know. It never seems to end.”
“Well, it has now. It’s over. He’s got no respect for me and I deserve better.”
“Atta girl.”