Musical Beds Read online

  A Total-E-Bound Publication

  www.total-e-bound.com

  Musical Beds

  ISBN # 978-1-78184-050-4

  ©Copyright Justine Elyot 2012

  Cover Art by Posh Gosh ©Copyright July 2012

  Edited by Amy Parker

  Total-E-Bound Publishing

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, places and events are from the author’s imagination and should not be confused with fact. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, events or places is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any material form, whether by printing, photocopying, scanning or otherwise without the written permission of the publisher, Total-E-Bound Publishing.

  Applications should be addressed in the first instance, in writing, to Total-E-Bound Publishing. Unauthorised or restricted acts in relation to this publication may result in civil proceedings and/or criminal prosecution.

  The author and illustrator have asserted their respective rights under the Copyright Designs and Patents Acts 1988 (as amended) to be identified as the author of this book and illustrator of the artwork.

  Published in 2012 by Total-E-Bound Publishing, Think Tank, Ruston Way, Lincoln, LN6 7FL, United Kingdom.

  Warning:

  This book contains sexually explicit content which is only suitable for mature readers. This story has a heat rating of Total-e-burning and a sexometer of 2.

  This story contains 163 pages, additionally there is also a free excerpt at the end of the book containing 7 pages.

  Food of Love

  MUSICAL BEDS

  Justine Elyot

  Can hope come from heartbreak? Music and passion rule the lives of Milan and Lydia, building bridges between them even when all seems lost.

  After Lydia leaves a grieving Milan behind in Prague, their tempestuous relationship seems to be over. But chance throws them back together again when Milan is given the career opportunity of a lifetime.

  Lydia is thrown off course by his self-destructive behaviour and, as much as she loves him, she can’t be sure that she will ever be able to live with him. Then the issue is further confused by the arrival of a handsome and intriguing conductor from Germany…

  Meanwhile, Lydia’s friend Vanessa is finding herself strongly drawn to her percussionist colleague—a man young enough to be her son.

  Affairs of the heart run riot through the Westminster Symphony Orchestra. Will they ruin an important television broadcast, or will the musicians find love and peace at last?

  Dedication

  To Amy for all your help and encouragement. And to St Cecilia.

  Trademarks Acknowledgement

  The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction:

  Armani Diamonds: Giorgio Armani S.p.A.

  Harrods: Harrods

  James Bond: Ian Fleming/Metro Goldwyn-Meyer

  Pret a Manger: Pret a Manger (Europe) Ltd.

  Bridget Jones: Helen Fielding/Miramax Films

  iPod: Apple Corporation

  Mrs Robinson: Simon & Garfunkel, Colombia Records/Sony Music Entertainment, Inc.

  Guinness Book of Records: Jim Pattison Group

  Chapter One

  Whoever it was that said April was the cruellest month had it wrong, Lydia thought. It was May. Her slow amble through the park, on the way to her first rehearsal after a fortnight’s sick leave, found her ambushed at every turn by chirruping birds, falling petals, laughing children. All this unrestrained joy everywhere, all this rising sap—she should be taking part in it, with her lover. They should be promenading hand in hand along this lakeside, pointing at the swans, feeding the ducks, all between kisses.

  But her lover was gone. And so was his other lover.

  She had spent the two weeks following Evgeny’s funeral with her parents, suffocated in suburban semi-detachment, watching box sets of American dramas with glassy eyes and a tissue permanently in hand. She hadn’t played her violin once. She wasn’t sure she still could. Milan was in Prague, and there he would stay, and she would never see him again. She had to get used to it. She had to.

  She couldn’t.

  In the end, her parents had sent her back to London, fearful of her losing her place in the Westminster Symphony Orchestra if they let her spend too long sinking into their couch.

  “I know you don’t feel ready, love,” her father had said. “But you can’t give up your dream for this. It’s what you’ve always wanted. Don’t let it all go over some fella.”

  She knew he was right. But Milan was a lot more than ‘some fella’ and the dream seemed to have slipped away from her somehow, its melody mutated into a tuneless jangle.

  Her journey took her past the park and the palace. She drifted, violin case in hand, on her way to the rehearsal hall, under a sun that seemed to be mocking her.

  In the alleyway alongside the orchestra’s home, a young couple were kissing. She shoved past them. Her eyes filled with tears.

  Her vision was still blurry when she reached the top of the steps and barged through the double doors into the lobby.

  “Lydia!” A friendly voice, clucky and concerned, greeted her, and suddenly she was caught up in a tight embrace. Her nostrils filled with Armani Diamonds, and expensive fibres brushed her skin.

  “Vanessa. Hello.” The tears spilled out. She was unaccountably moved by her friend’s warm welcome. She’d had no idea what to expect on her first day back at work—she had feared whispering and averted eyes. This was a huge relief.

  “Sweetie. Come and sit down.” Vanessa hustled Lydia into the cloakroom and sat with her on the bench until her friend’s exhausted sobs died away. “I’m so glad to see you back. I was really worried you’d had a breakdown or something.”

  “I kind of did,” said Lydia, wiping her eyes. “I kind of still am.”

  “But you have friends, and you have your music. They’ll see you through. I promise you.”

  “The music’s been awfully quiet lately.”

  “Then it’s time to get into the thick of it. Throw yourself into it. Talent like yours shouldn’t be wasted.”

  Lydia bestowed a watery smile on Vanessa. “I’m just a fiddle for hire,” she said. “I’m not Paganini.”

  The thought hovered in the air between them. That’s more Milan’s style.

  Vanessa dismissed it with a shudder.

  “You’re wonderful and you should know it. Come on. Let’s forget the past. The future’s waiting for us.”

  In the rehearsal room, orchestral players milled about setting up music stands and tuning up instruments. There were no whispers or averted eyes, but plenty of genuine smiles and words of welcome. Lydia perceived an immediate difference in the atmosphere. Back before the disastrous central European tour, the orchestra had been a nervous beast—het up and highly strung. Now there was an air of playtime, a sense of freedom. Was it because Milan was gone? Was it really?

  Her uneasiness wouldn’t quite fall away, despite the best efforts of her colleagues. Nobody mentioned Milan’s name, but there were a lot of sad and regretful allusions to Evgeny’s fate and polite enquiries about his funeral.

  “There are a couple of new people I should introduce you to,” said Vanessa, steering Lydia away from some cellists who were getting a little too emotional about the loss of their fellow player. “That’s the new harpist, Sarah.” She pointed out a polished blonde in a scarlet wrap dress, who looked over and smiled one of those professional smiles that don’t reach the eyes.

  “Who’s the man on the timpani? What happened to Vernon?”

  “He decided to retire early.”

  “Yes, but who is that?”

 
The timpanist was tall and rangy, with a mop of dark curls and a face made of shadows and angles. One second he looked like an endearingly gawky student, the next like a warrior poet. He was immediately intriguing.

  “That’s…Ben.”

  Vanessa’s voice had gone all soft and fond. Lydia, forgetting her woes for a moment, widened her eyes, noting the twin spots of cherry red on her friend’s cheeks.

  “Do you fancy him?”

  “Of course not. He’s young enough to be my son.”

  “He’s a bit of a fox, though. Don’t you think?”

  “I’ve no idea.”

  “You do fancy him!”

  “No, I don’t! Oh, the trustees are coming in. They must have appointed a conductor at last. We’ve been muddling through with Leonard as leader-conductor for the last few weeks, but it’s not been going so well. He’s too inexperienced. Anyway, you’d better go to your section.”

  She air-kissed Lydia an affectionate goodbye before scuttling back to her eyrie amongst the percussion instruments.

  Lydia found the only free chair in the first violin section and took it, directing her gaze, along with everyone around her, to the podium where Lord Davenport, the chief trustee, stood ready to address them.

  “Good afternoon,” he opened. “I’m sure you’ll all join me in extending the warmest gratitude to Leonard, who has done such a fine job of keeping us on track during this difficult time. His efforts—and all of yours—have been very much appreciated.

  “I have several pieces of news for you this afternoon. The first relates to our summer concert season. You’ll have the details handed out in the newsletter at the end of the rehearsal, but the big story is that we are opening the Proms this year—the first night is ours.”

  Rustling and chattering greeted this remark, accompanied by a couple of whistles.

  “We’ve committed to a programme of English music, which your conductor will run through with you as soon as possible.”

  Expectant silence fell. The C word had been spoken. Lord Davenport coughed, shrinking beneath the intensity of the attention that had fallen upon him.

  “Yes, your conductor. We have made an appointment, on a temporary basis at first, but the contract may well be extended if everything works out. I’m sure you’ll all join me in welcoming back our great friend and colleague, Milan Kaspar.”

  Lydia shook her head. This must be a dream. Surely she had tuned out and hadn’t caught the words correctly? Looking around the room wildly, she saw an orchestra frozen in space and time, all of them staring at the podium in disbelief.

  Nobody spoke, nobody moved for a long, long second.

  Then heads were bent to their neighbours, frantic whisperings pouring from shocked mouths.

  “Is this for real?” somebody asked.

  The back doors opened.

  “Ah, here he is.” Lord Davenport was visibly discomfited by the orchestra’s reaction to the news—it wasn't the unalloyed rejoicing he might have expected.

  Milan skirted the edge of the woodwind and double basses like a catwalk model, head high, hips swinging, until he reached the podium, where he shook hands with Lord Davenport, then faced his new constituency.

  Lydia half rose, then sat back down again. Her body and mind floundered in confused anarchy. Was there a good way to deal with this situation? She wasn’t one for drama—that was part of what had made her and Milan such a good fit. All the same, her eyes filled with tears again, the physical presence of him knocking her for six.

  She had dreamt of seeing him again and now, oh, it was all wrong. It shouldn’t have happened like this.

  And people were looking at her, too. They could see her, pale and shaking. They knew he hadn’t told her about this.

  How dare he put me in this position?

  Milan watched Lord Davenport amble off, then tossed his hair and grinned broadly.

  “So good to be back,” he said. “Look at your faces!”

  He laughed, a kind of manic, jagged sound that owed little to genuine mirth.

  “What’s going on?” The question came from Leonard, but articulated what every member of the group was thinking.

  He hasn’t even looked at me yet. He hasn’t even looked at Evgeny’s old spot. Everybody else has. But he hasn’t.

  “What’s going on? What do you think? They ask me back. I say no. They make me an offer I can’t refuse. I say yes.”

  He shrugged and tapped his baton on the music stand.

  “So now, hey, let’s play some music.”

  A rumble of dissent arose from the two-thirds of the orchestra who hadn’t been members of Milan’s inner circle, but Milan spoke over it.

  “If you love this orchestra, you will do this. It don’t matter what you think of me. You think of the orchestra. You do what is best for the orchestra. Right?”

  The mutterings died down.

  “We start with some Vaughan Williams. Fantasia on a Theme by Thomas Tallis. I’m sorry, brass, woodwind, percussion—you sit this one out. Maybe go to the canteen for half an hour, yes? I see you here later for Mars from The Planets, okay?”

  The musicians didn’t need telling twice. Desperate to huddle up for some gossip, they grabbed their bags and headed for the doors.

  He still hadn’t looked at Lydia. Leonard handed out the scores while Milan fielded more questions from the cellists. The trustees had gone into a tailspin of anxiety when Milan had resigned. They had offered him money, but the only thing he’d wanted was the conductor role. It had taken two days of negotiation for them to crumble. Lydia was pretty sure they had offered him the post in the face of everybody’s better judgement.

  “Sorry about your mother,” a viola player said.

  Milan looked down for a moment.

  “Thanks,” he said. “So. The music. I know this piece needs a secondary string section, but we will get some extra players when the time is nearer. For now I will ask the back row of each section to be our secondary section, right? And also we need a string quartet. So I want Camilla on cello, Brendan on viola, and, for violins, Leonard and Lydia.”

  He had to look at her now. He had spoken her name. Her heart was a shrivelled, smouldering mess and her hands wouldn’t keep still—surely he had to look?

  He raised his eyes, so very briefly, in her direction.

  She tried to hold them but they slid away. There had been nothing in the look, just pure flatness.

  “So,” he resumed, “we won’t yet have the depth of sound we need, but we must imagine it is there.” He spoke at length about his vision for the piece, never again looking over at Lydia. As his explanation continued, Lydia came to realise that this wasn’t the Milan they had known. The glitter and flourish was forced, where it had been so effortless before. He didn’t look at any of them properly—the eyes that had bored into souls now just lurked inside heavy lids, opaque and distant.

  Her shock and anger at his sudden reappearance melted into compassion and love. Of course he was depressed. Given what he had been through, it wouldn’t be surprising if he was close to breakdown. After all, she knew he handled guilt badly—and now he had so much more of it to contend with. Most likely, it was only the music keeping him sane.

  She took her bow and wrapped her fist around it tightly, willing herself to stop shaking, looking only at the music score and nowhere else.

  By the time everyone had positioned their instruments and poised their bows, she was halfway to composure. Halfway was going to have to be near enough.

  She turned her head the same way as everyone else’s, towards Milan. He looked over them, at some fixed point on the wall behind, holding his hands ready to signal the opening note.

  Lydia worked hard at concentrating only on the notes in front of her and Milan’s hands, but the sweeping majesty of the music had its inevitable effect on her. She tried to quash the emotion, but the strange distance of Milan’s expression disturbed her too much. Her memory defeated her, calling to mind the image of him on Charles
Bridge in Prague, when they had talked of a future together.

  As the chords swelled and the melody soared, Lydia clung to her self-control with every fibre of her body. A lump grew and hardened in her throat while her head ached with longing and loss. As for her heart, it was too full to bear.

  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.