Musical Beds Page 5

  “Well, we did it,” she said, watching her chest rise and fall fast. “I wasn’t expecting my day to turn out like this.”

  He made a snuffly sound, the closest thing to a laugh a man in his condition could manage.

  “Me neither,” he said. He rolled onto his side and looked at Vanessa with such piercing tenderness that her cheeks flamed. “Glad it did, though.”

  He laid his palm on her stomach and moved it slowly in a soothing circle around her navel.

  “Me too.”

  Now the silence came. The ‘who will set the agenda?’ silence.

  “I suppose this makes me a cougar,” Vanessa said at last.

  Ben snorted, shaking his head.

  “Or a MILF. Except I don’t have any children. What happens when you fuck a MILF? Does she then become a MIF?”

  “I hate those terms,” said Ben reprovingly. “So crude. You’re neither of those. You’re who you are. Vanessa. Gorgeous, sexy Vanessa.”

  “People might call me a cougar, though.”

  “People can shut their fucking yaps. They’d better not say it where I can hear them.”

  “Oh, Ben.” She was touched by his defence of her. “Anyway, people only talk when there’s something to talk about.”

  She flicked her gaze up at him, looking from underneath lowered lashes.

  “What do you mean? Do you… Do you not want to…go on…with this?”

  She reached up for him, hooked a hand at the back of his neck, pulled him down for a kiss of apology.

  “I just wondered if you did,” she whispered afterwards.

  “I don’t care what anyone says. I want this. More than anything.”

  “Then I want it too.”

  Chapter Five

  Milan had asked her to wait for him in the Delius Arms, but Lydia had no desire to sit alone in a bar full of afternoon drinkers. Besides, it was a beautiful day, so she’d insisted on buying them a picnic lunch from Pret and sitting on the grass in the park instead.

  While she waited, fending off exceptionally bold urban squirrels, she fretted. The trustees were going to fire Milan. If they didn’t, then they needed their heads examining. In the two weeks since his return, he’d made it to three rehearsals. The rest of the time had been spent either drinking or sleeping it off.

  She’d tried everything she could think of to try to wean him off the bottle—promises, entreaties, threats. Eventually, the trustees had acted. It was going to be tough, but she could only pray that this might be the wake-up call he needed to put aside the alcohol and deal with his grief and guilt more productively.

  Then maybe they could get back to the way they had been—or, at least, the way she had dreamt they would be. Looking back, it had never been perfect, but that day in Prague… Oh, the hopes she had let herself have. They had been so close to realisation. Surely there was still a chance?

  She caught sight of his tall, lean figure loping along the path, looking around for her. She leapt up and waved, her heart thundering. How did he look? Angry? Devastated?

  No. He seemed to have a spring in his step. Had he managed to bamboozle or enchant the trustees somehow?

  “How was it?” she asked anxiously.

  He sat down beside her and picked up the sandwich pack.

  “Ah, crayfish, this is one of my favourites. Did you get crisps?”

  “Milan! What happened?”

  “Can we go to the Delius? Get a drink?”

  “No. Please. Tell me what they said.”

  “Okay. Well. They fired me.”

  “Oh, Milan.” She put out her hand for his.

  He squeezed it, but he was smiling.

  “It’s not so bad. They offered me a deal.”

  “Really? What?”

  “I see a counsellor and they give me my first concert as a solo violinist.”

  “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.

  “So,” he said, somewhat aggressively this time, “von Ritter?”

  “I haven’t worked with him myself,” said Vanessa, “but I have a friend in San Diego Philharmonic who has. Apparently, he has a nickname there. Herr Trigger.”

  “Herr Trigger?” Ben snorted. “He’s got a bit of a temper then?”

  “So I gather,” said Vanessa.

  “That’s interesting,” said Milan, finishing the rest of his drink.

  “Why?” Lydia felt a flutter of anxiety cross her heart.

  “No reason. Anybody want another drink?”

  “Milan…”

  “Oh, relax. It’s the last time!”

  Tactfully, making it look natural, the rest of the group found reasons why they couldn’t stay for another drink.

/>   Lydia was so grateful to them it nearly brought tears to her eyes, especially when Vanessa bent to kiss her cheek and whispered, “You aren’t responsible for him, darling. Call me if you need to.”

  Lydia watched her leave, wondering again whether there was something going on between Vanessa and Ben. No. Surely she’d have mentioned it.

  “We could go home,” she said to Milan. “You’ll need to be up early tomorrow—so much practicing to fit in!”

  “This is true.” He looked, with mild regret, at his empty brandy glass, then picked up his bag and slung it over his shoulder. “And I have champagne in the fridge.”

  Lydia scampered after him, wanting to remonstrate, but, before she could speak, Milan had collided with a glamorous blonde woman in the doorway, causing her to spill the bottle of slimline tonic she was carrying.

  “Shit, forgive me… Sarah, right?” said Milan. “Let me get you another.”

  “No, it’s fine. Don’t worry,” said the harpist, smiling in a way that caused Lydia’s hackles to rise. “I don’t like too much tonic in my gin anyway.”

  He twitched his lips. Lydia knew what that meant. I know you fancy me and I’m going to play up to it.

  “You’re sure?”

  “Quite sure. And congratulations, by the way. You so deserve a shot at a solo career.”

  “Thank you.”

  Lydia cleared her throat.

  “I’ll see you at rehearsal,” he said, moving on again.

  Lydia tried to say nothing about it, steeling her resolve not to snipe and make digs like a bitter, jealous person would.

  “She is a good player,” said Milan. “You are not friends?”

  “We haven’t really spoken.”

  “Why don’t you talk to her? She is new. You could be friends.”

  Lydia took a breath and stopped the words that sprang into her head from reaching her throat. If you think you can get me to agree to a ménage setup with her, think again.

  “You can’t force it,” she said neutrally.

  “I guess.”

  When they arrived at his Barbican flat, Milan’s first move was to head for the fridge and remove the bottle of champagne.

  “Milan.” Lydia hated the plaintive note of her voice. Was this how it had to be? Her as the joyless voice of moderation, him as her surrogate pupil or child? No, thanks. She wasn’t responsible for him—it was true.

  “What?” The cork popped and he ran around the kitchen, bottle in hand, looking for glasses. “I don’t get to celebrate?”

  She decided to try a different tack.

  “There’s more than one way to celebrate.”

  He turned from the cabinet to raise an eyebrow at her. His lips curved into a slow smile.

  “I’m sorry, miláčku. I haven’t been the best lover lately. But all that can change. Let’s take this to bed.”

  She shrugged off her denim jacket and slung it over a chair before advancing slowly, hand on hip, towards him.

  “Put that down,” she said softly, placing a finger on his cheek.

  He put the bottle on the floor and slid his hands down her back, bringing them to rest on her bottom in its thin cotton chinos.

  “Yes, ma’am,” he whispered.

  She opened her palm and let it travel along his jawbone and beneath his chin, settling on his elegant, curved neck, fingers crooking around and pressing into his nape.

  “Why would I want to taste champagne when I can taste you?” she said.

  He bent his forehead to touch hers.

  “This is good counselling,” he said, then he caught her in a kiss, brandy-scented and spicy, yet also warm and sweet.

  He pulled her tightly into him and the glasses juddered in the cabinet behind while they tried to make handprints on every part of each other. She hurled herself into the kiss, putting every reserve of energy into the clash of tongues, wanting to show him how deeply, how fully she cared for him.

  The sound of shuddering crystal and gasping and sighing was all that could be heard in the room for a long time, then, once the lump pushing into her stomach was hard as hard could be, she broke off and made a slow descent to her knees.

  He exhaled reverently when she unbuckled his belt and loosened his trousers, easing them down over his thighs and down to his ankles.

  She kissed her way back up his long legs, then lowered the boxers over his cock, which was upright in readiness, just waiting for her to do what she wanted with it.

  She darted her tongue over his sac, causing him to squirm delightfully, his hips shivering in her hands.

  “Oh, you…” he whispered.

  She nuzzled his crotch, nipping at his tender inner thighs, breathing warm air all over him until he was teased beyond endurance and he put his hand in her hair and pulled.

  “Do you want me to suck your cock?” she asked, looking up brazenly.

  “You little fucking minx.” She loved the glow of lustful mischief in his eyes, the look she hadn’t seen for a while now. It made her heart swell and her hopes enlarge. “You know it.”

  “I’m going to drink you down,” she promised him. “I’m going to swallow it all.”

  She enveloped him in her mouth and attempted to keep her word to the best of her ability, sucking and licking that smooth, sleek shaft until her jaw ached, but, just as she felt the end approach, he yanked her off by her hair and pushed her, panting hard, to the kitchen floor.

  He had her trousers off in seconds and pushed her knickers aside before entering her with one hard thrust. The tiles were unforgiving against her spine, but nothing could spoil her primal, selfish joy at having him inside her. It felt like a victory and she clenched him tight, grunting and urging him onward.

  He fucked her sincerely and without quarter, on his elbows on the kitchen floor. His hair whipped over her face and he tried to protect her back from the worst effects of the granite slabs by sliding an arm beneath her.

  All the same, the bumping and jolting was fierce and intense and Lydia was relieved when her orgasm unleashed itself, blanking out all other sensations.

  He poured into her on the kitchen floor, covering her, filling her.

  She felt a oneness with him that took away her breath.

  He shifted on top of her, lifting his head from her shoulder to look her in the eye.

  “You are okay?” he slurred, as if drunk, but it was simply the exertion that distorted his speech.

  “Oh, yes, Milan.” She raised her neck to kiss him on the cheek.

  “You don’t hurt your back?”

  “Well, probably. But nothing fatal. Does this feel like a new start to you, too?”

  “For us, you mean?”

  “Among other things.”

  “We should drink that champagne.”

  Lydia quelled the urge to nag. It just wasn’t the time.

  He eased himself out of her and crawled over to where the bottle stood. He picked it up and took a swig directly from it, gasping as the bubbles took effect.

  He sat down next to Lydia, who was gingerly pushing herself into a sitting position, and raised the bottle to her.

  “Here’s to music, love and laughter. And solo violins and virtuosi.”

  He took another mouthful of champagne and lowered his lips to hers with the fizz still held inside.

  When they kissed, he poured the stream of tingling liquid bubbles into Lydia’s mouth. She swallowed it down—most of the fizz had gone by then—spluttering slightly. He cleaned her mouth with a long, lavish lick of his tongue then broke the kiss, leaving her lips still stinging.

  “And here’s to playing more than violins. Here’s to you and me.”

  She sheltered herself in his arms, holding on to him, laying her head against his chest while he continued to drink from the champagne bottle.

  Later, as they lay in bed, champagne all gone—mostly into Milan—Lydia started wondering if that really could be his final fling. He had drunk it quickly—within an hour—and seemed hardly the worse fo
r it. Over the past fortnight, she had seen him in full red-eyed slurring wreckage mode, but he had had to drink bottles and bottles to get that bad. He shouldn’t have such a high tolerance. It made her uneasy.

  At least tonight he was happy-drunk. She had endured so many miserable nights of anger and recrimination, repeated over and over again because he had forgotten what had already been said. It had been a relief of sorts when he’d lapsed into Czech and she hadn’t had to listen to the endless litany of self-loathing and universal blame.

  “So,” he said, speaking unexpectedly just as she thought he had fallen asleep. “This von Ritter.”

  “What about him?” She yawned.

  “He sounds like a drag. Pain in the ass.”

  “You’ve never met him. Give him a chance.”

  “Why?”

  Lydia turned to him, frowning.

  “Why not? Milan, you aren’t going to start all that again, are you? You’ve had your shot at conducting and you blew it.”

  “What? I make one mistake while I am grieving and depressed, and that is me, finished in conducting forever? You can’t say that’s fair.”

  “I’m not saying you’ll never conduct again, of course I’m not. Once the counselling is done and you’re able to pick up the pieces of your life… But that’s not now. And it’s certainly not going to happen if you start bullying the conductors again.”

  “Who is bullying? I only said he sounds like a bad-tempered asshole. You want to work with a bad-tempered asshole, good luck to you. I don’t. That’s all.”

  “Please, Milan, don’t start a war with him the minute he enters the building. My nerves just couldn’t take it.”

  “If he tries to push us around, I won’t have it, Lydia. Somebody has to stand up. You won’t stand up. Leonard won’t. It has to be me.”

  “Oh, stop it! He hasn’t even got here and already you’re plotting his downfall. Remember Mary-Ann? Poor woman. I feel bloody awful about that, and you should too.”

  “Ah, don’t be so righteous. Little Saint Lydia, wants everyone to be as pure as she—”