Vanessa smiled, much too broadly, and looked at her feet.
“No,” she said.
“Okay, then. That’d be nice. Thanks.”
“Pack a bag for tomorrow’s rehearsal, then.”
Before Lydia could turn to leave, Vanessa seized her in an unexpected bear hug.
“You’re doing the right thing,” she said. “He isn’t stable. You need stable.”
* * * *
It was reinforced to Lydia exactly how unstable he was that night, when she received a phone call.
It was two in the morning, and the caller display said ‘Milan’. Fearing that he might have been involved in some terrible accident, she snatched up the phone and answered with a trembling voice.
“Hello?”
“Lydia,” he purred. He was drunk and there was lots of noise in the background. “Come and save me.”
“What? What’s happening? Where are you?”
She had one foot out of bed already, ready to fling on some clothes and fly to his rescue.
“I’m at home,” he said. “Where else?”
“What’s happening? Is something wrong?”
“Come to me, milácku. Come…to…ah, fuck.”
The line went dead.
Lydia felt competing waves of fury and fear. The noise had included music and laughter. It sounded like he was having a party. He’d got drunk and maudlin, that was all. Wasn’t it? What if that wasn’t all?
She dithered for a while. Should she go over there? But it would mean getting dressed, getting an ex
pensive night taxi, probably just to find him lying passed out on the bed. If anyone let her into the building, that was.
No. She wasn’t going to rise to this bait. It was the brandy talking, no doubt.
And why the hell was he still drinking, anyway?
She pulled her covers back up to her chin and failed to sleep until morning.
* * * *
Milan was terribly late for the next day’s rehearsal, Leonard taking over with much fussing and fretting for a scrappy and unsatisfying run-through of The Planets.
When Milan arrived, he swaggered unrepentantly into the room, pausing to shoot a dazzling smile and a wink at Sarah the harpist before gliding up to the podium. He was deathly pale with pink-rimmed eyes, but he put up a good façade of exuberance, and the rehearsal perked up to near-competent levels.
Back at Vanessa’s flat, the percussionist tried to open the subject of Milan, but Lydia had no desire to rehash it all yet again and begged to be allowed to slump mindlessly in front of a DVD with a bucket of ice cream instead.
Lydia enjoyed the Bridget Jones marathon, but couldn’t help noticing how very often Vanessa’s phone bleeped to indicate an incoming text message. Her friend also seemed to be doing a lot of sly smiling and punching of keys.
“Who’s that? Secret lover?” she asked.
“No. Just Ben. Wondering if we want to go for a picnic in Richmond Park tomorrow. Do you fancy it? Supposed to be nice weather.”