“Just Ben, eh?”
A telling silence ensued.
“Why are you looking at me like that, Lydia?”
“Why do you think? You’re blushing!” Lydia reached out and gave Vanessa’s cheek a playful pinch.
“It’s just a bit hot in here, that’s all.”
“The ice cream should cool you down. Ness, are you and Ben…?”
Vanessa sighed, looked away for a moment then turned her guilt-etched face back to Lydia.
“Do you think it’s wrong?”
“What? Why would I think that?”
“Oh, you know. He’s so young and I’m…not.”
“Ness! Don’t say that! You’re gorgeous. So have you…?”
Vanessa nodded shyly and Lydia squealed.
“That’s amazing! Oh, wow. I’m so happy for you. He seems really lovely.”
“Yes, he does, doesn’t he? I’m hoping I’m not deluding myself.”
“No. He’s not the type. He’s not a Jack-the-lad after a quick shag, is he? Oh, I really like him. This is brilliant.”
Vanessa gave Lydia’s hand a quick squeeze.
“Thank you,” she said.
“What for?”
“I was scared to tell you in case you thought I was some kind of sick pervert.” Vanessa laughed miserably.
“Oh, for God’s sake. You’re talking to the girl who was involved in a ménage and performed at a private sex party, remember.” The words sounded surprising to Lydia, even though she knew them to be true, and she put a hand over her mouth.
“Oh, yes. I’d forgotten about the sex party.”
“Did Milan ever take you to anything like that?”
“Not that setup in Vienna you went to, no. There was an incident in New York, though.”
Lydia leant forward.
“Really?”
“You want gory details, don’t you?” Vanessa sounded worried that Lydia might be looking for salt to rub into her relationship wounds, but Lydia was genuinely curious.
“Of course.”
Vanessa flicked a blob of ice cream from the end of her spoon onto Lydia’s nose.
“You really are a sick pervert. Well, we’d just played Carnegie Hall, and we were all supposed to be going to a restaurant afterwards, but Milan got a call from some guy he knew. Next thing I knew, he and I were in a cab heading for the Meatpacking District. We went into this club—we were on the guest list, I think. I don’t know what I was expecting. Some kind of edgy techno-house music type thing in a warehouse full of graffiti. Excuse me, I’m not very good with the terminology. I haven’t been out clubbing since 1993.”
“I can tell,” snorted Lydia, though she wasn’t exactly conversant with the latest trends in dance music, either. A Strauss waltz was more her bag. “So, go on. It wasn’t a dance club, I take it?”