Milan bombarded her with text messages for the next two hours, but Lydia was too busy deciding what to wear for her date with von Ritter to check them. Not that she wasn’t tempted.
“Ignore, ignore,” she muttered to herself, staring with some dismay at her meagre wardrobe. Maybe the gold dress that she had worn to the Viennese sex party? She stroked its scanty fabric and shook her head, picturing von Ritter’s face if she rolled up at the Barbican in that. A definite no.
Eventually she went for the plain black shift dress she had worn for string quartet performances at college. Dressed up with chunky beads and a peacock-feather brooch, it looked quite classy in a retro, sixties kind of way. Inspired by this, she tried to pile up her hair à la Audrey Hepburn, but she ended up with a messy chignon that would have to do.
“Sophistication, when will you be mine?” she moped at the mirror, pouting at her bespectacled face. A pair of ballet flats completed the ensemble, but the only lightweight jacket she possessed was a battered denim thing that really didn’t strike the right note. Better to do without and just stow everything in her handbag. They’d be indoors for the most part, surely.
The city was busy on such a fine spring night, and Lydia arrived at the Barbican ten minutes late.
She had a feeling von Ritter’s tolerance for unpunctuality would be quite low, so she was nervous when she entered the bar and saw him sitting alone, nursing a glass of some dark spirit, but he stood and smiled and didn’t mention her lateness.
“I hope you haven’t been waiting long,” she said.
“Not long. You look very nice.”
“Oh, I don’t. I find looking nice a bit of a struggle, really—”
He raised his hand, silencing her.
“Hush. You do look nice. Accept a compliment, Lydia.”
“Sorry.” Oh, dear. She seemed to be playing this all wrong.
“And don’t apologise. What would you like to drink?”
“Just some water, plea
se.”
She watched him at the bar. He was absurdly self-assured. He had the air of a man who owned the world and was very happy to do so. He nodded and smiled at the bartender as if they were great friends before taking the water bottle and glass of ice and bringing them back to Lydia.
“So,” he said. “We have a few minutes until the concert starts. Why don’t you tell me about yourself?”
“About myself? Oh, no. There’s not much to tell. It’s a dull story.”
“You are very self-deprecating, aren’t you?” He didn’t make it sound like a compliment.
“I feel uncomfortable bigging myself up, if that’s what you mean.”
“Kind of. You really think you are boring and unattractive? Really?”
“Well…I try not to think about myself too much. I prefer to be thinking about music or…other people.”
“Okay. Other people. Like Milan.”
“Not anymore.”
“Good. Because you are exactly the kind of person he preys on, Lydia. Star-struck and vulnerable.”
“I’m not those things! Well, perhaps I was. I’m not anymore.”
“I think he’s a narcissist. Narcissists like to keep plenty of people who adore and validate them close. They don’t like to lose their sources of adoration and validation. They are very important to them—but not as people. As fans, if you like.”
Lydia’s jaw dropped. This sounded incredibly harsh and, angry as she was with Milan, she was not prepared to accept it.
“Milan did not love me as a fan. He really did love me—deeply. Does! Still does!”
“So much that he sleeps with other women when he knows it will upset you?”