“He seems very nice,” she said nervously.
“He is a good man. We go back a long way. We studied together in Paris.”
Paris. Where Milan studied.
“How old are you?” she blurted, curious to know if he and Milan were contemporaries.
“I’m old enough to know better,” he said. “Probably too old for you.” He sighed.
The hairs on the back of Lydia’s neck prickled. That sounded dangerous.
“I wondered if you were in Paris at the same time as Milan, that’s all.”
“Milan, Milan. Always Milan.”
It was all very well for him to chide her for bringing him up, but he was just as guilty of doing it, if not more so.
Karl-Heinz looked over at the door and sucked in a breath. “Speak of the devil,” he said.
Lydia followed the direction of von Ritter’s gaze, her stomach knotting.
Milan had swept into the Green Room, diverting all eyes away from Hackmeyer and towards him. A couple of the journalist types ran towards him, looking for an inflammatory quote or a moment of photogenic charisma. He could be relied upon for both.
Lydia noted with appalled fascination how Hackmeyer’s face fell and his jaw set at the sight of her erstwhile lover. She also noted how Milan waved the journalists away, almost savagely. The last and most dismaying observation she made was that Sarah slunk along in Milan’s wake, looking very like a woman who had spent the last few hours on a bed underneath a man.
“Julius Hackmeyer,” said Milan, extravagant and overly effusive.
“Milan Kaspar,” said Hackmeyer, with studied calm.
“I suppose my invitation was lost in the post?”
“I’m sure that would explain it.”
“I had another engagement, as it happens.” He took Sarah’s hand, lifted it to his lips and kissed it. “I expect you were very good.”
Hackmeyer had nothing to say to that. There wasn’t a lot to say to it. He simply smirked, as if in disbelief, and looked around him, probably for an escape route.
“Anyway,” resumed Milan. “I wanted to pay my respects, you know. Just…catch up. Are you in London for long?”
“No.”
“Such a pity. Maybe next time, eh?”
Hackmeyer nodded slowly.
Milan turned on his heel.
Lydia shrank behind von Ritter, desperate not to be seen. But it was too late.
Milan halted in mid-wheel and stared, his eyes flicking between von Ritter and Lydia as if he were a cobra deciding whom to lash out at first.
In the event, he confined himself to a low hiss of, “I see,” and took Sarah quite roughly by the elbow, storming out of the room with her.
“Fuck,” muttered Lydia, feeling s
ick.
“Are you okay?” Von Ritter leant down, all dark-eyed, handsome concern.