“Good luck,” she said. “You’ll be magnificent. I know you will.”
“Wait—”
But she couldn’t wait. She ran out of the Green Room, clinging to her violin for dear life.
Everyone looked up as she scurried to her chair. She was sure they must have noted her disarranged hair and her dusty concert dress, but nobody mentioned it. They probably thought she had been shagging von Ritter up against a wall, she realised, her cheeks heating. She took out her violin and tuned it up, grateful for the general noise on stage and off.
There was a moment of expectant silence, then von Ritter and Milan walked out, to a barrage of applause and cheers.
A television camera on wheels rolled past her.
Great, she thought. I’m making my TV debut with a scratch on my face and cavewoman hair.
But then, who would be looking at her? All eyes were going to be on Milan.
Von Ritter conducted them into the opening bars of The Lark Ascending. Milan started to play the cadenza, the notes soaring sweetly upward, perfectly evocative.
Lydia drew a grateful breath. This was going to be all right. Milan’s performance was going to blow everyone away and his life would be back on track.
The first half was a triumph. Milan’s performance of the Vaughan Williams had many an audience member surreptitiously dabbing their eyes with a handkerchief, and the orchestral pieces by Delius and Holst that followed roused them into good humour for the interval, after which the Elgar Violin Concerto was scheduled.
The interval. Lydia had forgotten about that. Immediately she made a beeline for Sarah, intent on preventing h
er from sabotaging Milan, but in the event she didn’t need to bother, for Milan was borne away to be interviewed for the television coverage.
Lydia decided instead to head for the ladies’ toilets to make some essential repairs to her appearance.
She found Vanessa in there, spraying her already rigid crown of hair before the harshly lit mirrors.
“What the hell happened to you?” asked Vanessa.
“Sarah,” said Lydia briefly, wincing at the sight of the open cut on her cheek, inflicted by one of Sarah’s rings.
“You weren’t fighting over Milan, were you?” Vanessa’s jaw dropped in horror.
“In a way. Not that way. Oh, God, it’s a long story.”
“Tell me.”
“I can’t. I have to make sure she doesn’t get to Milan. He’s safe now, being interviewed by a TV presenter, but she still might find her moment.”
“Her moment to what?”
“Tell him that their relationship is a sham. She’s with him to get some kind of revenge—something to do with Julius Hackmeyer.”
“The conductor?”
“I don’t know any other Julius Hackmeyers, do you?”
“Touchy! Okay, okay. Standard weird Milan stuff, if you ask me. I’d stay out of it.”
“Ness, I can’t.”
Lydia turned to her, her lips trembling, tears forming in her eyes.
“Oh, love,” sighed Vanessa. “I know you can’t. You can’t let him go, can you?”
She shook her head, blinking back the blur.