Free Highly Strung by Justine Elyot Page B

don’t really know you,” she said at last.
    “No.” He sounded bitterly satisfied, as if her answer vindicated his own self-loathing. “And you shouldn’t want to, either. But you should want to fuck me. One thing I know how to do is fuck. And play violin.”
    “And conduct?”
    “Yes, and conduct.”
    He turned his head to regard Lydia intensely.
    “Like your friend,” he said. “Mary-Ann.”
    Lydia chewed the inside of her cheek, sensing that the conversation was about to take a sinister turn.
    “When did you get so friendly?” he asked.
    “Last night. Bumped into her in Starbucks then went to see that film at the ICA. She’s okay, Milan. I like her. She’s just trying to do her job.”
    “It’s not her job to do.”
    “Of course it is. The trustees appointed her.”
    “It should be me.”
    “Have you ever asked them why it isn’t? Perhaps they don’t know you want to conduct. Perhaps they’d be delighted to hear it.”
    “No, they wouldn’t. They like me where I am, at the front of the violins, drawing the crowds. And besides, the trustees would never appoint me. They think I’m too…I don’t know.”
    “Too what?” Too Milan .
    “Unpredictable, I guess.”
    “Why do they think that?”
    “I went missing for a couple of months once, before The Next Big String was made. I went to Brazil. I had to. But I didn’t tell them and they weren’t too happy with me.”
    “I don’t suppose they were! Why did you disappear like that?”
    “I need to get away sometimes. They forgave me because they knew I was going to be making the show and it would drive concert sales. But they don’t like me. They’ll never give me the conductor role.”
    “So why even bother with all this intrigue?”
    “Because I can’t do things through the proper channels, so I have to take matters into my own hands. You’ve seen how loyal the orchestra is to me. They want me. The public wants me. In the end, that will convince them, I’m sure.”
    Lydia wasn’t so sure. But she was too tired to pursue the argument.
    The next morning, over croissants and coffee, Milan suggested that she cultivate her friendship with Mary-Ann.
    “I’m not going to be your spy!” exclaimed Lydia.
    “I’m not asking you to spy.” Milan came around behind her, leaning over her chair, resting his chin on her shoulder so that his irresistible warmth and clean scent flooded her senses. “I just think it would be good to know what’s happening in the orchestra and she will know first. Besides, you know, she needs a friend. Since I’m such a bastard, making her life so hard.” He laughed, but Lydia didn’t join in. Plotting made her uncomfortable.
    “I’ll be a friend to her,” she said, “but I’m not making any promises. Don’t make me this go-between. I like a simple life.”
    Milan straightened. “Why the hell are you here then?” he said, a tad sulkily.
    “Because I want you,” she said, the words coming easily this time. “I want to be with you.”
    His fingers ruffled her hair. “I want you too,” he said softly. “Don’t think I’m going to let you get away now.”
    Her heart skipped, but she wished it hadn’t. She wished she hadn’t fallen this hard, this far, this quickly. But now it was done, and there was no way around it.
     
    Lydia and Mary-Ann’s friendship bloomed along with the snowdrops as January ice gave way to a February thaw. They settled into a routine of post-rehearsal coffees and occasional weekend dates with takeaways and DVDs, chatting long into the night about music and the frustrations of life.
    Mary-Ann was certainly experiencing those.
    Despite the nature of their relationship, with confidences and secrets regularly exchanged, Lydia never once let slip that she was involved with Milan as more than a colleague, although on several occasions she came very close to blurting it out.
    Mary-Ann spent weeks trying every approach she could think of to get the orchestra on her side, but she