“Not just kids,” she whispered.
A teardrop fell onto Mary-Ann’s cheek. She rubbed it away angrily. “Oh God, Lydia, ignore me. I’ve just had too much to drink and it always makes me sentimental and self-pitying.”
“No, that must have been devastating. I know how sensitive I was when I was fifteen.”
“Well, that wasn’t so long ago, was it?” said Mary-Ann softly. “Listen, Lydia…I might be way off-beam here…and I did tell you my gaydar was dodgy…but…”
She leant forward. A sudden surge of enormous panic sobered Lydia within seconds.
“Oh, look, we’re both a bit squiffy, Mary-Ann. Might not be the time for anything that can’t be taken back.”
Mary-Ann halted, a little waveringly, and narrowed her unfocused eyes.
“God, yeah,” she slurred. “Not the time…not the place…sorry. Just want some company… So lonely in my hotel room…”
“I’ll keep you company,” offered Lydia, her brain instantly screaming, What are you thinking? “Just for tonight. If you like. If you promise to come back to rehearsal tomorrow.”
“Of course. Was going to anyway. Right then.” Mary-Ann fumbled in her jacket pocket for money and dropped a fountain of forints ostentatiously on to a beer mat. “Lesh go.”
Lydia had to help Mary-Ann get undressed—the Bull’s Blood seemed to have overtaken her own blood in her veins, and she was barely able to stand by the time they had barrelled into the hotel room.
By the time she laid her on the bed in her pyjamas, Mary-Ann’s eyes were shut. She began to snore gently a few moments later.
Lydia tried to text Milan, but her fingers were clumsy and the words didn’t come out right. Eventually, after several attempts, she managed to get ‘Am with Mary-Ann, she is ok, c u 2moro xxx,’ on to the screen without too many typos. Her work for the day done, she fell onto the bed next to Mary-Ann and plunged into a fully-clothed sleep.
“So, how are you today?”
“Shh, not so loud.” Lydia winced as Milan slid into the seat beside her at the breakfast table.
He laughed. “Did she get you drunk and take advantage of you?”
“No, she didn’t. Well, not the taking advantage part anyway. And she’s in a worse way than I am this morning. She’s gone for room service. I suspect the rehearsal will be pretty short today.”
“Are you sure there was no girl-on-girl action?”
“Don’t sound so disappointed.”
“You can tell me. I won’t judge.”
“Shut up, Milan. The main thing is, she’s going to conduct tonight. In the meantime, have you got any Advil?”
Despite Mary-Ann’s feverish eyes and ghostly pallor, the Budapest concert was a triumph, and standing ovations were their reward for all the aggravation and difficulty of the past months. As she rushed past Milan and Lydia, clutching a vast bouquet, she muttered, “Thanks.”
Milan laughed, watching her scurry backstage on the way to the Green Room.
“Thanks, she says,” he remarked. “She doesn’t have a clue. Wait till we get to Prague.”
Vienna came first, though, and as the tour bus bowled through the Hungarian countryside and over the border to Austria, the sun came out, promising more than Lydia thought the visit might deliver.
She sat next to Mary-Ann on the coach, listening to her hyper-excited chatter about a series of Mahler centenary concerts, but when they arrived in the heart of the old baroque city she disengaged from the conductor and sought out Milan.
“I have a treat for you tonight,” he said, inviting her into his room.
Evgeny was already there, fresh from the shower in a towel and nothing else.
“Really?” asked Lydia, envisaging a grand banquet in some archducal palace, or perhaps a night at the opera.
“I’ve just had a call from my old friend Werner. He’s put us on the VIP list for his club tonight.”
“Club? I didn’t think you were into clubbing.”
Lydia’s imagination turned to some strobe-lit cattle market for gilded Euro-princelings, where a bottle of water would set you back a small fortune and shady-looking DJs spun Lady Gaga discs all night long.
“Not that kind of club,” said Milan obliquely. “It’s very exclusive. Let me help you dress.”
To Lydia’s surprise, Milan produced from his case a tiny scrap of golden fabric, shimmery and thin, and put it on the bed.
“What’s that?”
“It’s your outfit. I brought it with me, just in case Werner was in town.”
“I don’t understand. You packed clothes…for me?”
Milan nodded impatiently while Evgeny lay back on the bed, chortling.
“What’s this club, Milan? What’s it about?”
“It’s a sex club.”
“A sex club? You want me to go to some club to have sex? Jesus, Milan!”
“No, it’s not like that. I thought you might like to watch the show, that’s all. If you don’t want to join in, that’s up to you. Evgeny and I probably will, though.”
“What is it? Like burlesque? Strippers?”
“No, nothing like that. Just like-minded people who enjoy performing. Exhibitionists, you could say. And voyeurs. I think you know me well enough to decide which one of those I am.”
Lydia’s mouth flapped open and shut.
“Come, Lydia. Nobody will make you do anything you don’t want to. It’s on a voluntary basis. If you just want to watch, that’s okay. If you don’t want to watch, you can leave.”
“I…” Lydia looked again at the tiny scrap of fabric on the bed.
Evgeny sat up, grinning.
“And the food is amazing,” he said. “It’s an old palace from the days of the Hapsburg Empire. You feel like old-fashioned royalty when you’re there. Old-fashioned, decadent royalty.”
“Do you?” Lydia’s curiosity began nibbling at the edges of her reserve. This sounded less like the pit of sleaze Milan had painted.
“Absolutely,” said Evgeny. “It’s not some backstreet brothel. You might even find somebody famous at the table with you.”
“More famous than me?” Milan pouted, then grinned devilishly.
“Well…okay,” said Lydia. “It sounds interesting, at least. But do I have to wear that?”
“Well, you can’t wear a fleece, miláčku. Not to take supper with the Crown Prince of Mauretania.”
“Okay, okay, but I could wear my concert gown.”
“That thing? Drab black sack. No. This is what you wear if you go.”
Milan’s word was final.
Lydia shrugged and picked up the dress. It would skim the very tops of her thighs and the neckline plunged as low as was decently possible.
“You can’t wear anything underneath,” said Milan helpfully.
“What? Not even a thong?”
“Nothing. Just that and a pair of heels.”
Lydia, feeling a little like a lamb being prepared for the slaughterhouse, allowed Evgeny and Milan to lead her into the shower.
They washed, lathered and perfumed her, lotioned her naked body, then rubbed it all over with golden sparkly gel that made her skin gleam in the light.
Evgeny treated her breasts, while Milan helped the unguent sink into her buttocks, working them thoroughly with a cupped palm.
“Do I really need a golden bum for this?” she asked aloud.
“Oh yes,” Milan purred into her ear. “For us, if no one else.”
Breathless and aroused by her lovers’ attentions, Lydia tried to draw their attention to the wetness between her legs, parting her thighs a little and pressing them into Evgeny’s groin.
He laughed and patted her hip.
“Later, darling. We must all wait our turn.”
She was short of breath and flushed beneath the gold flecks by the time Milan wrestled her into the dress. If you could call it a dress. A scanty sheath of almost-sheer gold stretch material, it outlined every single curve and left her erect nipples plain
ly visible. The plunging neckline reached almost to her navel—a hand would only have to brush against her lightly to draw the fabric aside and expose a breast. The flirty, flippy skirt rustled just beneath the swell of her arse cheeks—the most minimal pivot of the pelvis would lift it up and reveal all.
“You look like a whore,” said Evgeny admiringly.
“I know,” said Lydia, dubious at her reflection in the mirror.
“You look like our whore,” expanded Milan. “Which is how we want you to look.”
In the mirror, Lydia watched as Milan stepped up behind her and clasped her around the waist, his long, white hands crossed over her belly, fingertips resting lightly at the top of her pubic triangle. Move lower, she silently implored, but he simply rested his chin on her bare shoulder and turned to kiss her neck.
“What do you think, Evgeny? Too fresh-faced. We need to plaster on some makeup.”
By the time they were ready to leave the hotel room, Lydia had lips dripping with scarlet gloss, eyelids of gold and eyelashes blacker and thicker than midnight. Her feet were strapped into golden stilettos with four-inch heels, on which she tottered unsteadily, still unused to anything without a thick, grippy sole. She had to rely on Milan’s and Evgeny’s arms to support her as they travelled down in the lift and out through the lobby. Thankfully, her long velvet coat concealed her shockingly explicit attire, but all the same, passers-by would likely mistake her for a prostitute.
In the taxi on the way out of town, Milan and Evgeny pointed out every tourist attraction they passed, despite the darkness that had fallen over the city. Eventually, though, the buildings grew sparser, the road wider. They were heading into the woods, somewhere hidden and remote.
Chapter Nine
The car turned down a bumpy track road, under canopies of branches, winding and twisting through the pitch-black forest until they arrived at a set of huge gates.
Milan took out his phone and punched in a brief message.
The gates opened, slowly and mechanically, and Lydia looked along a driveway of half a mile or more to where a handsome rectangular Schloss stood at the far end. Its tall, thin windows burned with golden light and she could see vague shapes flitting inside.
“It really is a palace,” breathed Lydia.
“What did we tell you?” said Evgeny smugly. “Werner is one of the richest men in Austria.”
Milan and Evgeny helped Lydia from the cab and up the steps, where a splendidly uniformed man waited by the giant front door.
In German he asked for their names, which Milan was happy to give in the same language. Then they were led inside to a place of chandeliers and cherubs, pillars and porticoes, pink plaster and golden ornamentation.
At the entrance to a busy drawing room, the guests were announced.
Every eye fell on their trio. Lydia calculated that that made about fifty eyes in total, for there were between twenty and thirty other guests. Most of the men, like Milan and Evgeny, wore formal evening dress, though one young man sported only leather shorts and a leash around his neck.
The room glowed a glamorous gold, and its female occupants seemed to carry the theme over to their outfits, most of them in some form of metallic, shiny garb. Lydia surmised that there must have been a dress code that Milan had not seen fit to explain.
Drawing closer, she was shocked to recognise a pair of very famous, married movie stars and she dropped her eyes, fearing that she might not be able to stop staring if she didn’t. As for the rest of the people in the room, they represented varying ages and nationalities, but most were attractive and all were groomed to perfection. She felt a very poor specimen beside the modelesque women in their diaphanous column dresses, but Milan squeezed her hand at exactly the right moment and she tried to dismiss her insecurities. She was here with one of the most famous violinists in the world.
A man with a red sash across his dress shirt strode forward, arm extended.
“Milan! So good to see you again.” His accent was distinctive but not thick, and he wore small-framed, wire-rimmed glasses over his large nose. “Though I keep reading about you in the international press. Your stock is rising, it seems.”
“Werner.” Milan and his friend exchanged brief embraces with back slaps. “You remember my friend, Evgeny?”
“Ah, we all remember him. It’s a pity our friend the gymnast couldn’t be here tonight. He was very taken with your Evgeny the last time you visited. And who is this charming young person?”
Lydia blushed and looked at her gold-shod feet as Werner’s sharp eyes rested upon her.
“This is Lydia, one of our violinists at the WSO. She’s an open and curious girl. She wanted to see what happens at your parties. I’m hoping she’ll find it to her taste.”
“So am I, so am I.” Werner held out a hand, which Lydia shook shyly, a little disappointed that Milan hadn’t introduced her as something more than a work colleague. “Welcome, Lydia.”
All eyes in the room watched as she accepted a flute of champagne along with her escorts. They drew her into the midst of the crowd, Milan making confident small talk with everyone while she and Evgeny eyed each other. He seemed almost as overwhelmed by it all as she did, she thought. Did he feel like some kind of gilded accessory for Milan, the way she did?
As she nodded acknowledgement to the beautiful female movie star, a horrible thought occurred to her. Milan had said it was fine to just watch. But what if he wanted to join in? Could she really sit there and watch him make love to that Hollywood goddess over there? And, if he could have her, surely he would not want a meek, middle-of-the-road mouse like Lydia any more?
“Hey,” he whispered, turning suddenly to her after a baffling conversation with a famous flamenco dancer about some mutual friend of theirs, “are you okay? You’re very quiet.”
“I’ve never been anywhere like this before,” confessed Lydia. “And I can’t get over the Linberghs being here! I mean, he was voted the world’s sexiest man last year, wasn’t he? And I’m in a room with him.”
“Oh, don’t be starstruck, miláčku. He’s a pompous bore. And she’s a spiteful diva. You’re worth ten of them.” As an afterthought he added, “They are good in bed, though.”
She felt a little more confident then, pushing back her shoulders and lifting her neck. So many eyes were upon her, sizing her up, drinking her in. She had never been looked at this way—so boldly, so blatantly—before. It gave her a sense of power. She was wanted and desired, and she could take or leave the wanters and desirers. No wonder people were so concerned with their appearance, if this feeling was the result of looking good. She had never understood it before, but now she began to see the appeal.
“I just need to speak to Sir Anthony.”
Milan’s fingers left her elbow and she felt abandoned, cast adrift on a spangled sea. She hid in her champagne glass, drinking too quickly, but then Evgeny offered unexpected refuge, materialising beside her and putting a hand on her shoulder.
“The first time is a head trip,” he said. “I remember.”
“Have you been here many times before?”
“Only once.”
“What happens, Evgeny? What will happen later?”
“There will be dinner, conversation, then…entertainment.”
“What’s the entertainment? Sex?”
“Yes.”
“Did you…do it?”
“I watched. Last time. I think I’ll have to take part tonight.”
“Have to? Don’t you want to?”
“Yeah, yeah, sure I do. Of course.”
Lydia wasn’t convinced, but she had no chance to pursue the conversation as a gong sounded, indicating that dinner was ready.
She was relieved to find herself placed beside Milan, but Werner sat on her other side and she had the feeling he would pride himself on being an attentive host.
She wasn’t wrong.
“How long have you and Milan been friends?” he asked. Friends?
“Since I jo
ined the orchestra—in January.”
“Not long. What do you think of my little place here?”
“Little place? It’s vast! And very beautiful.”
“Thank you. I like it. So many things have happened here, Lydia, you wouldn’t believe it if I told you. Every single act man and woman, or man and man, or woman and woman, or multiples thereof, can possibly do together. It’s all happened here. Do you have experience of parties like these?”
“Er, not really.”
“Oh, that’s good. So we can teach you a few things. We do love fresh blood.”
The female movie star, Natasha Linbergh, chimed in.
“Just as long as the old guard get their fun too.”
“Darling Natasha, you know you’ve never left my premises unsatisfied.”
She laughed throatily. “I guess that’s true. Milan, do you remember that time with the sex swing in the garden?”
Lydia tried not to pinch her lips, but it was hard. Something gave her the impression that Ms Linbergh was playing footsie under the table with Milan as well. She moved her foot sideways a little and hit a flexing calf. Bitch!
Milan, gratifyingly, moved his legs back and tucked them under his chair.
Ms Linbergh pouted and shot a daggers glare at Lydia before discussing her latest waxing with the man on her left.
The food, Lydia assumed, was exquisite, but somehow she couldn’t bring herself to swallow more than a couple of forkfuls.
“So, Milan, will you and your guests be performing for us tonight?” Werner asked.
Lydia stiffened.
“We haven’t decided yet,” he said, putting a hand on her thigh. “We’ll see what the evening brings.”
The evening brought a move into a large drawing room behind the banqueting hall, and the guests seated themselves on luxurious chaises longues and divans while fruit and petits fours were passed around with the postprandial liqueurs.
“Who will be first?” asked Werner from a throne-like seat in the corner of the room. “Who has prepared something for us?”
Lydia sat on a cushion at Milan and Evgeny’s feet, leaning back against Milan’s shins while he stroked her hair.
Highly Strung Page 10
