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Chapter One

Whoever it was that said April was the cruellest ht It was May Her slow ah the park, on the way to her first rehearsal after a fortnight’s sick leave, found her a petals, laughing children All this unrestrained joy everywhere, all this rising sap—she should be taking part in it, with her lover They should be pro at the swans, feeding the ducks, all between kisses

But her lover was gone And so was his other lover

She had spent the teeks following Evgeny’s funeral with her parents, suffocated in suburban selassy eyes and a tissue permanently in hand She hadn’t played her violin once She wasn’t sure she still could Milan was in Prague, and there he would stay, and she would never see hiet used to it She had to

She couldn’t

In the end, her parents had sent her back to London, fearful of her losing her place in the West sinking into their couch

“I know you don’t feel ready, love,” her father had said “But you can’t give up your dreao over some fella”

She kneas right But Milan was a lot more than ‘some fella’ and the dream seemed to have slipped away frole

Her journey took her past the park and the palace She drifted, violin case in hand, on her way to the rehearsal hall, under a sun that see her

In the alleyway alongside the orchestra’s ho She shoved past them Her eyes filled with tears

Her vision was still blurry when she reached the top of the steps and barged through the double doors into the lobby

“Lydia!” A friendly voice, clucky and concerned, greeted her, and suddenly she was caught up in a tight embrace Her nostrils filled with Armani Diamonds, and expensive fibres brushed her skin