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Being with Freddie is...well, she can't say it's easy so much as familiar. Comfortable even, like an old set of flannel pajamas, soft but with a few holes in it to let in the chilly night air. So when she's gotten over Anatoly - at least, as much as she's ever going to be over him - she calls Freddie and asks if he meant it when he said he'd changed.
They're in their fifth year back together when Anatoly shows up on the doorstep.
He'd been living alone for two years, he'd explained, Svetlana having used her own contacts to take the children and move to West Berlin. As a consolation, and as a result of his own good behavior the Russians had allowed him to serve as an advisor for Viigand, who'd inherited the title of Russian grand master. Lax security at the tournament in Seville and a friend with a talent for obtaining false passports had done the rest.
"How - how did you manage to find us?" Florence asks, dumbfounded. Freddie's got his arms crossed over his chest, ever suspicious of his rival, but Florence is far more trusting. She lived with the man for a year, for heaven's sake, knows he'd never work for the Soviets.
Anatoly shrugs, arrogant as ever even if he has gained a few pounds and a few gray hairs. "Molokov left his files out one night. The KGB is still keeping an eye on you, you know." Florence can't tell if he's talking about her or Freddie, but it doesn't really matter.
"Why us?" Freddie snaps. "Why here?" Florence knows she should go over to where he's leaning against the counter, should touch him, give him some sign that Anatoly isn't going to be able to steal her away again. She remains seated at the kitchen table.
"You're the only ones I know outside of Russia," he replied. "You and de Courcey." They all know there's no choice there. Florence can't help but admire Anatoly for escaping a second time, with even less support than he'd had after Merano. "I'm sorry I couldn't find your father," he adds. "I tried, but. I don't think we ever had him."
Florence flinches, at both the mention of her father and at Anatoly's use of 'we.' She's going to have to get him out of that habit, she thinks, then chides herself for even entertaining the thought of being around him long enough to change his habits.
Freddie scowls. "What do you want, Anatoly? What do we need to do to get you out of here?" Florence starts to scold Freddie for his rudeness but stops when Anatoly holds his hand up.
"I need help." He at least has the grace to look embarrassed. "I was fourteen when the government took me from my family and they've been taking care of me ever since," he says with a strong note of sarcasm in his voice. Florence can only imagine the type of care he's received - it wasn't something they talked about when they were together. "I don't know how to get a job or buy a house. Even in England, de Courcey provided everything for us."
Florence nods. This, at least, is her area of expertise: the care and feeding of chess players. "Ok, so -" she begins, only to be interrupted by Freddie.
"Do you even have any money, or were you just planning to mooch off of us?" he asks. It's not about the money, though. That's always been her concern. They have a good division of labor wherein Freddie earns the money and she spends it, managing budgets, rent, utilities. Freddie hasn't had to worry about where his next meal would be coming from since he won his first major tournament.
Anatoly studies his hands, clasped on the table in front of him. "I started with what I thought was enough. But I used a lot on plane tickets and...other expenses." Freddie barks out a laugh and Florence knows he's about to let out with a crude joke when Anatoly cuts him off coldly. "Bribes, Trumper. Nothing happens in the USSR without money changing hands. Especially defection."
"Then you'll just have to stay here with us for a few days until we can get something set up for you," Florence says, daring Freddie with a glare to contradict her. "I'll call our realtor in the morning and have her start looking for a place. You must be tired, Anatoly. Let me clean up the guest room for you." She sweeps out of the room, but not before leveling another glare at Freddie. "Behave."
"I will repay you," Anatoly says stiffly, still not looking up from the table. "Believe me, I wouldn't be here if I had anyone else to go to."
Freddie moves over to the table, placing both palms flat and looming over Anatoly. "If you take her from me again, I will do everything in my power to ruin you." Anatoly doesn't dignify that with a response, but he does lift his head to meet Freddie's eyes with a level gaze. Freddie, stymied by the lack of argument, throws his hands up and stalks out, going, Anatoly notices, the opposite direction from where Florence went.
It's fifteen minutes of staring at his hands again before Florence returns. "I'm sorry about Freddie," she says quietly. "He's...well, you know how he is. I'll try to keep him from bothering you too much." Standing beside Anatoly's chair, she lays a hand on his shoulder, friendly, supportive. Reassuring.
Anatoly turns to face her, eyes dark. "He's probably right to be worried. I've missed you." Florence laughs softly. Oh, she's missed Anatoly as well. She's missed having someone who appreciates her, who doesn't routinely use her as a verbal punching bag. As much as Anatoly is a self-centered, single-minded ass, he'd loved her better in a year than Freddie had in over a decade. But.
She sighs. "Tolya, don't. I can't. Freddie's been here for me. We...we work well together. He needs me to keep him sane, to clean up his messes." Another laugh, harsher this time. "If I could, if it was anyone but Freddie, I'd go with you in a heartbeat. But I can't do that to him again. In his own way, he's been good to me."
Of course he doesn't understand. She can see it in the way his eyes narrow. Anatoly's always been one to take what he wants, other people and their feelings be damned. He's never had to choose between desire and responsibility, never had enough of the latter to make an actual sacrifice. Even when he'd chosen to go back to the Soviet Union after Bangkok he hadn't lost much, not with a wife and children waiting for him. And so he can't possibly understand why she'd choose to stay with Freddie, that she's no longer her only obligation.
He stands abruptly, forcing her to take a step back. "Where is the guest room? As you said, I am quite tired." She can hear the anger in his voice, in the way his accent thickens, but she can't let herself be moved by it. Wordlessly, she leads him to the bedroom.
Florence waves him into the room while she remains in the hall. "I'll start making phone calls in the morning. We'll get you on your feet in no time." As she closes the door behind him, she can see Anatoly turning back towards her. For a breath she considers opening the door, seeing what he wants. Going inside, going to him. Going with him.
The moment passes and Florence walks away to find Freddie. She has to calm him down if there's to be any peace in the house the next few days. And it will only be a few days, she promises herself. She won't let him linger to test her resolve. She made her choice years ago and it's far too late now to change sides.
Entering her own bedroom, she puts her arms around Freddie and kisses the side of his head. "I'm not going anywhere," she whispers. "Just give me a few days to get him set up, as far from here as I can manage, and it'll be over."
Pulling her into his lap, Freddie nods. "I'll try to stay out of his way." It's a small concession but it's more than she would have gotten in the past. Knowing that she's caused even that much of a change in him is enough for her to be sure that she's made the right choice.