Chapter Text
Florence really should have been focusing on the match. And, in her defense, her eyes were on the ball at least fifty percent of the time. But she also couldn’t deny that that came down to a very small margin, and for the rest of that time her eyes were fixed on a woman in the stands behind Sergievsky.
It was hard to miss her. She was rarely seated, instead up on her feet shouting at the Russian competitor. She isn’t quite sure what she’s saying, because even though Florence does speak Russian conversationally, the woman’s tone is far from clear enough for her to make anything out at all. Florence would have thought she was berating him if not for her loud cheering whenever he scored a point. There was also the fact of her, admittedly, striking appearance Her bright red top and her short, gelled back hair were the sort of things Florence wished she had the confidence to do herself. All this to say, Florence wasn’t paying as much attention to the match as she should have been.
She feels a tap on her shoulder before Walter leans forward from the row behind. “You wanna meet her?” He asks, keeping his voice low, but she can tell he finds the situation amusing.
Okay. Well. Maybe she was being just a little obvious about the whole thing. And maybe, yes, she does want to meet this exceedingly vibrant woman. She isn’t going to give Walter the satisfaction of showing her gratitude, even if it does piss her off how he can actually do nice things from time to time.
She leans back. “Do you know who she is?” She asks first, not wanting to seem too eager.
“Sergievsky’s wife. But if you ask me, I don’t think too much is going on there. She seems more interested in the game than she is with him, if you know what I mean.”
Yes, Florence knows exactly what he means, and she can’t say it doesn’t make her want to smile a bit. She holds back. “What reason would I have to talk to his wife?” She says reason. She means excuse.
“No reason. Just a little private chat. I can set it up,” he gives a small wave in the woman’s direction. She, as expected, doesn’t notice, but the man sitting beside her does. He nods back. Walter smiles and shifts so Florence can hear him again. “I’ll get things sorted out after the game.”
Regrettably, they don’t have to wait much longer for that to happen. The next time Sergievsky scores a point on Freddie, Freddie flips out. Florence’s eyes had been elsewhere, but her attention snaps back to him when she hears the metallic thwack of Freddie throwing his racket down as hard as he can.
Freddie marches over to the chair umpire and starts to rant about the distracting woman who, to him, must have been placed there purposefully to throw him off. Florence sighs heavily. Freddie has this frustrating habit of insisting people remain quiet and reserved while he plays. “It’s not a bloodsport, people don’t need to scream at me”, he would say, “sure, cheer when someone scores a point, but shut the fuck up while we’re playing.” It’s annoying at the best of times, and maybe part of it is Florence’s fault for allowing him to only ever practice in private, but she has to make concessions somewhere. And now, said concessions were coming back to bite her in the ass.
She buries her face in her hands. She feels a firm pat on her shoulder and knows it’s Walter’s silent way of wishing her “good luck” before he slips away to do whatever he does. He has this talent for sneaking away at the worst possible time, something she wishes she could strangle him for in moments like these. But she’s in public, and about to manage someone else’s meltdown. Best not to have her own. She takes a deep breath and gets up, ready for damage control.
She’s been in this situation a million times before. Sitting around a table in some office she wouldn’t have even known was there if not for Freddie’s behavior. They all have the same dull, grey walls. Sometimes if she’s lucky, it’s more of a beige. Even luckier, sometimes she never has to see it. But it seems these days she’s seeing more and more of them. She wants to kill Freddie sometimes, but that would leave her out of a job. Some days she thinks that’s the only thing stopping her from doing it.
The meeting only takes so long because they have to table all the other complaints Freddie made during his tirade. Most of them were petty complaints, but they have to be taken seriously all the same. It ends exactly how everyone expected it to. They would do everything that could be reasonably asked of them, and nothing more. In return, she would have to talk Freddie down.
The sun is starting to set by the time she steps outside. Fuck, how long was she in there? She checks her watch. Seven. She doesn’t know what she was expecting. Honestly, that meeting felt like it took even longer than three hours. She stretches, already imagining how good the bed is going to feel when she gets back to the hotel.
She’s barely ten feet out of the door before she nearly runs into Walter, who’s turning the corner at the same time. “Flo!” He’s nearly as stunned as she is. He’s not typically a jumpy person, but he looks a bit disheveled as is. “Good. Thought I missed you.” He runs his hand through his hair, trying to fix it, aware that he looks less than presentable right now. “Good news. You’re meeting her here at eleven. Place should be deserted. Her name’s Svetlana. Bring your racket, by the way,” he rushes through his words, trying to get her attention off of him.
Well, there goes her plans of crashing early tonight. Though, she can’t really complain, considering she got exactly what she wanted. And her racket… this woman seems like a fan of the sport, so maybe she plays a bit herself. It might be fun, really. Florence looks Walter up and down. “Your shirt isn't tucked in,” she comments, choosing to poke fun at his unkempt appearance rather than thank him. She walks off before he can say anything about it, wanting to start getting ready for tonight as soon as possible.
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“So you’ve got a date,” Freddie mocks. “A hot, mysterious date, and you won’t even tell me where you’re going.”
Florence grumbles, trying to fix her makeup. “It isn’t a date. I’ve never even met her.”
“So it’s a blind date.”
“I’ve seen her. I wouldn’t call that blind.”
“Ha!” He spins on his heel to face her. “So you admit it! It is a date!”
“It is not-” She whips her head around to scowl at him, forgetting the lipstick in her hand. It drags across her cheek. She turns back to the mirror. “Oh, for the love of… look what you've done!” She wipes the lipstick off. She’ll have to redo that whole area of her face. “I just want to meet her. It wasn’t even my idea, really. Walter suggested it.”
“I know for a fact that you wouldn’t take any favors from him unless you really wanted it. So c’mon, let me meet her. Maybe she’s a fan.” He strikes a pose to punctuate his point. It looks so stupid that even he must know what he’s doing here.
Florence rolls her eyes. “Out of the question. You wouldn’t like her, and I’m almost certain she wouldn’t like you.” Judging by Svetlana’s enthusiasm for the sport, this may not be true. But, then, Florence hasn’t gotten her opinion personally yet.”
“Oh yeah? Why not?”
“Well, maybe because she’s…” Florence thinks back to Freddie’s earlier meltdown. “A noisy bitch? Who wants to make you lose? Is that what you said?”
Freddie’s eyes widen. “No way, it’s that red fucker? Her ?”
“Her name is Svetlana. And she’s Sergievsky’s wife.”
Freddie can’t help but smile when he hears that. “You’re gonna woo Sergievsky’s wife? Damn, Florence, I didn’t know you had that sort of underhanded shit in you. Well, good luck. You get in her pants, you let him know. I want him weeping like the pussy he is.”
Florence slams her hands down on the countertop. “I am not trying to “woo” her, and this has nothing to do with Sergievsky, okay!? I don’t even know why I’m talking to you about this! I’m still mad at you! Why do I always forget when I’m mad at you!?” It’s an easy question to answer. Freddie’s funny. He has a way of making her smile even when she isn’t happy with him. It’s infuriating when she finally remembers how awful he can be, but she can’t stay mad long.
Freddie waits until her breathing evens out. “...Better?”
Florence nods. “...Yeah. Better.” She hates how he’s used to that. She throws on enough foundation to fix the hole she left, doesn’t bother with anything else, and grabs her racket. “I’m leaving.”
“Do I wait up?” Freddie teases.
Florence turns to him and holds her racker against his throat. “Do. Not. Push. It.” She snaps. He throws his hands up in surrender and backs away. She leaves, slamming the door behind her.