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She hadn’t intended to fuck him, when he turned up at her hotel room with a pocket full of conspiracy theories and a bottle of gin. She had honestly thought she was past this – she had moved on; it was beneath her.
In the end, it had been Freddie, mostly, who was beneath her.
“I hate you.”
Freddie stirred, and she could feel his eyes on her. “I know.”
“No.” She shifted onto her back, suddenly keenly aware of how late it was at night, and how her key was the only one on the desk. “I really do.”
Freddie didn’t respond, but she felt him shift on the bed beside her, and out of the corner of her eye, saw him prop his chin up on his hands to watch her.
“Why did you have to turn up like this after so long?” She fought to keep her voice steady, and won – she thought so, anyway. “Everything was going so well before you turned up here.”
“This wasn’t planned, if that’s what you’re asking.” When Florence didn’t reply immediately, he continued. “I didn’t come to Bangkok to ‘win you back’ or some bullshit. It was just a paying gig.”
“Then why are you here now?”
Freddie was quiet for a moment, and Florence could all but hear his thoughts racing back to an hour earlier.
“You know it, and I know it!” He had said the words with such confidence that she had faltered for a moment.
“Shut up!”
“No!” His defiance had caught her off-guard – this wasn’t how the pattern usually went – enough pushback, and he usually folded, and she had given more than enough so far. He grabbed her hand. “Listen to me. Anatoly Sergievsky would never throw any match – you know him well enough to know that!”
“Oh, because you know him well enough?” The words rose like bile in her throat, the feeling roiling in her chest sickeningly unidentifiable. “What makes you think he wouldn’t do that for me?”
“Would you still respect him if he did?”
She had shoved him then, as hard as she could, and when his back hit the door, something had flared in her chest - sharp and acidic, like heartburn. The last thing she had planned to do was kiss him, but she had, and all of the old feelings – fondness, resentment, friendship, contempt – all came crashing back like a storm cloud finally opening up.
It should have stopped there.
It didn’t. It never did for them, did it?
“Walter sent me.” Freddie said after a while.
“What?”
“He told me about the deal – said he wanted to ‘make sure’ that it would actually go ahead.” Lighting a second cigarette off of his own, he passed it to Florence. “Anatoly loses the match and goes back to Moscow, they claim they can get your daddy back. Molotov –”
“Molokov.”
“Whatever. Anyway, he thinks you lied to Walter about taking the deal.”
Florence sat bolt upright, nearly dropping her cigarette. “I didn’t take the deal.”
“What?”
“I told him there was no deal. That I wouldn’t tell Anatoly to throw the match.”
Freddie stared at her for a moment, his mouth agape, then began to laugh. “Walter’s told Moloto – kov – the Russian bastard – that you practically wouldn’t let him leave without assurances that the deal would go ahead.”
It was Florence’s turn to stare. “I did no such thing – that’s horseshit!”
“Well, that’s what he’s claiming, and the Russian isn’t buying it – he says he knows you better and you’re probably lying.”
Florence took a drag on the cigarette, “Well that part might not be entirely untrue – we’ve dealt with each other enough. So, what – they decided to send you in to seal the deal?”
Freddie shrugged. “More or less. Not that it’s gone well. I’ve been thrown around more than enough today by the both of you.”
“You met with Anatoly?”
“That’s one way to put it. ‘Met’ sounds a bit more cordial than the conversation we actually had.”
“Oh?” She tried to keep her curiosity out of her voice, but knew she had failed miserably.
“You haven’t talked about this? To each other, I mean.”
“There hasn’t exactly been time, Freddie.” She shook her head. “And besides, where do you begin with something like this?”
“Oh, I don’t know, something like ‘By the way, the Americans and Russians are both trying to convince me to get you to throw the match – they claim they have my father, what do you think?’ or maybe ‘Have you been approached by any suspicious people with weird offers lately?’” Freddie looked away. “Anyway, it didn’t go well, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“No?”
He shot her a glare. “No. He’s not interested in the deal.”
“Ah.” Florence slumped against the headboard. She didn’t know what she had expected, to be honest. Had she honestly expected Anatoly to throw everything away on the chance that the Soviets really did have her father? Would she have done the same for him if the situation had arisen?
Probably not.
Freddie studied her carefully – the way that the weight of the past week suddenly seemed to bear down on her shoulders, her hair still both tousled and plastered to her forehead and neck with sweat. She was exhausted – it didn’t take knowing her for years to pick that out. “Florence.”
“What?” She didn’t look at him, but took another drag on her cigarette before reaching over him to put it out in the ashtray on the side table.
“What do you want to do?”
“About what, Freddie?” She finally looked at him, a faint edge of panic creeping into her voice, “About the fact that if they have my father – and I know it’s a big ‘if,’ no one knows that better than me – his fate is already sealed? About the fact that I can’t rely on myself, or my partner to do anything about it? About the fact that if Anatoly takes the deal, I’ll never be able to look him in the eye again, and if he doesn’t, I think I’ll probably hate him for it? Which thing?”
Freddie took a breath, and pressed his cigarette into the ashtray until it started to crumble under his fingers. “I don’t know. That’s a pretty tough list.”
At this, Florence almost laughed, but didn’t. “I’ve spent my whole life, assuming that my past was lost to me – I’d accepted it. It was what it was. But now…” she shook her head, “I don’t know how to feel about this.”
“Mn.” Freddie let himself settle back against the headboard next to her.
They sat in silence for a long time, and Freddie almost startled when Florence let her head lean on his shoulder.
“Anatoly was convinced that you turning up in Bangkok was about me, you know.” He glanced over at her, but she wasn’t looking at him, her eyes fixed somewhere in the dim light of the hotel room. “I told him that he was being ridiculous – it’s been a year, and you weren’t going to go through these kinds of lengths just to see me again.”
“I never said I didn’t want to see you. Didn’t think you’d want to see me, if I’m honest.”
“But you came over here anyway. To my hotel room.”
“It was worth a shot.” He hesitated, then added, “You haven’t sent me away yet, anyway.”
“Maybe I just wanted the gin.”
“Somehow I don’t think that’s quite it.”
“Oh?” She gave him a sidelong look, “Why have I let you stay then?”
Slipping from beneath the sheets, he went to where the bottle sat, still open, on the sideboard. “Maybe you remembered that you like me after all.” He poured glasses for both of them one handed, and passed one to her.
Florence rolled her eyes, but took the glass, downing it in one swallow and crunching the ice in her teeth. “Don’t flatter yourself too much. Next you’ll be trying to get me to leave with you.”
Freddie forced himself to laugh into his glass, but watched her over the rim. “Surely you’ve thought of it.”
“Mmn?”
“You and me – back in the game.” He held up his hands as if framing a neon sign. “We could do it all again – we did it before. We’re an unstoppable team.”
She raised an eyebrow. “What, and spend my time being browbeaten by the press and you again? Spare me.” His face fell, and she almost felt bad for a moment, but managed to swallow it. “It’s over Freddie – it’s been over for a year, maybe longer.”
“It doesn’t have to be!”
Florence set her glass down on the side table and started to get up. “You should go, Freddie.”
“Florence. You know I’m right about this.”
“This isn’t about chess, Freddie. There’s so much more than that at stake here, can’t you see that?”
Freddie made a disbelieving noise. “What else could there possibly be?”
“I don’t know, love maybe?”
“Is that what you want?” Freddie picked up his pants and began tugging them on. “Love? Marriage? Fading into obscurity?”
“Last I checked,” she threw his shirt at him, hitting him harder than he expected, “I wasn’t the one retired and reduced to doing commentary for network television.”
“Maybe not, but they know who I am, don’t they?” He tried and failed to keep the bitterness out of his voice, “And you know what? Say what you will about me, but I never hesitated to set the record straight any time some bozo in the press acted like you were only my second because we were fucking.”
“Fuck you, Freddie.”
“You di–”
“I should have never opened the door for you this time, I don’t know what I was thinking.”
Freddie froze half way through pulling his shoes on. “What do you mean, ‘this time’?”
“Forget it.” Florence shook her head, pulling a bathrobe around her shoulders. “It’s nothing.”
“It’s not nothing!” Freddie pushed back as she pushed him towards the door. “What do you mean – has this happened to you before? Have you been here before?”
“Just get out, Freddie,” Florence’s voice pushed through gritted teeth, and she held the door open. “Just go!”
“Florence please, I’ve been here before too – it’s both of us!”
“Go!”
As the door slammed behind him, Freddie slumped against the corridor wall.
What does she mean ‘this time’?
He shoved his hands through his hair, and willed his mind to stop racing.
I need to find Anatoly Sergievsky.
Inside the hotel room, Florence collapsed onto the bed, staring at the space where Freddie had been moments before.
What does he mean by ‘I’ve been here before too’?
She closed her eyes, trying desperately to clear her mind.
I need to get out of here.