Freddie had insisted on driving her home, and by drive her of home of course, he meant that she could ride with him in his car, chaufferred by some unknown faceless person. Florence sighed, too engulfed in her misery to care about Freddie's relentless romantic efforts. She sank into the luxurious backseat, grateful for the way it cradled her, forming about her as if she were being held by a lover, by Anatoly, the man she had left behind, bound for his wife and family in Russia. As she let her eyes wander out the window and her thoughts wander to Anatoly, she realized that Freddie had been speaking to her for some time now.
"Florence, I just want you to be happy, you know that. I can give you all that you need, I'm not some dirty red traitor that will drop you like last years news, I'm not a commie liar who goes around—" He whined, that is, until Florence interrupted him.
"Fuck you, Freddie!" She fumed, suddenly wide awake in her seat. "I'm sick of you bashing on him all the time, regardless of what he's done or hasn't done! And dammit Freddie, he has a name! If you're going to refer to him so pointedly can't you at least refer to him by his name! Anatoly! I'm sick of it!"
Freddie sat, shocked, unable to move, in his seat, stunned into silence by Florence's sudden outburst. She rarely let herself explode, rarely let herself cross the line from firm and assertive into the rage of furious and extreme. The driver, seeming very much alarmed by the cacophony emitting from the backseat, pulled over to the curb, slightly concerned for his own well-being.
Florence threw open the door, and Freddie actually wondered if it may in fact come free from its hinges, but it held. She sauntered to the boot, threw it open, and removed her one suitcase, her solitary vessel of memories from the last few weeks. Shaking, she managed to begin a defiant trek down the sidewalk, headed in the general direction of her flat.
"Florence Vassy, what the hell do you think you're doing?" Managed a slightly recovered Freddie, striding after the dark-haired woman.
"What does it look like, Freddie? I am walking home!" She screeched, heeled shoes clicking down the sidewalk in a rhythmic conformity.
"You can't walk all the way to your flat, Florence, it's all the way across the city!" the former chess champion protested, attempting to wrench the bag from Florence's clenched fists.
"Yes I can, it's a far better alternative than riding with you!
"All this because I brought up that filthy red—"
"ANATOLY!" Florence screamed, launching the water bottle in her hand at Freddie's head. "HE HAS A NAME, FREDDIE!"
Freddie could feel his temper beginning to rise to meet Florence's, his frustration and loss surfacing, awakening to greet the challenge she presented him with.
"FINE! ANATOLY, THEN! BUT YOU CANNOT DENY THAT'S WHAT HE IS FLORENCE, A FILTHY, TRAITOROUS, COMMIE! HE LEFT YOU, HE RAN CRAWLING BACK TO HIS HOME IN RUSSIA, TO HIS WIFE AND CHILDREN AND TO HIS LIFE! HE DIDN'T WANT YOU!" Freddie shot back, but even as he said it he realized how terrible it sounded, how awful the words blended together into a terrible monstrosity.
Now it was Florence's turn to stare in disbelief, absolutely floored by this jab from Freddie. Sure, he had attacked her through her father before, and through Anatoly, but not directly. The last sentiment continued to resonate in her head, so much so that Florence began to wonder if it was in fact true. He didn't want you.
Freddie was stark white, a perfect ghost in his typical white livery. His jaw remained agape at his own cruelty even as Florence removed her bag from his possesion and continued to stride down the walk.
Sometime later, he resumed function and commanded the driver to pull ahead a few blocks, to await their return to the vehicle. Then, without further adieu, he took off sprinting down the London sidewalk after the woman he loved.