AN: This story belongs primarily to The Queen's Gambit universe, and the Mad Men influence is very small.
The suit––Beth recognized the suit. A black number, three-piece with a pinstripe pattern, and as Beth's eyes grazed down the back of the suit jacket, she saw the double vent she had come to know so well. From the broad shoulders through the slightly tapered hem, everything was framed perfectly. Letting her eyes linger at the bottom, Beth noticed how well the piece highlighted certain endowments of the wearer.
A flush came over her––why was he here? Scanning back up his torso, she saw the dark brown, gelled hair that stared her down on the other side of the board less than a week before. Its perfect coif mocked her. What brought Vasily Borgov to New York after their disastrous match in Paris, and how was he alone?
She knew she shouldn't have come to a bar, but if she were going to get good and drunk, she would start as soon as possible. When she couldn't get a direct flight from Paris to Kentucky or even a flight to Chicago, she settled on landing back in the city. But without Benny to be her minder, the lights of the town glimmered with the mist that only someone absolutely trashed could know.
"Another gimlet, please." Two, three, five, who cared how much she drank now. If she was to face her shame, Beth would need as much liquid courage as possible. Who came up with that name, Beth wondered to herself. Liquid courage. Liquid no inhibitions was more like it. Liquid, no way to keep yourself in check. She had already done that. Now she needed a liquid shame-eraser.
A gimlet, the new shame-eraser, for when you've just thrown the most important match of your career and suddenly run into the man who put you to shame in the one city you thought you could be truly anonymous.
"Hey, what's the best way to avoid attention here?" Beth pressed the bartender.
"Don't be a pretty girl with no ring sitting at a bar." His candor left a bad taste in Beth's mouth.
"No really, I need to avoid that man over there," Beth hiccupped as she pointed in the direction of Borgov's silhouette. "Can you help me find a place to hide, or at least blend in? It's pretty dark in here already."
His eyes rolled, no doubt dozens of other girls put up this façade under the pretense of not wanting to be noticed by the average men from around the city. "Back this way, I'll take you to the booths."
Swiping her gimlet from the bar, Beth rolled her ankle and stumbled out from her chair, not enough to fall over, but just enough to make an ungraceful thud. The suit began to turn, and Beth ran, turning the corner as quickly as possible.
Everything about this was the opposite of their encounter a few days prior. Beth had been eager to confront Borgov, her dresses new and fresh, her confidence flourishing after her training with Benny.
And the light. It was always so light in Paris. It really did wonders for the white marble. The pale greens and blues of the venue had made her hair stand out––even more than usual. But here, in this bar that someone on the flight had recommended, she could be perfectly camouflaged. It was dark, certainly, but the wood and the carpet, the upholstery and the walls, they were all vaguely red and orange. Tints that one might call fiery if only you could see them through the smoke and the hazy lights. Tonight, her black dress fit in perfectly, as did her hair. For all intents and purposes, Beth Harmon could be invisible.
Unless that was exactly what he wanted. What if Borgov was so disgusted with her performance that he didn't want to see her, that he would give anything not to look at her again. She may have been hung over, delirious, and even manic, but she saw Borgov's face at the end of the match. He was disappointed, and Beth could not blame him if he was repulsed by the idea of encountering her again.
On the other hand, Beth was ready to wretch at the idea of seeing him again too. Maybe she would just cancel her trip to Moscow. What could be so great there anyway if all of the players needed KGB agents in every other city they went?
She knew it would be beautiful, but Beth couldn't bring herself to face the positives. She wanted to wallow, and Benny would not allow that. And that's how she ended up here, in the back booth of a bar that was simultaneously nice and seedy, hiding from Vasily Borgov.
"Everything still okay? Could I get you a menu? You can either look at it and order or hide behind it if things are really going that poorly." The bartender offered her card, which was far too small to hide her hair.
"Thanks. I do have a question––that man out there–"
"The one you're hiding from in the back corner of the restaurant?" He cut her off with a deprecating sting.
"Yes," Beth started slowly, gritter her teeth and pursing her lips as they closed. "There should be another man or two tailing him, could be as far as 20 ft away. I also need to remain hidden from them."
"Eh sorry, I don't see anyone else. He's usually these big, loud groups when he comes by, or else he's totally alone. I guess tonight's a solo night."
That didn't make sense. How could Vasily Borgov have a reputation here?
Beth stood, threw back the rest of her drink, and strode over to the other side of the bar. She could hear the confused calls from the bartender, but it was too late. She had to know about the double life of Borgov, and now that she had a few in her, she was too buzzed to care what he thought.
When she got to the front side of the room, the man had turned, and she could now see his face. Not Borgov. She felt an enormous wave of relief when she realized that not only would she not have to deal with her own mortification, but she could also return to a night of drunken anonymity.
She didn't move. Beth just stood there, in the middle of the bar. The man she sought out was like Borgov in so many ways––same suit and same hair style, definitely, but they had the same physique. They might have even been the same height. It was his cheek bones that really gave it away though. Borgov's face was rounder, it reflected more. Beth knew that he was a machine because his face reflected his emotions so obviously when they came to the surface. This face? The skin was so much tighter around the shape. A younger man than Borgov, and he looked expressionless at the bar, but it wasn't because he had nothing to emote. It was hidden by his high cheekbones. He was scribbling on a napkin, a look of mild intention in his eye.
"So what's so hard to figure out that it has to go on a bar napkin instead of staying in your mind?" She grabbed the cocktail napkin from the stranger, plopping on the stool on his other side.
Margarine $0.29 vs $0.45
That was all the napkin said.
"Lemme ask you a question."
American. Very American. Distinctly not Borgov.
"I believe I already asked you one. Are you going to ignore what I say for the rest of the night, or is it just now?"
"Stick with me here." His hands were enormous, just like Borgov's, but there was something shiny and polished about them and the way he held them. They were not hands of utility, he was giving her a show, and they were part of the dazzling props. "You're going to the store to buy margarine, what are you thinking? How do you choose?"
"God, I can't say that I've ever bought margarine before," Beth retorted, feigning innocence about the question, but hiding the truth underneath truth instead of a lie all the same.
"Ah, so you must be a fan of butter, then?"
"I guess so. Never really think about what I'm getting except whatever keeps it from sticking to the pan. I'm busy, usually occupied by other things."
"So you don't much like to cook, I get that. What do you buy in general? How do you make your decisions?"
"You wanted me to answer one question, but here you are with a whole swarm instead." Beth made eye contact with the befuddled bartender, beckoning him over.
"Here, let me buy you a drink, to repay you for my swarm of questions," the man offered, loud enough that the bartender could her on his way back over.
"Another gimlet, ma'am?"
"I'll have whatever he's having," Beth said, glancing to a mostly-empty glass with a pool of clear liquid at the bottom. Was it gin? Vodka? Melted ice?
"Old fashioned it is then. Another for you, Mr. Draper?"
"Let's make it two," he said, leaving his gaze on her. Draper, his name was Draper. "Will you answer my questions now that you have your payment on the way?"
"Oh, I'm not sure I should do that before I get my payment in full," she offered, raising her brow coyly as she finished.
"Come on, call it a deposit," Draper offered, his piercing gaze weighing on her. It was more pointed than Borgov's, and this man's eyes were enormous and circular, like saucers sitting right on the shelves of his cheekbones.
"Fine, you asked what I buy and how I make decisions, and those are two entirely different questions."
He pulled out a pack of cigarettes, shaking the pack until one fell out. "Oh are they now? Tell me more," he offered, lighting the end of the stick.
"Well, I am not much of a cook, as you noticed, so I usually buy whatever comes in a can. Easier to prepare that way too. If I'm feeling really elaborate, I'll boil some pasta to eat with the sauce."
At that he chuckled, rolling the cigarette back and forth between his lips in amused contemplation. The bartender brough over bold drinks, and Beth offered hers up for a toast of sorts. A mutual respect, a simple raise of the glass. No clinking, no tapping on the table, just a gesture.
"As for my decisions, they are either entirely calculated or not at all. Some decisions are made ten, fifteen, twenty steps ahead. Others," Beth trailed off, not interested in rehashing the story of what happened in Paris but feeling emboldened to think about it by the whiskey. "Others I don't think through until it's far too late."
"You sure say that like there's something at stake with your choices. It sounds like you live like a bachelor, and from your propensity for thinking you are one, too."
"I didn't come here to be psychoanalyzed, I just came here for a drink." Beth thought to herself for a moment, chewing her lip. "A shame eraser."
"Sure, but you already got your drink, didn't you? Then you had a few more. And now you're here, talking to me, so since you've already veered off course from your original plans, why not just stick around? Got more shame?"
Something about it made Beth seethe. It was the same tick that broke her the first time she played Georgi Girev. She was losing her conversation with this man. Maybe not losing, but definitely not winning.
He took Beth's silence and focused drinking as an opportunity to continue. "Do I know you from somewhere? You look familiar. Are you an actress?"
"Hardly, I can't control my face very well, as I've been told."
"Ever been to one of our casting calls? I swear if you had, my partner would have remembered. He is a connoisseur of redheads." He chuckled again, this time entirely to himself. Or to a fake memory, one that she was not included in.
"No, like I said, not an actress."
His smile faltered. "Well, I swear I've seen you somewhere, and you do not just have one of those faces, so don't try that one."
"I'm around." Beth figured it was vague enough to avoid continuing the conversation.
"Nice to meet you, around," followed by another silent chuckle. Beth had to admit, that one got to her. Growing up without a father made her very serious, but she did appreciate their style of humor. He must have been a father.
A glance down to his hand showed she was probably right––there was a ring.
"Where is your wife?"
"I'm just here doing some work before I head back for the night."
"And your work is about whether or not I'll buy your margarine?"
"Sure––I'm in advertising, and I had assumed that you would be the target audience for margarine sales. I was clearly mistaken." He raised his eyebrows sarcastically at the end of the sentence, and it was the most he had emoted the entire conversation.
"Yes, you should have known better." The sentiment rang in Beth's head even as she said it. The twins had told her that, back when she was undefeated. She longed to feel that way again, yearned to escape from the shadows of Vasily Borgov. It hit her that she could get that back with this man, and maybe only this man. She had to confront the ghosts of her past.
Beth turned on the stool to face him. "I have a question for you now." The man nodded, waiting impatiently for her to continue. "Do you like my hair?"
He turned away from her after the question, looking back down at the margarine-price napkin. He blinked twice, but otherwise his face remained unchanged, just like Borgov.
"I take it you're not asking about whether or not it's in vogue, are you?"
"Not looking to take advantage of your expertise, I just wanted to know if you liked my hair." Beth usually sat up straight when wooing her partners, but she found herself leaning her arms back on the chair. If she were anyone else, she would guess the technique would be to show off her chest, but for Beth it was about comfort and power. And nothing being at stake.
"It's beautiful. I'm guessing this is a decision you haven't thought through," he said while raking his eyes over her torso. His hand moved from the bar to her knee, applying firm pressure on her thigh. It was persuasive.
"Nope, but I don't need to. What is there left to lose."
It wasn't a question.
…
Beth woke the following morning when the sun was already high, and the streets were bustling. Wherever she awoke, she couldn't hear the noise of the city like she had from Benny's living room. The room was luxurious, though not as opulent as her suite in Paris had been, and lying on the empty plush bed, she thought that she could no longer be scared of Borgov. She had done far worse the last night, perhaps even worse yet in Paris. No one but Cleo would ever know what really happened that night, and the fewer spectators the better.
Draper, Borgov's doppelgänger, had vanished. No note, no card. It was for the best. Now that she had met the anti-Borgov, she had nothing to lose. With a healthy dose of exposure therapy, Beth had overcome her fear of Borgov. But it wasn't him. She might not have had anything left to lose, but as the Borgovian vapors vanished from the brilliant room, Beth knew that she also had nothing to gain. Nothing to gain in New York, nothing to gain playing chess. Nothing to gain by beating Borgov.
The empty thought occurred to her on more than one occasion: the only problem here is you. This was the first time it had ever carried meaning.
The pale sunlight broke through the thin white curtains, and there they were––her first tears back in America, dark against the light purple of the sheets. Little did Beth know, ghosts can haunt you in both the dark and the light.
And this light was blinding.