Chapter 48
Chapter Forty-Eight
Glyndebourne is magical. The grand opera house awes me as I enter with Florian.
I don’t want to let him go because if I do, I’ll lose my way, I’m sure of it.
We’ve set up our picnic blanket on the wool tartan blanket with chairs and the promised hampers with a feast. Florian’s being mysterious about what’s inside.
We find our seats. Prime box seats, because Florian.
It’s utterly surreal. I lean into him, and he sits with his arm around me.
I take in the soaring ceiling, the curving balconies, the contemporary finishes.
Meanwhile, Florian breathes in the scent of my hair, and I still hold his hand tight in mine. As if I let go, he’ll disappear.
When Tosca begins, the opera’s incredible.
I can’t stop shivering and crying. In my other hand, I grip Florian’s handkerchief.
I have Florian’s arm still around me as an anchor.
Occasionally, he brushes his lips to my temple, my cheek.
I’m transfixed by the performances, the stunning costumes and sets. The artistry.
To open the show, there’s a painter, Cavaradossi, who hides a political prisoner as his lover, Tosca, arrives at the church sanctuary.
Tosca’s furious with jealousy when she sees another woman in Cavaradossi’s new painting, and Tosca believes Cavaradossi’s being unfaithful to her because of it.
The police arrive to recapture the fugitive, and Tosca tells the police about her lover’s role in hiding the escaped prisoner.
Then, there’s an interval, the first one, Florian assures me.
It’s brief. But then, the painter’s being tortured by the corrupt police chief.
I can more than relate to torture right now.
I’m on the edge of my seat, with Florian’s hand on the small of my back.
In order to save the painter, Tosca agrees to sexual favors with the police chief—but murders him instead to free Cavaradossi.
We arrive at the second interval. As the lights come up, I turn to Florian.
At least I’m feeling more steady at the moment.
Hand in hand once more, we return to the beautiful grounds where people dine.
Everywhere I look, there’re people in black tie, in tuxedos and dresses.
Some people have even brought tables. Including Florian, a low folding table with our waiting picnic basket.
It’s a totally surreal world so far from my village life down the road.
It’s like I’m in a suspended reality. Which works for me right now.
I sit in my camp chair and watch Florian open the rather large hamper. There’s metal cutlery and porcelain plates strapped inside the lid. My eyebrows lift when he produces a bottle of chilled champagne and accompanying glasses.
“Florian…” I lift my eyebrows. I know enough to recognize high-end champagne when I see it. I’ve certainly broken enough champagne bottles.
He just grins, and his eyes dance. And I find myself grinning right back. “This, I’m afraid, is just the beginning.”
I laugh as he pops the cork skillfully in his hand. “Bartender-approved move,” I inform him.
“Years of practice,” he says solemnly.
“I’m sure you have years of practice with champagne and strawberries in meadows,” I tease.
“You don’t even know.”
I laugh again, feeling freer now. My shoulders relax as I accept a glass of champagne.
“I think we need a toast,” Florian says.
“Like what?”
“Like new beginnings, I think.” Florian smiles, his gaze soft and fixed on me. “Even if it’s pretend.”
“New beginnings,” I concede and sip my bubbles.
Next thing I know, Florian’s presenting us with a feast, from the promised strawberries to four kinds of cheese on a cheese board (with cheese knives), fresh baguette (which he also slices with an appropriate knife), and then all kinds of charcuterie fixings, from an array of meats to olives, cherry tomatoes and crackers and slices of apple.
“Better eat those before they brown,” Florian advises me.
“Florian…”
“And then there are sandwiches. I made them. Consider yourself warned.”
I laugh and shake my head. “You could feed an army here.”
He sits back in his chair, grinning. “My mission is complete.”
We tuck into the feast, and it’s amazing. The sandwiches turn out to be cheese and tomato as well as roast chicken, which he made the night before.
“Oh my God, Florian, this is so much food.”
He tops up my champagne again. “You’re getting more than me because I have to drive later.”
“Okay.” I gaze at him. “Do you want to stay over at my place? My family’s there, but so am I. It’ll save you a drive to London tonight.”
“Only if you want. I don’t want to impose or make things more difficult. I was thinking I’d stay in Brighton. I brought an overnight bag just in case.”
“You’re a marvel of preparation,” I inform him, smiling.
“Thanks.”
“Well? What do you think? My mum said it’s fine for you to stay too. We have a nice guest room. I think a home’s much nicer than a hotel room, don’t you?”
“You’re sure it’s not a bother?”
“Not at all.”
Florian smiles again. “Well, see how you feel after the opera.”
I nod, conceding. “God, I’m full.”
“We have cheesecake, I’m afraid. And pie.”
“How do you know I love pie so much?”
“Call it observation,” he says smoothly, amused.
When I can’t eat any more, we go for a slow walk around the lake, hand in hand.
We watch ducks and swans glide across the water.
We people-watch. With Florian right now, everything feels incredible.
Like we continue on in a dream at the end of summer, when lazy, high clouds drift overhead, and anything feels possible. At least for a few hours.
And when we return to our picnic, we have some more champagne, and Florian feeds me a strawberry, which I suck from his fingers ’til he shivers.
Then we return for the final act of the opera, and I’m a wreck again when the police officer has previously arranged for the painter’s execution by firing squad prior to his death, despite the police’s promises to Tosca to save the painter.
Devastated, Tosca commits suicide by throwing herself off the castle ramparts.
And I’m in a flood of tears again by the end.
Florian kisses me, and I melt into his arms for a long moment, savoring him. “What did you think? Puccini is wonderful, don’t you think?”
“Amazing. Thanks, Florian. This has been an amazing night. I’m sorry for being such a wreck earlier. Still.”
“Don’t apologize.” Florian kisses me again. He leans his forehead against mine. “I know it’s complicated. But know that I love you.”
A full-body shudder ripples through me, something I can’t control. “I love you too. And I want you so much.”
The smile he gives me, his face open, eyes hopeful, this is the Florian I adore.
The private Florian he reveals to me. Not the standoffish go-getter, which is part of him too.
But when he reveals his heart, it’s everything.
I grasp his face between my hands and kiss him like my life depends on it.
I’m more relaxed from the earlier champagne, but I’m drunk on Florian. All I want is him.
We return to our picnic spot to finish our champagne and strawberries as the sun sets over Glyndebourne.
And much later, we’re together in the guest room with its bigger bed at my parents’ place.
This time, I leave behind any hang-ups about having sex in my parents’ house.
During the night, after we fall asleep for a while in each other’s arms, we wake and make love slowly until the sun rises.
Florian’s sworn an oath to silence, no matter what I do to him.
And I push his limit ’til he’s ragged and lost, breathing hard against my neck, gasping my name.
I’m lost in his arms as Florian moves with me, languid, so I can prove to him how much I need him too, how special he is to me. And how much we need each other.
Until I eventually fall asleep on his chest, comforted.