Page 88 of In the Frame

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?”