Weeks passed before Bea received any answer to her letters. When she did, she kept it a secret from Michael, since he didn't know she had sent letters in the first place.
It took only a couple of days for Bea to finally decide.
To give up all the adventures left to leave seemed hard, but to not see the faces of the people she missed the most was harder. And, if everything went well and as she expected after four months away, she would still have her freedom, perhaps a place at Shelby Company Limited and, if she really had the best luck, the chance to travel across Europe with someone that better fit as her companion.
It took her a couple of days to gain the courage to tell the news to Michael, and she later regretted not telling him sooner and in a nicer way.
After a long night of partying, they had ended up staying in the bar after it closed, and Michael fell asleep on the couches of the nicer tables. The bartender and owner already knew them both, and he'd done business with Shelby Company Limited through them, so he had just let them stay there unbothered.
Sun was already shining through the windows, but Michael didn't seem fazed. Bea stood up and got a glass. She went behind the empty counter and filled the glass with some water. Then, with it full, she went to where Michael was laying, got within arm's reach, just enough to be able to pour all the water in his face but still keep a distance.
With the cold water hitting Michael straight in his sleepy face, Michael sat up startled.
"What the fuck?" he shouts.
"You're late for work," Bea affirms.
Michael rubbed his face to dry it a bit before responding to Bea.
"I'm never late for work. I decide when I start or not. And how about waking me nicely?"
"Sure, I'll just tell Tommy you decided to have a different schedule every day because here, in New York, it's like you're your own boss. And, I was waking up and sobering you up all at once."
"That's the gypsy blood in you," Michael jokes.
"Oi, you're part gypsy, too, even though you ignore it."
Bea sits down on a chair at another table, feeling sick from the alcohol from the night before.
"I, uh... I bought a ticket," Bea says in a low voice.
"A ticket? For what? Is there a concert you want to go to?"
"No, no... A ticket for a boat trip," she pauses to let Michael start putting the pieces together. "To Liverpool. To go home."
"Home? To Birmingham, you mean?" Michael asks, surprised and shocked, since he didn't understand why Bea would want to leave New York.
"I want to see my family. I miss Bonnie too much. And even though New York has been full of life and adventure... I don't belong here."
"Yes, you do," Michael corrects her. "You belong to this life in New York. You have fun almost every night, going to concerts, to a picture house, that you'd never gone to before.... You've made friends."
Friends that you don't like."
"But friends nonetheless."
"I'm sorry, Michael, but I'm going. I've already sent a letter telling Tommy, who'll pass the news onto Bonnie and Aberama."
"Don't go. Stay here, with me. And we can go when Tommy says I can leave New York. And we can go to Australia, as well. We can travel the whole fucking world," Michael insists, knowing that one of the things Bea longs for is to travel the world.
Bea just stares at him. She had been nice, maybe too nice. Before, when she had arrived to Birmingham, she used to whine about everything that wasn't the way she wanted, and here in New York she hadn't whined or answered back once, and that made him get close. Apart from their argument weeks prior, they had nothing to complain about.
She should have whined and complained and made Michael's life harder with her there, but she hadn't and now he liked her too much.
"Marry me!" Michael then says when she keeps quiet.
"Marry you?" Bea raises her eyebrows, stunned.
"Yeah, marry me."
"Oh, Jesus Christ," Bea scoffs. "Why?"
"Because I love you."
"Well, everybody loves me." Bea cockily says without skipping a heartbeat. "Jack Bradley loves me, so does Alexander. But it's not really love, is it? Because they don't know me. You don't know me. It's not love, it's lust. And lust for the image of me that I created, because I've been trying to be on everyone's good graces. You've said so before that I should stop caring about everyone else. So that's what I'm doing now."
"No, I know who you are!" Michael corrects with strong belief.
"You don't. You have no idea. Have you ever seen me hold a gun? Running around, like a wild mare? Or spreading chaos where I step foot in, like an ocean in a thunder storm?"
"That's not you. You like music and concerts and dancing and picture houses, and painting."
"And much more. I'm sorry Michael, but you don't know me and therefore cannot love me and never will."
"But I do love you, Beatrice!" Michael repeats. "Marry me!"
"I'm leaving. I'm sorry. And even if you knew me, I don't love you, not even a little bit, so I'd never marry you either way. I'd rather be stuck with Jack Bradley."
"Are you serious?" Michael asks defeated.
"As if I was pointing a gun at you and ready to fire."
"Fine!" Michael stands up abruptly. "Go. Go back to the dirty streets of Birmingham, where no one trusts no one and families desert families." Michael starts stomping on his way out of the bar. "And fuck off on your way there."
"Thanks for loving me," Bea can't help but call out with honesty.
"Sure, no problem," Michael replies.
"I'd like to stay your friend," she says with the innocence of a child.
That made Michael stop and look back at her. He stared into her kind eyes for a moment before shaking his head and then leaving.
Sitting there, in the empty bar, Bea took out the response letter from Tommy and read it again.
Dear Beatrice,
If you wish to come back to Birmingham, you are most welcome. I do not want you to remain somewhere you do not feel like you belong. To see you mention Birmingham as your home is maybe a sign that you should return.
The business, everywhere but most importantly in America, has been very successful recently. I can only guess that your help to Michael and keeping him in line was a key factor for it in these initial and more difficult months.
Your help and willingness to help and go to a different country will never go unnoticed. You may come whenever you desire, and if you wish, send a letter ahead so that someone will be going to get you at the train station.
Yours sincerely,
Thomas Shelby
Later, giving time for Michael to digest their conversation, Bea returned to the hotel. As she entered the suite Bea saw that Michael wasn't there to work but had been there before, leaving before the portrait she had painted of him ruined, with taint all over it and a big cut in the diagonal from corner to corner.
"Arsehole..." Bea whispers before going into her room and started packing everything she could take with her.
Four bags later, Bea went to the living room and started taking care of business herself, since there was work to be done.
"There was no need to ruin the painting." Bea says when Michael gets in the suite late at night.
"Didn't you give it to me? I do whatever I fucking want with what I own."
"It were hours of work and with more details that I can't even think of doing again."
"It wasn't that great," Michael says with a mocking smile. "You were right, you can't really make a living off your paintings."
"You're being mean."
"Oh, I'm being mean?" Michael dryly laughs. "Fucking grow up. I'm going out anyway," he affirms. "Just came to change. I'm going out with Gina and I'll bring her back here, so don't get out of your room. Turns out, she once asked you if we were together, and you made her believe we were. But, we aren't, so... I'm having some fun with her."
Bea breathed in deeply and then went to her own room, where she stayed the rest of the night.
Next morning, Bea got ready and got her four, big bags to the entrance of the suite. Since she wouldn't have help to carry them she had connected, with some strong cloth, the bags in pairs by the handles, so that she could carry two with only one hand.
Michael had heard her and left his room.
"Finally leaving?" he asks arrogantly.
Bea, furious with his behaviour didn't speak. She didn't even dare getting close to him, because she felt like she'd punch him if she could reach him.
Instead, she got to the small statue that Michael had gotten in one of their outings, an expensive one, picked it up from the desk and threw it to near Michael's feet, where it smashed to pieces.
"You've got dirty on your shoe, gypsy boy."
And then, Bea left.