August 1929
What is it about Irene and the ships?
The heiress could never understand her fear of the bulky vehicle even though she frequented it. At least once every three weeks. Country hopping is one of her favourite pastimes.
Her fear of ships came from the simple fact that the great big ocean and its mysteries were underneath this humming floating vessel. Who knows what could be in there? Humongous whales, slithering octopuses and what not. Waiting, ready to devour Irene, Isabelle and the rest of their party of five. Oh, and probably the other passengers too.
"You have got to stop," Izzie reached out her hand to grasp her older sister's wrist. "It's becoming too comical; Vicky's been taking photos of you jittering about ."
Irene shot a wary look toward the du Pont heiress, who looked away grinning, suddenly interested with the pelicans squawking above their heads. "I thought coming outside was supposed to be a breath of fresh air,"
"It just made me realize that we're in the middle of the fucking ocean with Jesus knows what swimming underneath." Irene hugged her knees close to her chest, resting her head on Aileen Guinness' shoulder. The latter put her head on top of hers. "You must be excited to be back."
The Grosvenor heiress shrugged, eyes turning into slits once she heard Isabelle snort. "Eh."
"Eh? That's it? I'm excited to meet this hunk of a blue-eyed man you keep on bragging about years ago," Doris shook Irene's shoulders, a smile spreading from ear to ear. The great-niece of J. P Morgan was indeed a romantic.
Irene rolled her eyes, heart filling with dread once reminded of that bastard of a man. "I never said that. I only said he's decent looking and extremely hateable,"
"With piercing blue eyes that can dig a hole through your skull." She grumbled not happily, biting at her lower lip.
"And he's married now." Tears bloomed between her lids, which she blinked away in panic. I don't cry; I never cry.
It was not untrue, though, the fact that Irene Grosvenor misses her fatherland. She misses the hustle and bustle of London city, she misses her family and friends, and most importantly, she misses her jewels. The powder blue and yellow Fabergé Irene got from her distant relative was also terribly missed. Probably collecting dust by now, as the heiress doesn't let just about anyone inside her rooms.
Irene shook her head slowly. The idea of being so attached to worldly possessions might be queer to the rest of the population but not to her people.
At least diamonds would never wring your heart dry. Or moan another woman's name as you suck the life out of them.
And pearls would never lay their hands on you in the most despicable ways.
"I can't believe your brother's getting married." Huffed Vicky, popping a cherry into her mouth.
Irene couldn't either. The idea that her older brother, Robert, tying the knot was irrevocably nauseating. With one of her best friends at that. She was seriously wondering what was wrong with Daphne, the sweet and innocent. What does she see in Robert? For the heiress, just one look at her brother's face makes her want to projectile vomit into her mouth.
"I know; it seems like only yesterday we were wreaking havoc and inventing new ways to cause trouble at Le Rosey."
"I'm sure they'll fucking make gorgeous looking kiddies."
"Ugh, don't talk about my brother making babies. It makes me want to scoop out my eyeballs."
Irene heard a round of chuckling. The honey-eyed heiress fondled the Burmese ruby necklace resting between her breasts, suddenly feeling its weight unbearable. What if he's there?
What will she do? Wait, no-
What will she say?
Oh God, Irene's about to vomit-
"Hey,"
Isabelle's eyes mirrored Irene's brown ones as she envelopes her hands, Cullinan encrusted ring scratching the shit out of the elder's skin. She winced once the grip tightened, "You know, you shouldn't wear that too much. It itches."
Isabelle sighed, "I know what you're doing."
"Well, right now, I'm trying to prevent my hands bleeding buckets, but-"
"You're nervous," Isabelle deadpanned.
"What? Fuck no."
"Fuck yes."
"Non."
"Oui."
"Please elaborate on how you know my feelings better than myself."
"I can smell your fear from miles away, putain." Izzy flicks her sister's forehead with great force, dragging the curse word. The elder gasped, in turn yanking the younger's hair until it reached the back of the sofa.
"Oh, you can smell my fear? What a great logic, Isabelle."
By now, the sisters are engaged in a flicking, slapping, and kicking fight.
"Alright, both of you. Would you mind entertaining us by shutting your mouths? You're disturbing Coco's afternoon nap," Doris' perfectly manicured nails pointed to the Pomeranian lying on her lap. Irene stuck her tongue out at the canine, which resulted in a frown from her friend," God, I cannot believe that you are thirty years of age,"
"Oh, and you two? Let's not lie to ourselves and pretend both of you are not sweating your tits off."
≻───── ⋆✩⋆ ─────≺
"So, what do you think?"
Her mouth was already hanging low, eyes as wide as a pair of saucers. In front of her is the colossal ballroom in one of the most luxurious hotels in England, hell, maybe even Europe. The high crystal chandeliers, intricate paintings on the ceiling that mimic the ones in the Sistine Chapel – which Irene visited not too long ago – and the ice sculpture resting in the middle of the room were impressive.
But everything – and she means, everything – was in a shade of the lightest of pink available on this planet. And probably in the next solar system.
"It's..."
"Nauseating." Irene finished the sentence for her younger sister. Better to be honest now. She shrugged, "What? You want my opinion,"
"Is it the ice sculpture? It's just here for the day. They're going to make a new one for the wedding day and-"
"It's not the ice sculpture, darling Daphne. It's, well, those." The heiress motions to the pink and gold walls, chairs, and centrepieces. She takes a second to sip her wine, "Oh, please don't tell me the maids of honours are also wearing pink."
Daphne rolls her eyes, smiling cheekily, "Of course it's not, you daft princess. Come, I'll show you."
≻───── ⋆✩⋆ ─────≺
"I look like the sun."
The Astor heiress was not lying. The seven maids of honours dresses were not pink.
Though the colour of a baby chick's feather. Soft yellow with intricate detailing on the thick straps. Irene stared at her reflection in the mirror, somehow feeling both enchanted and repulsed at the same time. She should've known that once Daphne says one thing's not the other, it means that it still is.
The dress was sheath cut, the hem of it resting just under her ankles with a kind of fabric that fell on her body in a way that made the heiress look like a Grecian empress. Her fingers caressed with the Mulberry silk, butter-like just as she suspected. She gave a slightly approving nod once she saw how plump it made her rear end look.
"A fiery sun, I'm sure." Daphne nudged her elbow jokingly. Clinking her champagne with Irene's as the latter then downed it in one gulp.
She looked around, soaking in the sight of her confidantes donning the same dress she had on. Irene smile was inevitable. As much as she was sour at the fact Daphne was about to tie the knot with her brother – vomit, diarrhoea – she couldn't help but feel this warm gush blooming in her chest. She felt giddy.
The Grosvenor heiress has always considered her confidantes as her sisters, and she would offer her life in exchange for theirs if need be. But finally, making it official was what made her skin prickle with excitement.
"Oh, and Irene? You're one of my chief maids of honour."
Irene shrugged, not thinking much of it as she had proudly snatched the title too many times before, "Alright."
Who has multiple maids of honour and is appointed more than one chief maid of honour? Only Daphne. The Astor heiress only had brothers and declined to pick just one, saying she's not into favouring. Oh, sweet Daphne.
All of the girls shared a look. Vicky went as far as stifling a laugh. The socialite glared; she didn't like this. She didn't like this one bit, wildly, when Tabitha, Ana, and Imogen clutched each other's hands. "What?"
"Well, darling, you're going to have to deliver the rest of the dresses to my other two maids of honour."
Oh, easy job. "That's it? I thought I'd have to slay a dragon or whatnot."
"And deliver the news to Birmingham."
Kill her. Kill her now.
The second flute of champagne came out of her nose. It burned but was nothing compared to the task her dear friend had asked her to do. "No. I would rather find a dragon and kill one,"
"Or have someone rip out my oesophagus and mull it into wine. I don't fucking care. Just anything other than that,"
The heiress continued, wide-eyed, "Or have someone else do it for me. I would do fucking everything in turn for someone to do that one job."
By now, she was begging. She never begs. Yet the idea of meeting the Devil himself was not her cup of tea.
Daphne sighed, "I'm sorry, Irene. But I already have everyone's jobs planned, and they're all booked. You're the only one remaining, only because you used to work under that family, and none of us has spent half as much time as you had."
Irene sunk to her knees, "You don't understand. I-I can't. I really cannot face that man once again,"
"He humiliated me, fuck, degraded me into feeling like some kind of common whore."
Just as she lifted her head, eight figures surrounded her. All looking ridiculously bright, it made her eyes sting. Doris cupped her hand, "Oh, darling...."
"You know, maybe talking about it would make it better? You don't have to carry the burden alone, you know. Maybe we can help." Ana rested her head on Irene's shoulder.
"Help you kill him," Tabitha muttered. Maybe Ana was right. All this time, Irene has been hiding this story with great anger. Afraid that if anyone heard about it, she would face immeasurable shame. She has been blaming herself for what happened. Was the Grosvenor heiress too easy? Or was Irene not attractive enough?
Alright, we all know the last one was a completely false statement. Though Thomas Shelby did bring doubt to the heiress, one she knew she didn't have before.
The girls were keen on talking about everything anyway. Sex positions they love, their bowel movement schedule, the last boy that brought them to the 'O'. You name it. There wasn't a single thing they didn't share. But why was this one so agonizing to share?
What was so special about Thomas Shelby moaning his ex-wife's name as I blow him?
"Oh, my Jesus."
"What the fuck?"
"Aileen, does your brother still have that saw? Let's cut his fucking balls off."
"Better yet, let's commit something very illegal."
"Oh no, Irene."
"Damn him and his good looks."
"Cut his balls off and send him to a monastery."
Irene was brought back from her trance. Had she been thinking out loud again? The unison "Yes" was a clear answer.
She groaned, "Now you understand why I absolutely cannot meet that despicable yet unbelievably attractive man."
Daphne's face contorted as she played with the hem of her dress. Something that the daughter of Waldorf Astor does whenever she is faced with complex arithmetic. The snap of her fingers was like a call to battle, "No. You're still doing it."
"Did you not listen to a word I said? Have you become so madly in love with Ro-"
"Shut up. Listen, that man did you so terribly and fuck him for that. We'll saw off his balls some other time,"
Daphne shook Irene's shoulders rather violently. Was this girl on something?
"But right fucking now, you are doing this. And you are doing this, not only for my wedding that cost millions but also for your sweet, sweet pride,"
"You, my beautiful Goddess of Peace, are going to bring him on his fucking knees,"
Daphne demonstrated a begging pose, "Turn his balls blue and make him fucking beg."
"These men should watch their balls. The Brat Pack is back."