"The one where the It Girl is back and all the other debutantes are jaundiced."
October 1929
Irene had forgotten how long the ride was to retched Birmingham.
It wasn't until about halfway along the way the heiress's palms started to gather moisture, so wet she had to press her hands against her Chanel tweed skirt. Robert, who has been watching his sister intently ever since they embarked on this journey, flicked his fingers across the younger's forehead.
Irene grimaced, fingers flying to massage the area, "What. Was that for, Brute?"
The older glared at the nickname,"A million pennies for your thoughts?"
"I'd rather go bankrupt."
Robert's laugh rumbled the whole car, "You and I both know you won't last even a second,"
"I'm delighted to see this next chapter of our lives, sister. Me and Daphne, we're very content with our relationship. The wedding is bigger than life itself; the honeymoon is going to take place in Myk-"
"Stop talking before I fart and fill this car with the scent of sauerkraut," Irene grunted as she slid her gloves on with unnecessary force.
"So what is it, eh? We all saw you storm out that night all those years ago, which was unusual considering how much you loved alcohol and that soiree was flooding with an array of booze."
Irene sighed, "Dear brother, as much as I love our bonding sessions, I need you to shut up and let me finish my afternoon beauty nap,"
"You know I can't stand that wretched man, and the prospect of meeting him again has brought wrinkles to my undereye."
"I'm just curious, and you know I won't stop at anything-"
"Robert," Irene warned. Honestly, if only one of her confidantes were here, she wouldn't be stuck with her probing brother and his disgustingly large body for two hours. The heiress understood it was her job to deliver the news to Birmingham, one task she's been putting off since August. And now, well over two months later, she's finally doing it.
Robert held his hands up as a sign of peace, but Irene knew better. Not even ten seconds later, his trap opened, "Are you glad to be back, princess? Everyone, and I mean everyone, has been wondering when will the leader of our society's crème de la crème be back. Those tawdry Bright Young Things were jumping up and down when they heard you went away,"
"Once Nancy Mitford heard about your return, news spread like wildfire. Those Bright Young Shits essentially cowered from the spotlight. Making way for the Original Ones. They even named your return, like a chapter in a book."
Irene rolled her eyes, feeling somewhat both flattered and curious about what has been happening ever since her 'retirement'. Well, it wasn't much of retirement and more of a long-lasting holiday, and it's not like the heiress is entirely in the dark. The girls would catch her up on everything from time to time — the juiciest of news.
"They named it 'The one where the It Girl is back, and all the other debutantes are jaundiced'"
≻───── ⋆✩⋆ ─────≺
"Open my door so that I can flourish."
Irene uttered to her brother as she fluffed her hair while looking at the rear-view mirror. Robert stared at her as if she was kidding, but thirty years living with the heiress made him realise that questioning his sister was one of his least favourite pastimes. He also understood the women in his circle always loved to make a grand entrance. What do you think being late is for?
Irene puckered her red lips, turning to her brother with a confused look, "What are you still doing here? Get your bums out, and let me rejoice in my grandness."
Robert shook his head before muttering something about women and devils in French. His prominent figure ducked out of the car before jogging to the other side, insisting that the chauffeur open the door himself. Irene heard a muffled "It's alright, she needs to practice her daily narcissistic behaviour." from the outside.
The heiress chuckled inwardly, tucking her jewel-encrusted clutch between her armpit.
A small crowd had gathered outside, more of them staring at the black shining Rolls Royce as they moved about. Once her side door opened, the heiress held her brother's extended hand before gliding out of the car heels first. Not forgetting to practice her iconic – if not trademarked – move, the hair flaunt.
Irene sighed contently, "Always delighted to feed the people with my greatness."
Her older brother chuckled as she clasped her hand between his arm, "You are something else, little sister. And we are not worthy of your excellency."
The two attention-stealing siblings strut their way through the grey neighbourhood, getting closer and closer to the place where some of the most questionable things have happened—the Garrison. Irene was somehow perplexed and disgusted by the fact that the pub still looked as rickety as it always did. She halted about four yards away from the doors.
Robert turned, "Are you alright? Do you want me to do it?"
He couldn't remember the last time his sister's hands shook so violently; this was Irene Celeste Deschanel-Grosvenor. Someone whose poise seeps out through each of her pores like sweat.
"I-I want to do it alone."
The Brute searched her face, looking for anything that might her story away. Yet, Robert found nothing. He sighed before grasping his sister's gloved hands, "Are you sure?"
"Yes."
Irene's heart was beating the same time after each word, Daphne exclaimed. "Turn his balls blue and make him fucking beg."
This was the beginning of her reign of terror. One that was aimed at Thomas Fucking Shelby.
"Alright, I'm going to wait here. Oh, and don't be too long. I can't stand this foul smell."
Irene chuckled before her strides brought her face to face with the black door with gold detailing. Irene can hear a faint conversation from the inside of the pub, something the heiress found strange since, at this time of day, the pub should be packed with drunkards looking for their midday fill.
"And now, I want you to pay me back what you owe me."
That steely voice of Tomas Shelby knocked the air out of her lungs. Irene's hand halted midway just as it was about to push the door open. Who was the Blue-Eyed Devil talking to? He certainly sounded furious, referencing numerous occasions he's used that tone while she worked for him, like a bottle of champagne that's been shaken and ready to burst at any second. Calm yet treacherous.
She looked back at her brother, who was shifting his weight from one foot to another—looking uncomfortable with the stench of Small Heath. Robert noticed her staring and lifted his brow, quietly asking if she was okay. Irene nodded solemnly before mouthing and gesturing frantically toward the door, "Drama inside."
"Come on, baby. Let's go."
Oh, who was this?
Her accent indicated she was American, one that only the upper-class New Yorkers have; Something that resembled Vicky's. Or Doris'.
The socialite squared her shoulders before thrusting the door with all her might; resulting a booming sound as it collides with the wall.
Irene's heels made an echoing tap as she crossed the threshold; all eyes turned toward her. Michael was a yard away from her, eyes wide with a blonde in his arms. He broke away, giving away the heiress' position to the whole room. She counted six heads in the room, all too familiar with whose shoulders they're attached to.
A gasp escaped Polly's lips.
Irene flashed her billion-pound smile, "My, my. What a show."
She noted how Thomas Shelby turned his head slowly, eyes passive as his cigarette hung between his fingers. His movements halted.
Minus Ada and Finn, Irene shot a mischievous glint toward the Shelby clan.
"Rejoice, for you have been blessed with my presence."