CHAPTER FIVE
lady luck

"Why can't you see me? Why can't I stop needing you to see me?" —Chen Chen

Beatrice had thought about Grace frequently since she left Birmingham. This was not something she lied about, if only because she was rarely asked. Grace had been a menace to her, had given her the gift of Tommy, had taken him from her all the same. At the same time, even on her own, she was perhaps the one woman with whom Trixie felt there was an even playing field. Polly was scores above her, and Ada abstaining from the game, but Grace had been just there. It unsettled Trixie that she wasn't sure who had walked away from their months of competition victorious.

She took the long way to Tommy's office the next evening, debating whether or not she would tell him about the woman who had met her by the canal. Grace certainly was not being transparent—never on earth would her goal be to empower Tommy Shelby. But with the horizon moving closer every day, and an unknown waiting for them when they converged, she wasn't sure if Tommy would benefit from dividing his attention—more than he already was.

What had happened—his hands, rough; her cunt, slick—was bad for the both of them, not just Trixie. It didn't matter that she'd gone home to Luca and sulked in the bath for an hour to avoid him, or that she'd risen before him to avoid his eyes. All of that was tiny and fixable in comparison to London. Trixie wouldn't delude herself into believing that she could capture Tommy Shelby's attention long enough to sabotage their plans, but he had certainly captured hers—gripped it so thoroughly, in fact, that she had strayed from her fiance—and she was expected to maintain enough of a hold on herself that she could carry out the tasks assigned to her to make this extension possible. It could not happen again: he would not stick his hand up her skirt. To guarantee it, she'd worn the suit he'd had tailored for her, lined with silk and accented with burgundy velvet. Trixie, first, would not be so insane as to allow Tommy to touch her; and if that plan failed, the amount of trouble he would have unlacing her trousers would ideally be barrier enough.

His office was deserted when she arrived, spare Lizzie, who was typing up his correspondences with quick precision. Trixie hovered in the doorway. "He's already gone?"

Lizzie looked up. "Yup. An hour ago or so. He and John and Arthur had something to take care of first."

Trixie's jaw tightened. "Right. I wonder how he expects me to get to London, then."

Lizzie opened the top drawer of her desk and pulled a note out. "He left you instructions." Before Beatrice could take the letter, Lizzie began to read it aloud. "Beatrice, there's a driver who has been tasked with assisting you to London. Dress for a night out, won't you? Nothing with ink stains or wrinkles. We need to look our best."

Trixie's cheeks heated up. "Can I take that?" she asked, forcing her voice out so that it would remain even.

"Sure," said Lizzie, handing it over the desk. "I think the driver's in the street."

"Thank you," Trixie said. "I'll see you tomorrow, probably, or perhaps the day after."

She read the note as she descended the stairs, her entire body heating up at the mention of ink stains. She had assumed that Tommy had dictated it to Lizzie, but it was handwritten. Trixie would know that script anywhere. During the fever-dream months they had spent together, he liked to leave her notes on the mornings he woke up early. It was the closest he could get to admitting anything. You're a quiet sleeper, one morning, after they had spent the night together but not had sex. Another restless night. I'll see you at the office. Once, dropped on her desk, I can still taste you. She asked him about them once, why he could write down things he could not speak aloud, and he laughed at her and said, "Beatrice, you've seen very little compared to what you could." She assumed it meant that he had more notes saved up, but she was sure that he had burned them by now.

Downstairs, the driver waiting for them was one of the younger boys that Tommy had brought in recently. He was quiet and seemed to tremble when she approached, but she only climbed into the backseat of the Bugatti. "Miss Price?" he said, from the front seat. "Mr. Shelby asked that you have this, for the drive."

Trixie's brow furrowed as she accepted the parcel he handed her. She unwrapped it carefully, worried the noise might actually scare him, and found a book inside—The Turn of the Screw. It was one she had wanted to read for many years, and had no time to. What the hell did Tommy think he was doing? She hoped he wouldn't be surprised when she read it cover to cover during their trip and then promptly threw it square at his head. How dare he? A voice echoed back in her head. How dare you, Trixie? How dare you?

The club was called the Eden, and Beatrice was not surprised to find it rife with sins of the flesh. She was no longer modest and prudish as she had once been—the sight of two men wrapped around each other in dark corners did not surprise her, nor did the woman inhaling cocaine off another's bare breasts. Trixie observed it with fascination and slight envy, this sort of sacred bubble that was untouched by the rain or the policemen outside.

"'S a fucking abomination, isn't it?"

Trixie turned around in the foyer and found Arthur sneering at two homosexuals embracing against the wall. Her eyebrow arched. "Compensating for something, are we?"

Arthur blinked. "The fuck are you on about?"

"Careful, Arthur," Tommy warned. Trixie cursed her body for its reaction to his voice. For a moment, she wished to go back to the actual Garden of Eden and swat the fruit out of Eve's hand herself, so that she might personally never know what nakedness meant, and never know sin, and never want it so desperately. Tommy, of course, was unaffected, save for the once-over he gave her suit. "I thought I told you to dress for a night out."

She leaned onto one hip. "We're wearing the same thing. And I have to talk to you."

"Later," he dismissed. "No good to be loose-lipped in enemy territory."

He looked almost like he smiled, but perhaps she was imagining it. "Let's crack some skulls, yeah?" John asked. "I want a drink."

"You always want a drink," said Trixie.

John pushed her gently with his elbow. "Don't get cheeky, Trix."

"Fuck off," she replied, pushing him back, and then putting a hand on his arm. "What were you boys up to earlier?" Trixie asked, watching as Arthur again ogled two men, one holding the other's cock in his mouth, though he seemed less furious this time.

"Business," said John. "Right Tommy?"

"That's right," said Tommy. "None of your concern, Beatrice. It's all been taken care of."

Trixie scowled, but trailed behind them anyway. The club was stunningly modern—high arches and gold, curved couches and florals. The foyer, where men and women and people who were perhaps neither crowded and kissed, gave way to a dance floor that was far less dim but all the more golden: the floor seemed to shimmer as she entered, a Black jazz band playing a high-tempo song that dipped and swayed as the dancers did. And there dancers. They were not the kind who swung ever-so-slightly at the racetracks years ago; they rocketed towards each other, colliding constantly, men throwing women in the air and barely catching them and sometimes not. The life was palpable; even the walls seemed to have a pulse.

Arthur seemed appalled, and John thrilled. Trixie eyed Tommy carefully, trying and failing to read him. His brothers were fond of mixing business and pleasure, but Tommy was not. Still—she found her gaze leaning towards the topless women, their bare legs, and wondered how much he was also noting.

"What the fuck is that racket?" Arthur shouted.

"It's what they call music these days, brother," Tommy replied.

"I like it," said Trixie, and Arthur said nothing. They approached a table towards the center of the club, mostly empty save for a couple who kissed as the woman's hand thrashed the man to climax. Sex had lost its sacredness for Trixie, but she still felt that it was too vulnerable to be done so publicly. She had slept with two men, and still shuddered when she remembered that Tommy knew what she looked like naked.

"Hey," Tommy boomed. They scattered apart, his penis hanging out of his pants, fleshy and pink and repulsive under the glaring light of the dance hall. "Put it away," he demanded. Neither moved.

"Fuck off!" John reiterated, and that reached them, both of them hurrying to get away from this trio of insane men. Tommy pulled a chair out for her, and Trixie sat. He lowered himself into the seat beside her. "Fucking look at this mess," John mused, though there was no disgust in his voice. He looked eager. Trixie thought about Esme, at home with his litters of children. Her mouth tasted bitter. Was this what she had to look forward to? If she married Luca, would he expect to be allowed to come and go as he wished, and share his bed with whichever woman he pleased? She was not much better, no. But she hated to settle. Hated that she had to expect it from him, and cower in shame when it came to her own desire.

Tommy flagged down a waiter and ordered their drinks, before draping a casual arm across the back of Trixie's chair. He twisted, as if he was using it for balance as he inspected the club, but she knew that he was not careless. "Looking for something?" she asked.

"You know I hate to turn my back to anyone." Tommy turned the corner of his lip up into something that might resemble a smile. "Suit looks good on you, Beatrice. Maybe we'll get you that hat after all."

"Fuck off," she replied. "And fuck you for the book, too, Tommy."

"What," said Tommy. "Didn't like it? Or was there some other problem?"

"You're the problem," said Trixie, and she leaned back in her seat. Something brushed against her thigh, then wrapped around it. Tommy's hand. She could feel him watching her reaction even as his brothers ogled the scores of women in the room. Fighting to keep her face blank, she reminded him, "I'm almost a married woman."

He leaned in closer. His breath was hot against the shell of her ear. "Is that why you came to me in the middle of the night, begging me to come?" Trixie's breath stuttered. She wanted to strangle him, wanted at the same time for him to wrap his hand around her neck and fuck her like there might not be a tomorrow.

Then, Arthur spoke. "Sabini's cousin over there," he remarked.

"Was gonna say," said John. "I recognize a few of these lads."

"This is Sabini's club," Tommy said, withdrawing his hand from her thigh. She suppressed a shiver.

John's eyes widened. "Fucking hell. Everyone in here's a fucking face."

"They didn't know?" Trixie asked.

"She knew?" Arthur demanded, bewildered.

"It's just the lieutenants," Tommy assured. "No sign of the officers."

"Holiday," Arthur scoffed. "You're always a businessman, Tommy."

"The problem with you," said Tommy, "is that opportunity could raise a gun to your fucking head and you wouldn't notice."

Trixie rolled her eyes, pushing her chair back and leaving the table in search of a women's restroom. She passed several cabaret dancers on the way, wearing sequins over their nipples and shaking their breasts. They eyed her curiously as she passed.

In the bathroom, Trixie was unsurprised to see one woman perched on the counter as another stood between her legs, kissing her neck. She cleared her throat, a warning that she was watching, but they did not adjust. It wasn't as if she wanted to disturb them—Trixie passed them, locked herself in a stall, and reapplied her lipstick before she emerged. As she washed her hands, one of the women—the one on the sink—turned to her. "I'm Lottie," she said, breathy as the other woman continued to kiss her collarbone. "What's your name, angel?"

Trixie swallowed. "Beatrice," she replied. The other woman drew back. She was also in a suit, and she extended her hand for Trixie to shake.

"Emma," said the other woman. "You got a man?"

"It's a long story," said Trixie.

"We'll be here and in the foyer," said Lottie. "Come see us, if you'd like."

Trixie blinked as she realized what they were asking. Nothing in her wished to escape it, really. Maybe it was the religious shame she'd held for her own body as a young woman, but she approached the feminine body with a curiosity and affection that she thought ought to echo the way a man did, though perhaps with more tenderness. Something shattered against the bathroom door, and all three of them jumped.

"Thank you," she said. "That's very kind, but I'm supposed to be here on business. If you'll excuse me."

Outside, it was not raucous dancing that was creating the havoc: there was a fight going on right beneath the stage. Of course, at its center were the Shelby brothers.

"Fucking Christ," Trixie muttered. She had her gun in her breast pocket, but she was typically not fond of firing first shots. She scaled the room's perimeter carefully, past the cowering topless dancers and the glass-eyed lovers who pressed their backs to the wallpaper. These were the people who had scattered, but even more continued to dance, and the band continued to play, bodies twisting and making contact in a hundred different ways before her eyes. Trixie slipped her engagement ring onto her finger, its brass weight settling her. She did not particularly want to help Arthur, as he was being pummeled by two of Sabini's men, but she could not allow him to be beaten to death.

She picked up an abandoned bottle and waitstaff tray from a nearby table, rendering her invisible for long enough to approach the crowd, at which point she raised the bottle over the head of one of the men attacking Arthur and brought it down with enough force that it shattered when it made contact. He went limp immediately, and the man holding Arthur down turned to face her just in time for her to slam the serving tray into his face. Blood erupted from his nose, spraying onto her silk shirt, and she scowled. "Christ."

"Mind my fucking suit, Trixie?" Arthur asked.

"Get up," she ordered. She extended a hand to him, but he ignored it, pushing himself off the ground unassisted, and immediately pivoting to take a swing at another of Sabini's men. Trixie backed away, watching as the Shelby brothers drew blood and teeth and worse, and felt awash with a sort of pride when the last of Sabini's men collapsed onto the floor, and someone fired a warning shot into the air. That convinced the dancers to freeze, the room turning to screams.

On stage, a waiter brandished a shotgun and aimed it at Tommy. "Get out," he commanded.

Tommy shrugged, breathless. "Yeah?" he asked, approaching the shotgun. "You gonna use that?'

Trixie pinched her own wrist to keep from pulling him back. This was provocation. The Peakys were strong, but Grace had been right: London was a bigger pond. Sabini wouldn't fear retaliation from the Shelbys. The crowd held its breath. The waiter's eyes drifted away from Tommy and then back.

"Yeah," said Tommy. "Didn't think so." He trained his eyes on the waiter for a moment as he turned his back on him. "We came here not to make enemies," he announced, moving slowly towards the exit. Trixie put her hands in her pockets, eyeing him wearily and then shifting her attention back to the waiter. "No. We came here to make new friends." Arthur punctuated this point by kicking one of the unconscious bodies on the floor out of his way. With great reluctance, Trixie began to follow, catching a glimpse of Lottie and Emma in the corner. Unlike the rest of the room, they seemed unafraid.

At the door, Tommy paused. "Those of you who are last will soon be first. And those of you who are downtrodden will rise up. Yup." He turned back to the stage. "You know where to find us."

Trixie kept pace with him until they reached the foyer. John and Arthur swept ahead into the rain. "You're starting to sound like Freddie, you know."

Tommy struck a match for his cigarette. "Think so?"

"Those of you who are last will soon be first. What the fuck are you on about?"

"Challenging times demand inspiration," he noted. "I'm only here to guide them towards something better."

Outside, the street glowed as the lamps caught the mist. Tommy paused on the sidewalk and was haloed by light. Trixie wanted to kiss him, without ferocity, without trying to get towards a center of him that she might be able to hurt. He fitted his cap back on, blocking the light from his face. Trixie thumbed at a stray raindrop that traced his cheekbone, and resisted the urge to put it in her mouth. Under her hand, his jaw went slack, lips parting slightly. "Where are you staying?" she murmured.

"Hotel," he rasped.

"I need to talk to you alone," she said, casting a sideways glance at John and Arthur, as they compared battle wounds. Tommy was untouched. A stray bruise, maybe, but he never seemed to emerge as injured as the rest of them. "Mind if I stop by?"

"C'mon," he said. "Let them have their fun. They need to remember why they like it so much. Can't have John going on any longer about chickens."

"Poor Esme," said Trixie, and she meant it.

"Is it not enough for her children to be protected?"

"She and John were sold to each other. But the bind is one way." Trixie bristled, and they started strolling down the sidewalk, adrenaline gone. "I've spent enough time being a wife to know that it's a terrible fate. But I understand why men are so keen on having them. The poorest, sickest, most miserable man will always be above his wife. I'd relish that, too."

"Excited for the wedding, I see," said Tommy wryly.

"I want to have something for myself," she said. "Rather than just being had. I don't fantasize about making dinner every night until I die, just as you didn't fantasize about shoveling shit at the stables. It's what happens when the last become the first. You'd know about that, wouldn't you?"

"Be something else, then."

"I'm trying," Trixie said. Then, "Esme didn't have a choice. She never got to decide what she would be."

"Perhaps," said Tommy. "Perhaps we're all born into our circumstances. Perhaps we all spend our lives shaking off the chains which bind us."

"Perhaps I was born with more chains than you were." She stopped walking. "Do you understand?"

Tommy nodded. "I understand." He threw his cigarette into the gutter.

"Right," she said. "Where's your hotel?"

A/N: soooo crazy that tommy wrote beatrice a bunch of love letters and destroyed them. can't believe that he set them on fire and didn't keep them in a box under his bed for all these years. even crazier that you guys will Definitely never read them and they will Definitely not play a major role in this story. well. anyway. trixie is for sure nonbinary but doesn't have the language for it because it's 1921 :( thanks for reading and sticking around if you have :-) let me know what you think

Chapter 6 / Women's Business

Trixie forced out a frustrated exhale. Her affection for Tommy had a body count, and yet he couldn't answer a single fucking question of hers.