Daisy Smith lies in a plush white bed, crisp and clean and smelling of fresh air. Looking around her, she sees the beautiful hotel room she is situated in. Claridges is always lovely, she thinks idly, running a hand through her messy curly hair and trying to tame it. They'd been dancing in the infamous Claridges ballroom the night before and her hair had come out of place.

The sex afterwards hadn't helped the mess either.

Rolling up so she sits with her legs over the edge of the bed, she looks over her naked shoulder at her companion.

James Lewis. A regular. A friend, actually. One of the many inordinately wealthy men she has sex with, keeps company with, for ridiculous amounts of money.

Standing up, her feet falling flush into the soft cream carpet, she pads over to the chaise where she's left her dressing gown and puts it on to brace against the chill of the balcony. Lighting a cigarette, she inhales deeply before releasing, her eyes closing with the relief of the burn. She hears the sounds from London below, the cool air brushing her naked things and cooling the sweat from her neck. The cigarette allows her to breathe properly again and she wonders why she didn't take this up sooner.

Once you've had a couple, it's hard to stop.

She breathes in too suddenly when that memory creeps into her head and she coughs lightly. She thinks to herself, I know better than to think of him. Never think of him.

Missing in action, Polly had told her that day. No survivors. That fateful day where her world came crashing down around her. He was gone.

She still remembers the blank look on Polly's face. As though she was in shock. Too numb to even cry.

Daisy hadn't even stayed the rest of the day. Why would she ever want to remain in a place full of memories? Full of him?

Ada and her hadn't been as close since Daisy was fifteen, what with both of them falling in love so hard. So Daisy had simply written a letter to her supposed best friend - but he was her best friend - saying she had to leave, that she couldn't stand to be there, that she was sorry, that she'd miss her, before getting on the next train to London.

She worked hard towards the war effort for two years before turning to prostitution. She made uniforms to send to the Front, more than she thought she could possibly ever make in her lifetime, let alone two years. Her fingers were numb, so numb and swollen at the end of every day, but all she could think of was him. What if it was him there? She'd want him warm. Every man at the Front was someone's Tommy. And the thought kept her going. For two years, barely making enough to eat, to pay rent, she struggled and suffered and the only thought that kept her going was "What if it was Tommy?"

By December of 1916, she had nothing left. The pitiful money she was getting from making the uniforms and helping out at hospitals couldn't pay for her room anymore, so she was homeless. Without an address, she wasn't getting any rations. No families in the poor area she was in could afford to take her in.

That was when he'd found her.

Or she'd found him.

Alfie Solomons.

He reminded her of Tommy in a lot of ways. Nobody expected much of him, but he always managed to surprise them, being far far more clever than anyone expected. He'd fought for over two years in France before being shot in the leg and was forced to come back to England in October. She'd attended to him in hospital for two months, trying to make him laugh - she used to make Tommy Shelby laugh, surely she could make anyone laugh - and trying her damnedest to heal him.

When he was well, he'd taken her in - the beautiful nurse who, although she made many jokes, never truly smiled with joy. Daisy soon found out that his job before the Great War was as illegal as Tommy's was. He gathered around him a team of men, all who had fought in the War and been sent back with only the horrors of war in their minds to keep them busy, and they started making alcohol to send to the front, or to sell on the black market. Alfie and his men made a significant amount of money, but because of inflation, it wasn't enough. It was never enough.

And Daisy earned a pittance from her own work.

When he'd suggested that she sleep with one of his friends, a wealthy friend who was pretty much keeping Alfie's company afloat, she'd screamed at him, had hit him, had cried at him.

He'd just allowed it, letting the woman who never smiled beat him with her small hands, before saying, "Just think about it, Flower," before walking away.

He was a ruthless man, she'd seen, but he had always been kind to her, always looked out for her. Had taken her in when she had nothing. Had supported her for months while she contributed minimal amounts to their income.

They needed the money that this friend of his was offering.

She knew it. He knew it.

So she did it; she slept with the man who was more than twice her nineteen years and who had no regard for her well-being or comfort. She cried the whole time.

She prayed for forgiveness to Tommy, who she knew had to be in heaven despite his misdeeds because he was so good to her, afterwards, and she had laid in her bed in Camden for three days.

She was numb.

She had become what she'd sworn she never would. What everyone had told her she would be and she'd refused so vehemently.

If you don't wanna be a whore, Daisy, don't be a whore.

She was a whore. I can't tell these people down here to go fuck themselves, Tommy, she thought one day. There is a war. You are dead and you have taken a piece of me with you. I am starving. I have nothing. I need to help these men, these men who have been thrown out of the pits of hell only to have to come back to Camden and starve and grieve and heal and survive, but not live. We are all just walking ghosts of our former selves.

I can help them, she thought. I can save them.

You saved me.

The men she was with held her, made her feel wanted. It was a shadow of the comfort Tommy had given her, but if she closed her eyes and pretended hard enough, she could imagine it was his hands that held her, his breath on her cheek.

She was a whore. She is a whore.

Daisy Smith is gone.

I'm really nervous about posting this; I feel like you'll all hate me! Please just trust in me to sort this mess out.

Any comments are appreciated (especially after this chapter!) Thanks for reading.