She is stood outside smoking furiously in an attempt to calm her nerves. Alfie had kicked her out of the room after it had looked like she was about to burst into tears - Fleur! Burst into tears! - since he didn't trust her to keep this "professional". Of course, he doesn't understand that this is anything but professional, and just the fact that it's meant to be 'professional' makes it all the more personal to her. The love of her life looks at her like she is worthless - the only boy who never did when she was younger - and wants her to sleep with someone else. For money. For secrets. Because that is who she is now - a whore. A good whore, and a rich whore, but a whore nonetheless.
She has been numb for years to her profession. She just does it. She has sex, meaningless sex, in which she plays her part. Whatever that man wants. A fetish played out. A lover to pretend to love. A companion to talk to. Or she could be hired simply because a rich man's son wants to fuck a prostitute for his first time. They are the worst; the ones who treat her like a piece of meat. She is used to it and doesn't complain, but it stings. She has become everything she spent years worrying about as a child. Was it inevitable? Someone so poor like her couldn't have had many options set before her in her life. This was one of them, and many people told her she was incredibly lucky to have worked her way so high within elitist society. She was fucking members of the government, foreign ministers, self-made millionaires… she'd even fucked a prince once. They told her she was lucky. She should be proud of herself.
Maybe a hidden, secret, dark part of her is. Look at me now, Harry Waller. I have connections in circles you can't even dream of being near.
It is only when she is alone that she feels the guilt, the hurt, the shame of what she is doing every night. What would Tommy think of her? Would he be hurt? Understanding that she'd done what she had to do to survive? Ashamed to have known her? To have loved her?
She's often wondered this over the years and now she knows the answer. He does not understand. He is disgusted. She doesn't know if she can bear it, but she doesn't know how to change it. She is what she is, what his death did to her. Now that he's alive again… what will she do?
She isn't startled when someone comes to stand by her, but she doesn't expect someone to approach her so soon after the chaos in the office, so she does blink in surprise, almost dropping her cigarette.
"Didn't think you smoked."
Her heart stops; she knows that voice, although time has made it gruffer, harder and war has made it colder. He sounds even more to-the-point than he usually does. She's not sure she likes it purely because it's not the same voice that told her 'I love you' on that beautiful summer's night.
It had been warm, she remembered. That summer was glorious, the best in her life. She was barely at the orphanage, just spending all her time with Ada and Tommy, though not together. Ada was just as wrapped up in her beau as she was with Tommy, but they still tried to remain friends Ada got her days and Tommy got her nights. He always smiled when he saw her, she remembers. Not a big smile of an overly-contended, bragging to the world man. Just a small grin that made his eyes shine and her heart start racing.
The night had been the best of her life.
She says nothing in response, not knowing what he's here to say. Is he here to ridicule her? To explain why he hasn't found her? Why he hadn't bothered to tell her he was alive?
After a whole three minutes of silence, it becomes clear that he's even less verbose than he used to be.
She sighs. She's not sure she can muster up the courage to ask him, because what if his answer makes her feel even worse than she does already? Is that even possible?
"Why?" Her voice is quiet and timid, like the girl who had lost her parents at age three rather than the world-class lover who could make grown men cry if she wanted. "Why didn't you contact me?"
"You left Birmingham. You became a whore." He says it like it is obvious and she feels like the stupid little girl who dared to kiss him when she was fifteen.
"Because I was told that you were dead." It was the worst day of her life. Until now. Although she has to recognise that it is also one of the best, because she now knows that he is alive. Tommy Shelby is still on this Earth and her heart beats stronger with that knowledge. It is still broken. but it is reassured. It's other half is not gone… just lost.
She hears him take a drag of his cigarette. A long one. "I didn't realise you were waiting for me to be out of the picture. Didn't wait very long did you, Daisy? Sorry, Fleur."
Her eyes start to sting with unshed tears. He is being cruel and she still doesn't know why.
"Please don't call me that, Tommy. That's not who I am." She is whispering in a throaty voice, her neck muscles straining to not set free the sobs that are lingering there.
"If I'm hiring you for my purposes, that means you're my client now. Or I'm yours. Why shouldn't I call you Fleur? If it's a name reserved for people who fuck you, I've already done that." His face screws up at this in a sardonic, nasty way. He doesn't look like Tommy. He looks like a monster.
Her breath exhales shakily. He would never have been this cruel. What has war done to him? What has she done to him? Has he come out here just to torment her?
"Maybe I should pay you for the services you rendered to me, eh?" His voice has quietened, almost like he doesn't actually want to say those words which offer little support or comfort to her.
She hadn't thought it could get worse. It just did.
Her eyes shut in pain and a few tears escape. Her chest feels heavy.
He has just ruined the best night of her life. The only time in her life when she was happy and joyous and young and so so in love.
She opens her eyes and turns to look at him, her eyes full of betrayal, anger and pure devastation. The second he sees them, his jaw clicks again and his eyes turn to the side. She sees the look of regret in them, but she doesn't care. They both know that was too far.
She pulls her arm back and slaps him harshly across his cheek, her eyes leaking more tears as she does it. He does nothing but look away over the docks, his jaw as tense as it had been since he saw her; she stares at him brokenly for a few moments, disbelieving and outraged and heartbroken, but only long enough for her to see the red welt beginning to blossom on his cheek. She hopes it hurt, because she's not sure she's ever hurt this much. Not even when Polly said he was dead. This is worse: she is dead to him now, surely - otherwise he couldn't have said those things.
She walks back into the building, not being able to bear looking at his face anymore, her heels still tap tap tapping against the concrete floors.