e l i t e s / T. Shelby / The Brat Pack

thirty-three * ˚ ✦

"Big girls need big diamonds."

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"Alright everyone, from the very top! Orchestra, verse please – Pa, Uncle George, I can't believe I'm saying this, but please stop playing with each other's swords."

Yes, she heard it. But it was getting ridiculous how many times Irene's father and uncle, the fucking King of The United Kingdom, kept bursting into giggles during the rehearsals.

"You know what, I'm taking these," The heiress snatched the weapons from the two powerful grown men. Honestly, if it weren't for their clear seniority and status, Irene would pinch their big bellies and smack them back into reality. She sniffed, "Have you three been drinking?"

Uncle George put his index finger on his lips as if he was guarding a national secret as Papa slung his arm around His Majesty's shoulders. Willy, Daphne's fifty-year-old father – and a well-respected attorney and aristocrat, emptied the flask to its dregs before shaking his head.

She shook her head, "Unbelievable,"

Irene clapped her hands, "Right, let's go through this one more time and then we can get back to our own palaces, clear?"

A plethora of answers was heard, the Grosvenor's eldest daughter smiled from ear to ear. Everything was coming into place, this magnificent wedding that's not her own. The décor was exactly how Daphne wanted it to be: whimsical, bright, and sparkling. Violet, chiffon yellow, and quartz pink hung from one wall to another. Blooms of white gardenias and playful forget-me-nots encased diamonds and peridots on each of the centrepieces. A Royal Hanover chandelier hung proudly from the high ceiling, each of the glass glistening like lake water under a bright summer sun.

The two powerhouses of Astor and Grosvenor clearly spared no expense.

The heiress pulled her brother aside, "So, who is your best man? Two days shy from the wedding and I don't know who your best man is. Honestly – "

"John Astley," Robert muttered slowly, his eyes searching Irene's face for any kind of peculiar reaction. The latter cocked her head to the side, face scrunched in confusion. Reality dawned over her, eyes turning wide as saucers. "No."

"Yes."

"No."

"Sister, you can say no all you want. But, yes, he is."

"You mean, the John Astley?"

Sir John Astley broke her fragile little heart all those years ago, quashing her humongous infatuation by admitting he preferred men with pocket watches over women in fancy dresses.

Robert huffed, "My oldest friend, yes."

"Robert, you prick."

He barked out a laugh, but Irene did not feel amused. Her brother had dared making – yet again – another man from her tragic past someone of importance to this wedding. First, he decided to invite Oswald fucking Moseley. Second, he announced Thomas Shelby and Alfie Solomons would be part of his army of groomsmen. And now this?

"Brute, I beg of you. Change your best man, it can be whoever you want. Just, please, not him. You remember how humiliating it was. I mean, great for him for finding his inner self and whatnot. But I was shitfaced."

"Irene, nobody knows about that day except you and some other men from the club, and me. And Astley, he's not really out. So, I was thinking you can accompany him, well, that's what he wants anyway,"

"Besides, that day was hilarious. Remember your face – "

Robert cleared his throat once he saw his sister's agonized face. Then wiggled his eyebrows in a way that makes Irene feel repulsed all over. She sighed, "I suppose."

"Great, see you." Robert kissed her right cheek before running back to his buddies, avoiding another scolding from his fierce younger sister.

Irene made sure her brother saw her use the finger before sauntering off to the girls.

It's alright, Irene. John Astley is the least of your worries.

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"Alright, everyone. Hold on to your tits, we're about to walk in. Imogen – what did I tell you about picking on your nails? - "

" - It's disgusting and no pretty girl does it." Imogen's arms jellied down from where it was attached to her teeth. A shy look was apparent on her made-up face.

"Good girl," Irene nodded solemnly, eyes scanning for any type of error. Ties are straight, dresses are exquisite. Her eyes glanced over to the two gangsters with crooked ties for a millisecond before demurely walking over. Thomas Shelby and Alfie Solomons looked out of place wearing toffs' suits, standing and trading personal jokes with the same people they swore to overthrow.

"You two look like fish out of water." Her slender fingers adorned with heirloom rings fixed the tie that hung loosely on her former boss. It took her much willpower to not look up when she felt Tommy's eyes burn the top of her hair. The aristocrat could smell that identical melting-pot scent of cigarette, whiskey and smoke entering her nostrils by being this close to him.

One image of Thomas Shelby with Lizzie Stark entered her head and she immediately held in her breath before deliberately tightening the tie with vigour.

Irene could see Alfie smiling from ear to ear out of her peripherals, obviously dumbfounded by the interaction. He lifted his head, ready to get his tie fixed. The heiress backed away; looks at the masterpiece of a tie she just created, then motions for Alfie to fix his own tie. The whole entourage looked back and forth between the gangster and the heiress, excited to see what happens next. It was groans of disappointment that came out of the mouths behind her back when she clapped her hands excitedly, "Right! Who's ready for a wedding?"

John Astley chuckled lowly once the heiress hooked her arm with his, "I think it's fair to say, we could all feel your raw tension with that man and it's quite odd for you to ignore it."

The church doors opened with a slight groan as Irene fought to keep her disgust at bay. With a slight smile masking her revulsion, she exclaimed, "No way I'm going down that rabbit hole again, almost killed myself for that man. And look at him now, married and made a daughter out of it."

The two of them started walking slowly through the threshold before Astley barked out a laugh. Alarming the guests, priest, and the people behind them as it was such a contrast to the leisured orchestra. The oldest of the Grosvenor girls cleared her throat before whipping her head back in apology, the act was met with some colourful words. "What. The. Fuck. Was that."

The man beside her hid his smile, "Oh come on, this is too boring. We should waltz in, not glide through the aisle like some kind of drunk Russian."

"Stop talking." Irene threw her brightest smile to her aunts Vicky, Maud, and Louise. All beamed with pride as they flung open their fans. Astley waved his hand to a group of heiresses, eager to see their reactions. Lo and behold, they giggled like silly school girls. "Pity. They don't know your distaste for their gender."

He fake gasped, "Irene Grosvenor, some silver tongue you have!"

"Shh." Imogen pinched Irene's back. Uncle George and Aunt Mary looked back at her and John, the latter shared one of her sarcastic smiles. "It would be a better wedding if you two could ever shut your mouths."

John squeezed her hand once more, "Admit it, then."

"Admit what?"

"Your deep, deep love for that Brummie bastard."

Irene pretended to projectile vomit with her finger hitting the back of her throat. John's eyes flew to her gloved hand, eyebrows raised as if saying; some rings you've got, love.

"What? Big girls need big diamonds."