❝ PICKET FENCE! ❞ → GRAY ✓

→ i.ii

Act One, Scene Two

→ ❝ motorcar in a stable of racehorses! ❞

             "Drink?" Tommy extended a bottle of what she assumed was whiskey with one hand while he held the telephone to his ear with the other, waiting to be connected. She politely declined with a smile and a shake of her head, to which Tommy shrugged and poured himself a glass.

             Carol twiddled her thumbs nervously, deciding to take off her hat and smooth down her hair again, another nervous habit of hers. Her eyes darted around the room, taking in every dingy corner, and couldn't help but imagine that this was not where the well dressed Tommy usually spent his time, picturing him in a much more prestigious, majestic office with gold trimming and better quality cabinets.

             "I don't care, Harry," she heard him talking with 'Harry' on the other end of the phone, making no attempt to speak in hushed tones, and she couldn't decide whether it was polite or rude. Back at home, the only telephone she had access to was the one in the sweet shop, so she wasn't well versed in telephone etiquette (as her mother would put it). "I don't care if him and Isaiah are wrapped around the fucking pole. You pry Michael off it and tell him to go to the house, the one behind the shop."

             Carol wondered who Michael was, perhaps he was Thomas' assistant or a friend of Henry's. She imagined him to be tall, with kind blue eyes and dark brown – almost black – curly hair. She pictured him carrying himself with the same sense of self-importance as Tommy, smelling of whiskey and cigarettes. While imagining the man, she didn't think she would get along with him.

             "Harry, I don't fucking care." Tommy groaned, and Carol felt sorry for Harry. She didn't want to be on the receiving end of the telephone. Tommy glanced at Carol briefly (who shrank in her chair), and she was almost positive that she saw pity in his bright blue eyes. "I need to ring Polly. Tell Michael to come down if he knows what's good for him."

             Tommy paced behind his desk for a moment, talking to who Carol assumed was 'Polly' on the other end of the phone. "Come to the shop," was all Carol managed to hear, and noticed a much more prominent tone of amusement in his voice compared to his chat with Harry. "You're gonna want to fucking see this one, Pol." With that, Tommy put the telephone down with a 'ding!' and downed the rest of his whiskey.

             The room fell into a silence, and the young girl tapped her foot on the floor nervously, pretending not to notice Tommy staring at her intently, as if he was trying to work her out. All she wanted to do was find Henry and take him back home, and yet here she was, being held prisoner in a betting shop. Oh, if only her mother could see her now –

             "Is everything alright?" she questioned hesitantly. Uncertain of whether it was due to nerves or the heat that seemed to be rising in the office, Carol had begun to feel awfully sick and desperately wanted to get out of the situation she was currently in.

             "Hm?" Tommy raised his eyebrow, leaning in slightly. "What?"

             "Is everything alright?" she repeated with no more confidence, a pit growing in her stomach as Tommy's stress displaced itself onto her.

             The older man shook his head, cracking open the window behind him before pulling out the chair at his desk and sitting down. Carol sighed a breath of relief as the cool breeze slowly made it's way into the office, "Don't you worry your pretty little head about that, sweetheart. You said you're Henry's fiancée?"

             "Uh, yes," she replied, continuing after thinking for a second. Carol noticed that he sounded almost uncomfortable saying the name Henry, as if all this time he had simply been a figment of Carol's imagination and wasn't real. "That's if, he still wants me to be his fiancée. We haven't spoken in two years, he just up and left one day and never came back. It's not like Henry, and I'm worried about him."