☆ ᴡᴀᴛᴛʏꜱ 2024 SHORTLISTER!! ☆
A tragic misunderstanding. A murder. A secret. An unlikely partnership. A spirited countess and an enterprising racketeer.
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Manchester, England. May 1925.
The Roarin' 20s. An era of glamor, decadent parties, jazz mus...
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Apprehension. That was the only word that could accurately describe the way Rose felt upon returning to work Tuesday morning. Questions coated in unease ran rampant through her mind. In what state would she find Mr. Gallagher? What mood? A gratified or foul disposition? Had he and Geneviève spoken? Come to an understanding? Had his temper cooled?
There was no way to know until she saw him.
But when she climbed the stairs to the offices on the second floor, she found them deserted. Mr. Gallagher was not in. To Rose's mind, that was either very good, or very, very bad.
Determined to appear oblivious to any and all potential troubles, Rose set about her tasks, fielding telephone calls in between her continued effort to compile an employee directory.
The morning passed in tense silence.
Shortly after eleven o'clock, the telephone trilled on the desk beside her.
“Gallagher Automotive Factory, Mr. Gallagher's office,” she answered.
“Oi, gorgeous!” exclaimed a flamboyant male voice on the other end.
Rose rolled her eyes. “Hello, Jimmy,” she said, forcing a smile onto her face as she spoke into the receiver. “Your father isn't in just now.”
“Like I'd ring to speak to that cranky ol' sot!” Jimmy scoffed. “Nah, gorgeous, I'm ringin' for you. Ya miss me?”
About as much as I'd miss a thorn in the cheek of my bum, Rose thought, her nose wrinkling in distaste. In direct contrast to her mental declaration, she said, “I do! So very much. When will you be back?”
Jimmy chuckled on the other end, the sound saturated with self-satisfaction. “Me boys and I need another day or so to sort out our business, but I should be back Thursday night. Maybe Friday morning.”
Their ‘business,’ whatever that was. And it would take another day or two to ‘sort out.’ Interesting. Although relieved by his prolonged absence, Rose knew the best course of action in her ruse was to fan Jimmy's ego.
“Not until Thursday night!” she complained, heaving an exaggerated sigh. “Whatever will I do with myself until then?”
“Nothin' too fun without me, I hope!” Jimmy reparteed.
For performance's sake, Rose donned a spoiled little pout. “What fun could I possibly get up to without you?” she whined. “This is Manchester, for pity's sake. It's beyond dull.”
“Chin up, gorgeous!” Jimmy instructed. Rose noticed he sounded downright delighted with himself. “I'll make it up to ya. How's about you and me take in a show Friday night? The Kensington Theater is puttin' on one of them plays ya like. By that poet...er, sonnet writer, or summat.”
A poet known for sonnets? “William Shakespeare, you mean?” Rose clarified, rolling her eyes again.
“That's the one!” Jimmy cried. “Aye, Shakespeare. So, what d'ya say? Meet me for the eight o'clock curtain?”
