The Sharpest Jewel | Alfie Solomons |

~ Chapter 35 ~

Camden, London, 1924.

The morning sunlight seeped through Florence's curtains, sharp and unrelenting, pulling her from a night of restless sleep. With a groan, she rubbed her eyes and glanced at the clock, realizing she'd barely given herself enough time to prepare. First day at the bakery. First day working for Alfie Solomons. The thought stirred an odd mix of nerves and anticipation in her, settling like a weight in her stomach.

Buttoning her blouse, she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror—composed enough to pass for confidence, though the apprehension was still visible in her eyes. She tugged her coat from its hook, gave herself one final glance, and made her way out to the hall, where Ada was seated comfortably with a cup of tea, flipping through the morning paper. Florence noticed a man seated across from her, impeccably dressed in a charcoal suit, leaning forward as he spoke with a refined tone.

"The people I work with just want me to paint what's there," he was saying, his voice calm and contemplative. "To me, politics is deliberately making things better for some people by deliberately making them worse for others." Ada listened with a look of amusement, nodding in quiet agreement.

The sound of approaching heels drew Florence's attention to the doorway. Polly entered, draped in an elegant, pink dress with delicate sleeves resting on her shoulders. Florence couldn't help but stare, along with the man, who rose from his seat, clearly captivated by the sight. Polly tried to cover a hint of nerves with a soft smile. Ada caught Florence's eye, a mischievous grin tugging at her lips. Polly glanced around, almost shy, and took a step back, murmuring, "Oh god, it's too much. I'll try something simpler." She turned to leave, but the man's voice stopped her in her tracks.

"No. Don't." His words were quick, carrying an unexpected weight. Polly stilled, a flush of surprise coloring her cheeks. "I want the portrait to hang in my office, so I need it to look formal," Polly explained, lifting her chin. "It's not formal," he replied quietly, admiration plain in his tone. "It's beautiful... it's made in Paris."

Polly corrected him with a sly smile, "It was stolen in Birmingham." Florence couldn't help but smirk at the pride in Polly's voice. "My mother stole it from a house she was cleaning in 1901," Polly added, the words laced with a rare vulnerability that made her look momentarily unsure of herself. The man's response was almost reverent.

"No, no. It's yours. It belongs on you. A woman of substance and class. Believe me, I've painted many women who belong in their expensive dresses. There'll be no charge." The simple words seemed to reach Polly in a way few things did, and her gaze softened, a pleased smile lighting up her face.

"Your normal rate, I insist." Polly's voice regained its confidence, though the look in her eyes was softer. "There's a first," Ada teased, making Florence smirk again. "So when shall we start?" Polly asked, her tone businesslike yet warm. The man didn't miss a beat. "I've already started. Come to my studio this evening." Caught off guard, Polly hesitated, glancing away. "Uhh, I'm busy this evening."

Ada looked up from her paper, an air of impatience in her tone. "Polly, invite him." He raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "Invite me to what?" His gaze shifted between Ada and Florence. "Shelby Foundation dinner," Ada answered coolly. "Polly's going alone." "I'm not going alone. Florence is my plus one," Polly cut in, casting an appreciative glance at Florence. Ada shot her a challenging look. "No, she's my plus one." "Ada!" Polly's voice rose, sharp with warning, as she turned back to the man. "I'll come to your studio on Sunday, then we'll begin." Her smile returned as she spoke, giving him a nod before turning to leave.

The room fell quiet as the man placed his hat on his head, murmuring a polite goodbye before stepping out. Ada folded the paper, looking up at Florence with a sly smile as she took in her friend's poised, almost purposeful look. "Up early, aren't you?" Ada teased, setting her paper aside. Florence returned a small smile, brushing down her skirt. "Not feeling too worse for wear, surprisingly," Florence replied, adjusting her collar as if the small task might disguise her nerves.