the red room • alfie solomons

one

She leaned in towards the slightly clouded mirror, taking your time while applying the rouge pigment to her lips. After quickly checking the time, she walked out the door swiftly, wanting to be punctual at all times. If she was to be a working woman in these tumultuous times, she needed to earn the respect of her peers.

She helped run a business, The Red Room. The nature of that same business was rather questionable to some, but compared to the streets of Camden, it was saintly. She was a manager and dancer at a burlesque cabaret owned by some, not-so-saintly people. The arts of dance and music allowed women to express themselves, and the club was well known to be a spot where people could let loose and have fun. She didn't bother herself with who owned the place.

However, recently the joint had come under scrutiny due to ties with the Suffragette movement. The dancers at the club wanted equal rights, and rightly so. It was a shame the men did not share the same opinion. She and the other girls left work on a Saturday night to protest for women's rights. So when the owner of the cabaret called her the following Monday, she knew she was in some deep shit.

The doors to the somewhat familiar "bakery" opened, and she walked in with her head up and shoulders back. If she had learned anything from her occupation, she knew the only way to be taken seriously as a woman was to act as confident as she possibly could.

"He's ready for ya." A man said, walking towards her with a cigarette in his mouth and a smug look adorning his face. "Follow me."

When she walked into the small office, she stared into the eyes of the one man she should fear. Alfie Solomons had never scared her, living in Camden as a burlesque dancer made sure she knew how to handle anxiety-provoking situations. As soon as she walked into the office, she was met with the rather displeased face of Mr. Alfie Solomons.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" He said bluntly. "I'm not sure you fucking understand who owns this club. Go on then. Give me a reason as to why I didn't get money from Saturday." He stared at her, not even blinking. "Tell me. It better be fucking good."

"The Red Room was closed Saturday." She replied simply.

He put on a fake facade of surprise, mocking her. "Oh! I'm sorry! The Red Room was closed Saturday! I can't believe I even asked! Forgot that you run the place. Seems that I thought that I fucking owned it." He looked over at the wall, gathering his thoughts briefly.

"When I pay you. And I pay you damn well, by the way, I expect you to do as asked. I don't give a shit if you're pro-woman or whatever. Means fuck all to me. The club is open. You do a dance. Men go batshit. They throw money. You give me money."

"Maybe you should give a fuck about women's rights if your business is run by women. Maybe they fucking matter. Maybe that would be a good business venture."

"'Scuse me? I wasn't aware that you were above me. Actually, last time I checked, it wasn't your fucking club." He felt himself gradually get more and more pissed off. Some pretty girl walks into his territory and expects him to give her what she wants because she has tits.

"Just a simple suggestion, is all." She calmly said, crossing one leg over the other and resting her hands on her lap. She made her opinion known but didn't want to send herself packing from the dimly-lit establishment. The girls needed her too much.

"Look, I'll be personally visiting every now and again. Don't care about what you do in your free time, but the club better be fucking open. No more ditching work with the other girls or I won't be nearly as lenient as I am today. Now fuck off."

As soon as she walked outside and felt the cold London air, she deeply exhaled, slightly relieved she didn't get herself into trouble. She always had a fat mouth and a harsh temper. She was right pissed at her fucking boss.

Women demanded equal rights. They deserved the same rights as men. As passionately she felt about the situation, keeping her job was more important. The girls were paid well and protected. No one dared fuck with them, as it was well known that if they were so much as touched, the Jewish gang would be on the creep's doorstep the next day. She wished the women in factories were treated similarly, it was a shame they had to deal with so much.

When she reached the cabaret, she was instantly met with the concerned face of Elsie, a fellow performer. "How did it go? Was he upset?" She instantly questioned, her strong New York accent obvious.

"It was fine, I took care of it." She said looking over at the beautiful blonde. "He did say he was going to stop by to prevent any further closures. To put what he said nicely." She rolled her eyes, understanding how he had actually said it.

"Jesus, that man needs to relax. I was worried sick, you being so-- stubborn and all, I'm glad you didn't start throwing punches." The petite woman exhaled. Elsie knew what her friend could be like, pretty one second, rather terrifying the next.

"Who said punches weren't thrown?" She said with a straight face, attempting to get a rise out of Elsie, obviously succeeding when her eyes widened before realizing the joke and saying a simple "bullshit".

"I wanted to though, he was a right arsehole." She said to the girl, quickly walking into the dressing room to be made up for tonight. Men usually packed the bar on weekends, but a few regulars could be found at the joint on weekdays after work. She stared at herself in the mirror for the second time that day, this time not as confident as the first, sincerely wondering what the fuck she was doing.