Page 112 of The Grosvenor's Ghost
“I’m sure you do.”
“Oh,” she nods dramatically. “I do. I love Digby and he’s my boyfriend and you’re not—so, whatever.” She clicks her tongue, shrugs.
“Will I be leaving my bedroom door open tonight?”
“Fuck you.”
“Or actually,” I wag my finger at her, grin on my face. “Connie just bought a lovely new chaise for the front room.”
She stares at me, eyes blazing.
“Heard you got a thing for them.”
She pouts, biting the inside of her cheek, neck red.
“Anyway,” I jump off the barstool. “Door’ll always be open for you, Phoebs.” I brush past her, drop a spare key to theapartment into her open hand—because of course it’s fucking open—and pull the back of her head into me to give her a rough kiss on her forehead.
My heart fucking shatters as I walk right past her and out of the club. I want nothing more than to drag her out of here and put her in my bed but I can’t—it’s not my place to do that anymore so I did the next best thing, get a key cut so she knows she’ll always have somewhere where she knows she’s welcome.
I get into one of the town cars waiting outside, the London sky passing by me in a blur of forgettable nights, broken promises, shattered hearts, murky truths, street lights and trees.
I’m about five minutes away when my phone pings with a text from George. It’s a number.
A number I knew all too well.
He tells me to call it, he might be more liable to pick up if he sees me calling.
I think about it. Could be a bigger temptation than sitting at a bar.
When I get in, I go straight out to the balcony because Connie forgot to turn the air con on again before he left and call the number.
I don’t give it much thought.
Push comes to shove, I’ll just lob my phone off the balcony.
With every ring, my stomach dips to the point where I actually think I might throw up.
Six, seven rings before it cuts and the line goes silent for a short second.
‘The number you have called is not avail—’
Chapter Thirty
Lady Phoebe
June was a mess, complete and utter shit show. Paris, spilling my guts to Arthur, sleeping with Arthur, Ascot—it was all too much so the only option was to flee the country and spend some time floating around the Mediterranean on my family’s yacht.
“I’m so glad you’re back,” I tell Spencer as we lounge on the top deck in tiny, skimpy bikinis that would give the paparazzi that have been following us heart attacks.
“I’m glad I was away,” she scoffs, hands me the bottle of oil to rub across her back. “Sounds like it all went a bit pear shaped.”
“You know,” I sigh. “I don’t even care anymore.”
“About what exactly? Digby, Arthur, Astrid, Arthur and Astrid, you and Digby? Honestly, Phoebe, it’s like the early seasons of Made In Chelsea.”
“All of it,” I tell her, moving onto my back.
That’s another thing, too—after Arthur and I’s little run in at Stratton House last weekend, Astrid magically got back in touch with him and now they’ve been going on dates. And I don’t just mean the quiet, low-key, hush-hush kind. I mean, the holding hands in public, lips brushing cheeks, dining alfresco kind.
