Page 136 of The Grosvenor's Ghost
Arthur came down a few minutes later—couldn’t sleep, too hot—and I thought about turning away, covering up, but I didn’t so I let him stand there and watch me shower naked.
The paparazzi must’ve been in the boats that I thought were fishermen or in the helicopters I thought belonged to billionaires.
I stare at the picture for a while. The headline is disgusting.Our Favourite Lady Wet and Waiting.The whole article—from what I skim read—is degrading and sleazy and cheap.
I hand George’s phone back to him, my eyes unblinking, unmoving. My whole body feels frozen because I’ve never been publicly outed in this way before.
Before, I never really cared—my first thought was always that my children will see the things they say about us but now I know I can’t have any children. It all falls on me and right now and what people are going to think and say about me now.
Everyone’s very quiet and they don’t know what to say.
“I can call—”
“No,” I cut Albie off and walk away.
I go downstairs, into the cinema room where it's dark and there’s no windows and no way for anyone I don’t know to take pictures of me.
The picture won’t last, I know that. There’s laws and things in place now but for the few seconds it’s up, ten million people might see and send it and keep it and sell it around.
Once it’s taken down from the original site, it’s only going to get bigger and more spoken about.
Not only is the actual picture a complete violation—I’m naked as the day I was born—it's a strange kind of intrusion. Believe it or not, the paparazzi never take photos like that of us. They need their jobs too much and when they can, they dorespect our privacy. This feels more like it was done personally, intentionally, not professionally. An actual paparazzi wouldn’t have sold that picture because they wouldn’t have been able to afford the lawsuit I’d bring them.
Whoever did this, did it because they knew it would hurt and they wouldn’t care of the repercussions.
The person who sent the flowers?
I haven’t received a bunch in months. Maybe they knew I knew and got scared so they stopped but now they’re angry? A stalker, maybe? Stalker sounds extreme and they’re usually not very dangerous from what I’ve heard—more just fans that want to be part of your life like a friend. A friend wouldn’t do this.
This is someone who hates me.
But I don’t know anyone who hates me.
It’s not Bliss—I know you’re probably thinking it is—because she knows this life just as well as I do and although we’re not speaking, she would never, ever do this to me. The same way I would never do this to her.
My throat burns and my nose tingles and I start to cry. Everything feels as though it hurts and I wonder if, at any point, things will slow down and I’ll be able to breathe again. I feel like I haven’t been able to catch my breath for years.
Everyone’s leaving and everything is changing and I’m running so fast, trying to gather as many broken pieces as possible that my hands can’t carry anymore and my feet can’t keep up with me.
Someone walks in—I hear their footsteps—but I didn’t expect it to be Arthur.
He sits in the chair next to me, says nothing for a bit until I stop crying. I turn to look at him through my watery eyes.
“Sorry. I’m okay.”
Shakes his head. “No, you’re not.”
I frown. “I am.”
Shakes his head again, almost laughs.
I think if you tell yourself that you’re fine enough, you start to believe it and even if it isn’t true, it’s a lot easier to deal with than the other big emotions that want to take over.
He puts his hand to his mouth, eyes lingering on me.
“When’s all this gonna stop, Phoebs?”
“I don’t know…a few months maybe? A year?”
