Page 158 of The Grosvenor's Ghost
“Who you involve yourself with has always been our business,” Dad says, clears his throat, gives me a little look. “You do represent our name, after all.”
Mum glances at him and then back to me. I can’t remember the last time they were happy and I’d quite like to be here more so I could see how they are while Ev is still living here. I tell myself I shouldn’t care but I do. Of course, I do. She’s my baby sister and I’ve always felt it to be my duty to look after her. Seb looked after Theo, Theo looked after me, I look after Ev. That’s just how it’s always worked. Maybe it’s a sibling thing. Maybe it’s just a me and my fucked up family thing but I don’t trust them to look after her in the way I’d want them to, if that makes sense?
“Look,” Mum sighs, turns to face me. “I love you Arthur and I—we—are so unbelievably chuffed with how far you’ve come in your recovery but still, love, you need to be careful. Youknow, with who you spend your time with—what you’re doing in your free time. The paper’s write all sorts, don’t they?”
“I don’t care about the papers.”
“Yeah?” Dad butts in. “Well, I bloody do!”
I look over at him. “Then that’s your problem, isn’t it?”
He pulls back, smiles. “Don’t talk to me like that in my own home! I’ve cleaned up more of your shit now than I did when you were a baby!”
Mum swallows, goes quiet.
“And how many times have I asked you to?”
He thinks for a second. “You don’t need to ask. I do it anyway because you’re my son and we have a family unit to uphold.” He shakes his head, all bewildered. “Getting photographs of you watching girls shower naked? It’s ridiculous. You never learn.”
I stand up, not really thinking straight. Never think straight when I’m around my parents.
“That’s Phoebe you’re talking about,” I tell him as he also stands up. “You know, the same Phoebe you welcomed into your home for so many years? The same Phoebe you fed and made laugh and watched me fall in love with.”
His eyes flicker, this brief moment of regret passing through them and that’s how I know. This isn’t my dad. Not the dad I grew up with anyway. This is just the man that came out the other side of grief. My dad, the man I know, the man I see when I look into his eyes, is still there, just buried a bit too deep inside to come out.
“And we love Phoebe,” Mum says from the sofa, touching my arm. “Don’t we, darling?” She asks Dad. “And we feel so dreadful for her.”
“Yeah,” I nod, swallow and turn back to my dad. “And how’s Ev? Been to any of her shows lately?”
He shakes his head, scoffs. “She doesn’t want me turning up and embarrassing her.”
“And how do you know that?” I tilt my head. “You’ve never turned up to any of them.”
“Arthur,” Mum says softly. “Don’t start, darling, please.”
“She’s fine, for goodness sake!” He throws his hands up. “She’s finished school, passed her exams—”
“And how’s her eating?”
He frowns. “What?”
I sniff. “Are you still scribbling out the calories on the bread or did you forget after a week? Still make sure she sits with you after eating her dinner or do you still let her disappear off to the bathroom?” He says nothing, his eyes locked on mine. “I bet if I looked in the bathroom, the scales would still be in there, wouldn’t they?”
“Jesus Christ,” Mum mutters.
My dad remains silent, sits back down and looks away from me. Fine. Fuck them. I’ll go and try to repair the one relationship in this family that is still worth my time.
Ev’s sitting against her door again.
“Let me in,” I say, through the crack. “Please, Ev, it’s just me.”
“Fuck off!” She sniffs.
“I’ll stay here all day and night but you’ve got ballet at six so, suit yourself.”
I sit down in the hallway, against her door, my old bedroom staring back at me. I don’t even have an urge to go in there and see the dust mites crawling around. I hold no remorse against them for kicking me out. My mum can’t even bring herself to tell me that she’s proud of me. Chuffed. Chuffed, she is, for my recovery. And fine, let’s cut her some slack, she was going through it as well but she’s in therapy, she’s clean. If I can move on and get better, why can’t she?
She’s a mother. Future queen. Who am I? I’ve never worried about my place in the monarchy. Touch wood, but I probably won’t even live to see my parents reign, let alone hold the crown myself.
