Page 16 of The Grosvenor's Ghost
But other than that, it’s okay. We’ve always got along, me and him. Done quite a lot of talking, too, which I think has been good. Conversations when you come out of rehab or hospital are never easy, obviously but Connie’s the type of person to smooth it all down, know exactly what you mean and nod along even when you don’t make sense.
A woman opens the door a minute later, welcomes us in, bows her head at me—haven’t missed that.
I was under strict orders to not make any public appearances until the statements my family have put out havebeen well received but I don’t live with them anymore, I don’t have to abide by their stupid lockdown.
“Arthur,” George comes strolling through to the entryway. “How you been, mate?”
He slaps me on the back, pulls me in for a rough hug.
“I’m good,” I tell him, eyes darting all over their new house.
Got nothing on Connie’s apartment and also some castles I’ve been inside. It’s the house their parents were building when we were at school. Taken them about four years. No need to get into details because Channel 4 have already done a documentary on it, Architectural Digest has done a full walk through and every magazine under the sun has spoken about it. But if for whatever reason you live under a rock, then it takes up an entire corner of a street in Mayfair, and apart from royal properties, is one of the most valuable homes in the world.
It’s insane.
“Come,” George nods his head and we follow him through the marble entryway, down a small set of stairs and into what I can only imagine is one of many family rooms.
He jumps over the back of the sunken sofa, gets himself comfy. “So, tell us, Arth, what you been up to?”
I sigh, heavily, cross my leg over my other knee and lean back. “Not much.”
George looks surprised for whatever reason.
“I know,” Connie scoffs. “No shagging.”
I cut him a look. “I was holed up in a fucking house in Scotland—it weren’t a bender in the Mediterranean.”
“No, I know,” George cocks his head. “But…I mean, gave us a bit of a fright there, Arth. Disappearing like that.”
He stares at me with a weird kind of empathy in his eye that I’ve never seen before. I do feel bad, of course, I do but other than saying sorry and making amends, what else can I do?
If I could reverse time and be a different person, you know I would do it in a heartbeat.
“Yeah,” clear my throat. “Sorry about that.”
“Go on,” Connie nudges my shoulder.
I glance at him.
“Tell him,” he encourages. “Tell him what you told me.”
“Con—” Shake my head.
“Tell me what?” George cuts in.
Look back over to him, blow out a breath. Lot harder saying sorry when you know the word is carrying more than just the meaning—for us, it carries years of trauma.
When I can’t find the words, George leans forward, briefly looking over his shoulder when Albie walks into the room, he gives me a small head nod and sits down.
“Look,” George starts. “Me and you, Arth—we’ve been friends for how many years? A fucking lot, let me tell you. I know you’re sorry, yeah? And I forgive you, I will always fucking forgive you. You walk through that door—” he points to over his shoulder, “At gone midnight and need a place to stay, you know I will always let you in. You need anything—this goes for you as well, you muppet,” he points to Connie. “It’s yours. You need to bury a body? I’ll point you to the right man. Got nicked? Make me your only phone call and I’ll be there. Youse are family. but…” he brushes a hand down his face and gives me a stern look. “You fucking relapse and you can mark my words when I say I won’t forgive you—I mean, heroin, Arth? What were you thinking?”
Connie sniffs beside me. “That was fucking beautiful.”
I hang my head, squeeze my eyes closed.
After all this time, I still haven’t gotten to the bottom of his question. I don’t know what I was thinking—I guess I wasn’t at all otherwise I wouldn’t be here now having this conversation. It’s a tricky thing to navigate, addiction. I know I’ll always be anaddict but this time around, I don’t have the urges. I don’t think I ever really wanted to use in the first place but it’s twisted up like that, drugs pull you in, you want them even when you don’t.
For instance, Connie smokes weed almost every night to sleep and every time, he comes in, smelling of Febreeze and apologising but it doesn’t bother me, doesn’t trigger me because weed was never a big deal to me. I tried, of course, but I found it never gave me the effect that cocaine or heroin did—those drugs completely shut my brain off, there wasn’t a single thought or feeling inside of my head and that’s what I craved the most. Weed just made me feel tired and hungry and I wasn’t after that. I was searching for a switch in my brain and I found it in a needle.
