Page 173 of The Grosvenor's Ghost
She hesitates for a second. “Yeah. I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want to get into it. I didn’t even know you were here, I just wanted to get away.”
I nod, turn back around and finish pouring the milk into the two mugs. When I hand over her tea, I pull out one of the stools at the island and sit down.
“Do you think he’ll come back?”
“I hope not,” she mutters.
“Did you love him?” I ask then, out of nowhere—the question didn’t even pop into my head before I said it.
“No, I don’t—” she shakes her head. “I don’t think I did.” She shrugs her lips, sips her tea. “I think I just like the idea of being with someone. You left, Freddy left, Mum was always working. I was lonely.” She turns her face to me, eyebrows raised. “Don’t tell me you’re sorry again. I know you are.”
“Fair enough,” I smile, give her a nod.
And then we drink our teas at the kitchen island while the sun continues rising like this is something we’ve always done. It feels like something we’ve always done. It’s a really mundane scenario when you think about it—drinking tea in the morning—but we’ve never been afforded mundane moments before. I was right in what I said to her, though. I’m not leaving Phoebe again. All I want is more of these mundane, everyday, boring moments with her because she doesn’t make it boring. Her just being here with me drinking fucking tea is going to be the only thing I think about until we’re granted another moment like this. All my life all I’ve wanted is to share every day with her. I’m not fussy about how or when or why—just her is enough, as she is.
We end up spending the entire weekend in Oxford. We take walks together in the back fields, have sex in my grandad's vintage Range Rover that I once taught her how to drive in, bath together in the evening before cooking meals in the kitchen. And then of a night, we retreat back to what we once were, Arthur and Phoebe, Phoebe and Arthur. We pull the magic cloak over ourselves and bathe in the stillness that we’ve never been allowed to have in the outside world. When we were kids it was a blanket fort, when we were teenagers it was the duvet on her bed and us now? It’s whenever my eyes fix their glance on her because when I see her, nothing else matters.
Chapter Forty-Three
Lady Phoebe
“Evangeline, it isn’t going to fit! Just give it up!” I wince as she pulls the strings on my corset tighter,
“Shut up,” she grunts. “That’s just a mindset—bend over.”
“What?” I gape at her through the mirror in my bedroom. “Don’t tell me to do that.”
“Beauty is pain, my love,” Mum says from her perch on my bed.
With a huff and roll of my eyes, I lean forward. Ev puts her foot on my backside and tugs even harder, all the air in my lungs now stuck in my throat.
“Fucking hell,” I heave, slowly standing back up. “I can’t breathe for shit!” I gasp, gesturing at my neck that I’m sure is turning purple.
Mum tuts, shakes her head. “You’re a size six on your best days, Phoebe, darling. You’re being overdramatic.”
I shake my head, try and tell her that I literally cannot breathe but she’s too busy stitching the hem of my tutu that Evangeline lended to me for tonight’s annual Stratton Halloween party. I’m going as the White Swan. Ev was going to give me the actual outfit but she didn’t trust that I wouldn’t spill anything down it so Mum handmade the corset and Ev gave me the tutu to go with it.
“You look amazing,” Ev tells me, taking a step back.
I manage to straighten back and suck in a weak deep breath, doesn’t quite reach my stomach but it’s there so I should be alright.
I run my hand down the satin. “I feel like I’m going to burst—” turn to face my mum. “Do you think I’m getting fat?”
She doesn’t even look up at me, just laughs. “Don’t be so ridiculous. You have a body most girls make themselves ill for.”
“Very true,” Ev sighs, goes over to sit on my bed.
“I know,” I nod, turning around. “But you don’t think I’ve put on some weight after Digby left, do you? When you last measured me a few weeks ago, it was fine.”
Haven’t seen or heard from Digby in just over a month, since he packed a bag and walked out. I still don’t know if I’m upset or anything yet, though, which is weird because if this was Arthur, I would’ve been hospitalised. I tried for weeks to feel something towards him but I just couldn’t. It wasn’t there. Not like it is with Arthur.
After our perfect weekend in Oxford, we went our separate ways (almost). I came home to Mum’s, been staying here since. And Arthur went back to Connie’s. The last month has been pretty smooth which is so rare for any of us. There was an exhibition that Sophia opened at the V&A which went as well as you’d expect—literally, I mean. No one fucked up which is insane, isn’t it? Pretty unheard of for us—and then Cynthia hosted a charity auction at Sotheby’s.
Saw Dr.Kane four times, as well, but what he told me is quite frankly none of your business and also things that I didn’t want to hear but apparently it’s his job to tell me the things I don’t want to hear. Whatever.
Not loads as gone on, really. Nothing to report, anyway.
I’d like for it to stay that way but I know it won’t. It never does. Not for me—not for us.
