Page 187 of The Grosvenor's Ghost
“I’m not nosey nor a cow,” she frowns, muttering.
I open the book, flip through the pages. I’m not sure why I asked. It’s nothing secret like a diary. Just special to me, I guess. It used to be Theo’s. The first few pages are scribbled in his handwriting—things about him and Mia, school shit, random drawings, lists of songs he wanted to listen to. It’s the one thing I kept because no one else has it—or probably even knows that it exists. I filled the other pages with more random drawings. Diagrams of butterflies, the view from outside Phoebe’s windows, the picture I saw when I sat in this very chair and watched her sleep because I’ve always woken up before her.
“Bit of an artist, aren’t you?” Phoebe smiles as I show her a couple pages.
“Artist is pushing it.” I close the book, leave it on the coffee table between the chairs and get myself ready.
When we go downstairs, Jonathan is in the kitchen, frying something in a pan.
“Morning,” he nods as we walk in and take a seat on the table—well Phoebe hoists herself up onto the counter.
“What’s that?” Phoebe jumps down, peers over her dads shoulder. “Are you frying sausages in oil?!”
Jonathan nods, flips them.
I scrunch my nose up. “That’s really unhealthy.”
Phoebe nods at me. “The smell is making me quite nauseous actually.”
Jonathan spins around, pulls back. “You,” he points at me with his spatula. “Used to sniff coke like it was going out of fashion so you can shut up about ‘unhealthy’—and you,” he points to Phoebs. “Love the way I cook my sausages! This is how I’ve always cooked them.”
“No,” she shakes her head. “I don’t remember feeling quite this sick.”
“Hang on!” I put a hand up, “Are we ignoring what he just said about me?”
Phoebe shrugs, glances away from me. “I mean…he wasn’t…lying?”
“So!” I roll my eyes.
Jonathan’s actually come around, despite the way he eyes me whenever I walk into a room. He isn’t here a lot. Seeing him cooking in his own kitchen is a really rare sight. When Phoebe called him to tell him we were back together, he sounded pleased. Pleased enough, I guess. He’s never been my biggest fan—we all know that—but it could be worse. He could be like my dad but he ain’t.
Anyway, we eat—Phoebe barely—and then we head out to my car, parked outside of her home. Hugo and Jamie sit in the front (my family’s bodyguards that only really look after me) while Phoebs and I jump into the back.
“I need to go to the store,” Phoebe says, eyes down at her phone. “Just for a few minutes—you can come in if you want.”
“You don’t want me to be alone for five minutes, do you?”
She stares up at me. Blinks. “Huh? Do you want to be alone?”
“Well, no,” I wobble my head. “But the other day you asked me if I wanted to come to therapy with you.”
“Yeah,” she frowns, looks genuinely confused. “Everyone needs therapy—especially you. And me. And us together.”
“It’s a date then,” I give her a look. “I’ll put it in my calendar.”
She hits my arm. “Don’t be like that.”
We arrive at her mum’s store on New Bond a few minutes later. I do go in with her—course I fucking do. I’ve never seen her stuff here, the things she’s been working on. When we get to the office on the top floor, she disappears, following a woman with a tape measure around her neck.
I have a look around, flicking through the various different sketchbooks and displays, showcasing all the runway looks her mum and Cynthia have put together. Above the desk, are sketches of equestrian gear. It really is something Phoebe would wear. Practical, stylish, quiet. It’s her. All her. I pull one away from the thumbtack and have a proper look. This is all her. The design, the stitching, the colours, the fit—all of it. It’s incredible.
“Pleather!”
I spin around. Phoebe’s marching over to me. “Arthur, she asked me if I wanted to use pleather! Fucking pleather!” She stops in front of me, huffing and puffing. “Be more fucking sustainable?! She does know the world is already ruined beyondrepair, doesn’t she? Like, a few thousand pairs of leather boots are really going to melt away the rest of the icebergs! I swear to god,” she shakes her head, jaw ticking, “I am going to start burning shit! Should I? Should I start burning shit? See how fucking eco-friendly that is!”
“Woah.” I throw the sketch back onto the desk. “Calm down, Phoebs. Pleather, real leather—use whatever you like.”
“I know,” she mutters, takes a deep breath, shakes her head to snap out of it. “Anyway—what were you looking at?”
