Page 35 of The Grosvenor's Ghost
Never been a good sleeper. Even when I was away, I’d find myself staring out of the window until the navy turned to gold. Something comforting about being awake when you know the rest of the world is asleep. Feels like you’re the only person alive. That, and when I sleep is the only time I have a reprieve. When my eyes close, I have a brother and Phoebe and no urges. When I open them, I don’t have those things. The daylight feels confrontational, it scares me. Almost as if I don’t feel safe during the night. Nothing like being confronted, head on, with the fact that fiction and dreams only exist to you, in your head.
Connie sighs, opens the fridge and takes a mouthful from the cartoon of apple juice I brought earlier. “I have had a bad day.”
“Why?” I frown, carrying my plate over to the sofa.
“Ah.” He licks his lips, takes a deep breath. “Dad called.”
I raise my eyebrows, silently asking him to carry on.
“Carter’s gonna be home soon—got kicked out of his school.”
“Shit,” I muffle through a mouthful of food. “Why?”
“He’s got problems,” he squints like that explains it. “ADHD and that—dyslexic too. Never got on well at that school. I knew my dad sending him away was a shit idea.”
I swallow. “But what did he do to get kicked out?”
“Brought a lamb into the dorms, rode a bike through the corridors, turned up to most of his lessons pissed, fighting—he was just a little shit.”
“Like you, then?”
“I weren’t that bad,” he smiles, knowing full fucking well that he was—if not worse.
“Nah but, they kept him on for so long because my dad’s like, funding the school. But apparently they’ve had enough of him now so he’s coming back to London. Dad’s going to try and get him into Darcy.”
I frown, suddenly remember something. “Is your dad still married to Spencer’s mum?”
He nods. “Yeah. They travel, though. We never see them. They’ve still got the house in Holland Park. I don’t know where Carter’s gonna live because it sure as shit won’t be here.”
“Why not?”
“He’s too young, you’re in recovery…” he waves his hand about to fill in the rest.
I guess it would be a bit impractical. Him and Connie finally living in the same place? Sounds like something that would’ve been fun in school but not now.
Connie jumps up, hands behind his head and stares out of the doors that lead out to the balcony. “They still do boarding at Darcy so maybe there. Would be nice if my dad stepped up, though.”
He walks off down the hall after that. A second later I hear his bedroom door close. I’ve never known the full story with him. I know his mum died, his dad evaporated, Connie was brought up by cooks and cleaners and nannies and the Stratton’s. I think a lot of people underestimate his relationship with them. India and Sullivan practically took him in despite him being—as what they’d refer to anyone outside of their community—an outsider. Carter was out of the picture the day he turned twelve—sent straight off to Switzerland into some international boarding school. He must’ve gone into year 13 this September just gone. Same age as Ev probably.
I don’t think he wants to talk about it. He’s not that kind of person. He’s a closed book and unless he wants you in, there’s no hope in trying to pry open those glued pages. Part of me doesn’t want to know. It seems dark and I know it’s a burden for him. No one as happy as him is alright mentally—that’s just a known fact. I’d like to think he knows that he can off load that burden to me anytime, though.
Connie comes out of his room maybe five minutes later, smile plastered on. It’s weird, though. You wouldn’t think it but he is a breath of fresh air. Living with someone who got angry after a bad day would be shit. At least with Connie he can stew in it for as long as he needs until he feels ready. Respect that about him, actually—a lot. Takes a lot to understand yourself in that way.
“Again?” I groan as he snatches the remote and opens YouTube. “We watched this the other day. Twice.”
He says nothing, just puts on the 1966 World Cup.
“You know what happens!” I throw my hands up. “Spoiler alert: we fucking win!”
“Shut up,” he mutters, leaning forward, hands braced on his knees as if it’s his first time watching it. “Honestly, the world ain’t been right since this, Arth—this was the last time society came together.”
“Was it?” I wobble my head, frown.
I get up, put my plate in the dishwasher, wash my hands and then there’s a knock on the door.
Quite an imminent one.
“Who’s that?” I ask over my shoulder as he jumps over the back of the sofa to answer it.
