Page 39 of The Grosvenor's Ghost
Her cheeks blush as they used to whenever I kissed her and I wonder if they do when Digby does, as well. She covers her face with her hands, starts laughing uncontrollably.
I just fucking love her. There’s no other way to put it. I love the bones of her. I love her mood changes and her schedules and her spending habits and her Barbies and her vintage films and her love for Paris. I love the love she has for everyone else, too—because trust me she gives out a lot of it. There isn’t one thing I don’t love about her. And as this realisation hits me as I am now—sober, clear eyed and aware—I genuinely start to feel warm. Staring at her on the couch, lips twitching with the urge to laugh again, the mascara smeared all over her face, I get an overwhelming urge that this will work. Maybe not now ortomorrow or even in the next year, but it will. Etch it into my skin that I said it will.
“I haven’t had a bedtime kiss since I was a kid,” she giggles, cheeks and neck both bright red now. “Do you give Connie a quick peck before bed, as well?”
I roll my eyes. “Goodnight, Phoebs.”
“It sure is.” I hear her mutter as I walk down the hall.
Chapter Nine
Lady Phoebe
“No, darling, stick with the Epsom leather,” Mum tells me again as we stand in her office, flicking through some new swatches for my next edit.
“But for the boots I should do calfskin!”
She slams the book shut, walks away with her hands up. “Do as you please but the Epsom will look better!”
“Mummy, why would I do Epsom leather for boots! That’s absurd!”
She puts her long manicured fingers to her temple and faces away from me. We’ve really been butting heads with this next collection. Not sure why since it’s my line, just under her brand. It’s all equestrian wear, too. What does she know about that?
When I left Uni, I decided I needed to do something. I was spending a lot of time in Hampshire with my horses, competed in a couple competitions and fell back in love with it again. I had started modelling for my mum, too. Walked a few shows. Other brands reached out but after a particularly draining New York Fashion Week, I decided that I didn’t actually like doing it. Now how Freddy did. I was always way more interested in the actual clothes rather than just putting them on. I’ve always found it fascinating. Maybe it was growing up with Cynthia and my mum but from a very young age, I was just absolutely enamored with the concept of fashion.
My sister chimed in, too. I knew that when she was wearing black and burgundy and burnt orange in the middle of summer that something was wrong so I’d go and talk to her. Tome, fashion has always been more than just clothes. It’s been a line of communication, a way of conversing. When someone doesn’t want to speak, their outfit will say a thousand words.
After I stopped modelling, I split my time three ways. With Digby, in Hampshire and with my mum in her offices. One day, her and Cynthia asked if I’d be interested in working on my own line of equestrian wear for the brand. VK Designs doesn’t typically work in athleisure wear but with the competitions that I’d been dabbling in, every write up and Tatler interview was about my love for riding. I was becoming known for it. I said yes and now I’ve been working on it for just under two years.
I’ve already worked on my first collection. Debuted it on the runway in the gardens of our Hampshire home. It was very lowkey, the guests were hand selected by myself and my mother and then it kind of broke Vogue. I suppose you don’t get many intimate, rustic runways these days.
I’m trying to make it a bit like Ralph Lauren but on crack. It’s practical, you can wear it to the stables without looking like a twat. My aim is to make it actual riding wear and not everyday wear. We all know the dreadful pandemic of athleisure becoming a part of everyone’s wardrobe—even the ones who have never once stepped foot inside of a gym.
Mum’s phone rings from the other side of the office, she rolls her eyes. “I need Cynthia back now!”
As she goes outside to take the call, I start fixating on what stitching to use for the jumping boots. I’m doing three different lengths because not every woman is five-foot-nine with legs like Twiggy’s. But Cynthia has fucked off to the Maldives for three months so she isn’t coming back until the end of February. My mum likes to work by herself and so do I. To say all her stores dotted around London aren’t enough to keep enough distance between us is an understatement.
“Phoebe?”
Digby stands in front of me, bunch of baby’s breath in his hands, sorry look on his face. I can’t remember why we argued the other night—something about Arthur. He didn’t like how long I spent talking to him or something. We haven’t really spoken since. I went back home after staying at Connie’s before either of them woke up because Arthur kissing me was so left field that I actually hadn’t even had time to process it. It was dreamy, a childhood-like wonder that I wanted again and again and again.
“I’m sorry,” he says, sitting on the ivory bouclé sofa. “For the other night.”
“Me too,” I mutter, chewing my lip as I think about getting a second opinion on going with a chain stitch for the boots.
I hear him sigh. “Let me take you out for lunch.”
“Can’t. Busy.” I briefly glance up at him, nod towards the flowers. “Thanks for those.”
“What?” He laughs.
“The flowers,” I roll my eyes. “Thank you for getting me them, it’s always a lovely gesture.”
“I didn’t get you those, they were waiting downstairs when I got here.” He chuckles once more, shakes his head. “Doesn’t matter—look, let's go for some lunch, I want to make it up to you.”
I squint, tilt my head. “What do you mean you didn’t get me those flowers?”
He shrugs dumbly. “I didn’t get you those.”
