Page 40 of The Grosvenor's Ghost
My chest starts to get a little heavy.
“But you’ve been buying me all the other ones?”
Digby pouts his lips, shakes his head slowly. “Nope.”
I stand up, not sure why because my body freezes. You know the feeling when something dawns on you and immediately you think the worst?
“What do you mean?”
Digby gets up, puts his arm out to grab my hand. “It doesn’t matter, Phoebe, forget about it. Let’s just go—”
I ignore him, squeeze my eyes shut. “So, if you haven't been buying them for me, who has?”
Digby blows out an irritated breath, throws his arms about. “I don’t know, probably Arthur knowing him.”
Put my shaky hand to my mouth and shake my head. When he told me they weren’t from him, something immediately felt off. I knew it wasn’t Arthur. I just knew. It was a feeling so strong that I didn’t even acknowledge it. I find it hard to breathe when I take another glance toward the bunch sitting on the coffee table. They look the same as all the others.
“No,” I tell him, certain. “It wasn’t Arthur.”
“Look, Phoebe—”
“Shut up a second!” I snap.
He backs away, swallows, looks scared. My heart is beating at a rapid pace—one I’m sure is unhealthy but I can’t slow it down, I can’t stop. Is this a stalker situation? I know girls who have experienced that before, it wouldn’t be completely ridiculous for me to assume that. I don’t get sent fan mail, I don’t have secret admirers. Sure, the world is full of perverts but if any of them have taken a liking to me, I wouldn’t know about it. I have people who sort through my mail before handing over the important stuff to me. If anything weird came through, I would’ve known about it.
These flowers, every single bunch have been sent to me when I’ve felt the most safe. My home, my place of work, school. I even got sent a bunch when I was mid way through having dinner in Paris.
I start to feel a bit sick. Knowing I’ve been watched when I felt most secure. Being taken advantage of at your most vulnerable is the most naked and exposed you can feel without taking your clothes off but what's to say they haven't beenwatching me while I sleep or change clothes. I’m always careful to close the curtains when I’m in my towel but what if I forgot one time and that one time was all it took?
“I have to go,” I tell Digby, grabbing my coat.
“What?” He tries pulling my wrist as I go to leave but I shake his grip free and dart out of the office. “Phoebe, come back for fuck sake! Where are you going?” He calls after me but I don’t go back, I don’t listen because I’m not safe anymore.
I don’t feel that frightened when I’m in the back of my car, Harold driving me. I just feel angry. Pissed off. Who in their right mind thinks they’re that entitled to do that to me? The world is full of people who think everything should be served to them on a golden platter but this is different. When bad things happen to you, it’s hard to picture the person as a human like you are because you’d never do that to someone. It’s a confronting thought—not every single person is good. It’s hard to believe that there are genuine bad people out there.
Maybe it’s just me but I like to think no one is ever capable of doing something so terrible. I like to see the good. It makes life easier instead of constantly pulling someone apart until you reach the badness embedded into their bones. Yeah, okay, no one is perfect but you can be imperfect and still good. I’m not talking about looks here, I’m talking about who people are when you look them in the eye. Real, malicious, ill-intended human beings who have the same heart, lungs and kidneys as me.
Harold pulls up in front of Stratton House, I get out and basically run towards the door.
“Here’s trouble,” Ronan remarks as he spots me in the doorway. “What you doing here?”
He stands in my way, looking down at me with his signature grin. “Phoebe?” He blinks.
“What?—oh sorry, can you move?”
Ronan doesn’t budge, just stands there like he owns the joint—which he sort of does, so…
“Seriously,” I clench my jaw. “Move.”
“Who do you want?”
“George.”
He shrugs, clicks his tongue. “Busy at the minute, come back later.”
“What are you? His young, hot secretary? Move!”
“You think I’m hot?”
