Page 46 of The Grosvenor's Ghost
Lady Phoebe
The following Tuesday, I’m wandering around the dining hall in my Hampshire house, laughing at all the twats stupid enough to put a bid on one of Connie’s—as he calls them—stories.
He wanted his gallery opening to be somewhat private and intimate and no actual galleries in London were of his fancy so I offered up here. I say ‘somewhat’ because Connie wouldn’t know private if it slapped him around the face. The Cavalry is all here which is nice—except for Bliss, obviously.
We fell out in one of those ways that are hard to come back from. Said things that are awkward to apologise for. I don’t think either of us planned for it to happen but it just did which makes me think that it was some kind of fate. Not every friendship is to last but this one was special to me for a really long time so maybe it wasn’t fate? I don’t know. I haven’t spoken to her in over a year. I don’t even know what she’s up to anymore but it can’t be anything too enticing since she’s never at any event the rest of us are at.
Maybe one day we’ll make up but it won’t be anytime soon. I still think about her words and how I felt at the time and every time I think about calling her, it comes back and I hate her all over again. Call me childish and immature if you want to but you don’t know what she said. If I was to make up with her, everyone would think of me as a doormat like I know they undoubtedly did when I was at school with Arthur.
“Is this one an abstract James Dean on crack?” I ask Connie, standing in front of one of his paintings.
“Nope,” he shakes his head. “But that’s an excellent selling point so it is now.” And then he reaches over and rips the label of ‘Screaming Man in Agonising Pain’ off the side of canvas.
“Anyone would think you weren't able to pay your rent this month.”
He frowns. “I can, though.”
“Exactly,” I roll my eyes.
No one’s overly excited about our friend's new venture because we all know it’s not going to last two minutes. When you have enough time and money as Connie, you can do whatever you want to fill the time ticking bomb of boredom in your head.
Digby comes over to me, nods at Connie, hands me a new glass of champagne.
“How come we never come up here?” He asks. “The gardens are beautiful.”
I shrug airily. I’d never tell him the real reason. “I like London.”
I’m still a bit off with him after our drive up here. He insisted on picking me up from my house so we could talk but it actually just ended in a screaming match. The flowers got brought up, inevitably. I asked him why he never questioned and he admitted to accepting them because he saw they made me happy. They could’ve been from Arthur, he told me, he didn’t care, he just wanted the credit for putting a smile on my face when I was frowning most days.
I was upset with him for that. He’s my boyfriend. We’re here together because we’re dating and we go to most places together and yet, he was taking credit from some perv sending me flowers? Sure, he buys me whatever I want after some moaning and groaning but the truth of it is, I love flowers. He knows I do but he never bothered to buy me them because I was getting sent them from someone else?
It rubbed me the wrong way, made me look at him in a different light which is never nice because you always want to believe the best in someone—especially someone you share a bed with.
Digby leans into me. “Are you coming home with me tonight?” He whispers.
I sip my champagne, tilt my head at the painting. “Probably not.”
“I said I was sorry, Phoebe.”
“Yeah,” I look over at him. “I know.”
“So, what now, then?” His arms hang at his sides limply. I can tell he feels guilty for it but that isn’t enough for me.
A tray of canapés passes by me, I take one. “Not sure.”
Digby sighs, twists on his heel and faces away from me. “Where does that leave us?”
Twist my lips up. “I’ll let you know.”
And then I walk off, into the gardens for a cigarette.
When I first met Digby, it was hard. I had to stand in front of him and undress. Getting undressed is a long process. I wiped my face clean, I stripped my nails of any polish, I took out my earrings and unclipped my bracelets. Then I got to work on my clothes, first it was my shirt that had a million buttons and a dainty little zip, next it was my skirt that seemed to drag on forever when I pulled it down. After that, it was my stockings that had somehow embedded their way into my skin, I tugged and tugged but they never came down. Lastly, it was my heels. I kicked those off pretty easily but I spent a long while sinking my toes into the carpet to relieve their aches. It was his turn to take my underwear off. He unsnapped my bra and pulled my knickers down within a matter of minutes. He studied me for a moment. We tried to make it work. But we both knew I had to work on peeling all seven layers of my skin off. Relationships don’t work if one of you is naked and the other isn’t. The firsttwo layers came off after he picked and peeled at them but then it started to hurt so I pulled away.
I’ve always been naked around Arthur. He’s counted the veins that pump the blood around my body. Traced his fingers over the muscles that work my joints. Picked up my bones and manually put them together when they crumbled on the floor. Breathed air into my lungs when I couldn’t do it myself. Placed his hand over my beating heart and never let go.
I still haven't finished undressing for Digby. It’s been nearly three years and we’re still standing in the same place where we first met. Him naked, me with my arms across my chest.
Something screams at me that letting him see, letting him in, would be cheating on Arthur. I know that’s silly because I’m sleeping with Digby and not Arthur but cheating goes deeper than that. Mentally, I’m still tied to Arthur. I can’t undo that knot and attach it to Digby.
