Page 54 of The Grosvenor's Ghost
And the funny thing is, all the paparazzi pictures are of him doing really gentlemanly things like holding my bag or my shoes, picking me up when I’m too drunk to walk, randomly kissing me in the middle of the street, opening doors for me and swapping plates with me at restaurants when I decided to venture out and ultimately regret it. And all of these things are so raw, so candid. He doesn't pose for them. He doesn't do these things because he knows they’re watching. He just does them anyway.
He lied about the flowers but that’s it. I’ve gone through his phone multiple times, he hands it to me whenever I ask because he has nothing to hide. Sure, there are girls in his DMs that he doesn't block straight away and past talking stages still in his followers list but he doesn’t respond or entertain any of it.
Sometimes, I wish it was different. I wished I couldn’t trust him not to cheat on me or go out and do something stupid. I wish he didn’t love me so easily but then again, he still doesn’t know me all the way through. It’s easy to love anyone when you don’t know them how you should.
The version of me that I handed over to Digby isn’t the same one I gave to Arthur and the version of me that Arthur had was me all the way through, stripped bare, all seven layers and that’s the difference.
After dinner, we go back home. Digby sits on the edge of the bed, undoing his cufflinks. I stand in front of him and start to undress. I can tell he doesn’t expect it. I never do this for him. He always does it. His eyes light up and I keep going until I’m in nothing but my underwear. I leave those on for him to take off because I can’t do it for him yet.
I sit on his lap and I kiss him, kiss him the same way I’d kiss Arthur.
He tells me he loves me all the way through, I moan in response and dig my nails into his back so he doesn’t disappearinto thin air and leave me naked, cold and alone in a bed because that’s happened to me once before and I hated it.
And with every brush of his lips against my cheek and every move with his hips, Arthur inches further and further out of my mind until the final moments when he comes rushing back, being the only thing I can see.
Chapter Fourteen
Prince Arthur
Two years ago, to the day, I relapsed.
Six months of sobriety down the drain all because of what month it was—March. I mean, March is always a hard month. Never gets easier. Not with time or growth or anything. When the third month of the year rolls around, it’s just another reminder of why I am the way I am, if that makes sense.
I never really understood Theo’s death. Not until recently. It was in therapy when it hit me. After my relapse on cocaine, I went back to the rehab facility for another month. This was when I was told that the whole reason I started using drugs was because of my dead brother. I guess it was. Part of me thought that all along, truthfully. Seeing my mum taking her pills, seeing everyone so depressed. It makes sense. It’s just at the time, the initial wave of grief was so intense that I didn’t see it. I didn’t know I was using because of Theo dying. I didn’t know I had a problem with drugs until that night in Phoebe’s bed when we were sixteen.
I didn’t know I was grieving until my therapist told me that I was in fact, the whole time, self medicating which is a form of grief. I didn’t see it because no one else was doing what I was. Looking back, my mum was self medicating too but I didn’t notice—I didn’t realise.
The relapse wasn’t accidental.
I saw the date on my phone one morning after kind of forgetting about everything and it just got me. For the first time in six months, I felt the same way I did at thirteen. I didn’t just want drugs, I needed them and that was still something I didn’tknow how to cope with. When I got out of rehab the first time, I thought I was cured. I knew heroin felt good but I also knew I didn’t want to use it again. Cocaine, though? That still itched me—still does now.
I even thought about going back. In a way, the relapse was inevitable. It was going to happen. I hadn’t been sober for longer than about three days since I was thirteen. Even six months in rehab wasn’t going to fix that.
You’re probably wondering where I even got the coke with being locked up in a mansion in the arse-end-of-nowhere Scotland but it turns out I wasn't the only one who had a knack for partying. Apparently my grandad liked to call it in after a few too many, as well. Found a bag of it between the pages of an old copy of The Count of Monte Cristo.
I blew the dust off the baggie— had no idea how long it’d been sitting there—and dipped my finger into it. Tasted it. Wasn’t very strong so I just snorted the whole bag. About five or six lines.
Grandad actually came to visit me that day, maybe it was a gut feeling or something and the second he opened the front door, he knew. Slapped me round the back of the head, threw me into his car and drove me straight back to the dark building with the caged windows and sterilised chairs.
I don’t plan on telling Phoebe this, by the way. Not because I’m lying or because I want to hide this from her, I just don’t see what purpose it would give her if she found out. She’d probably only hate me more. Lose even more trust and respect for me.
Anyways, since it is March, everyone’s in London, preparing. Mum’s even taken it upon herself to throw lunch together and invite them all over. And I mean fucking everyone. Honestly, you’d think she’s still high with how fucked this guest list is. Obviously all the Grosvenor’s, Mia Tisdale, Joanne Tomkins and all the Cadogan’s.
If I had a free pass to relapse, it would be, without a doubt, today.
We’re all sitting around the table and for the fifth time, I feel someone’s shoe kick me under the table.
I blink, realise I’ve been zoned out for the past twenty minutes.
“What was that?”
“Victoria asked how your date went with Princess Astrid, darling—please try to be more present,” Mum smiles, tensely.
“Oh,” clear my throat, look over to Phoebe’s mum. “It wasn’t really a date.”
“It was,” Ev pipes up.
“No,” I shake my head, laugh flatly. “It really actually wasn’t.”
