Page 8 of The Grosvenor's Ghost
Dads jaw ticks. “Listen—”
“No,” I shrug, walking out of the room. “Don’t worry, I’ll be out your hair in no time—but,” I turn around, “Don’t expect me to show up for him,” I point aimlessly behind me, “Because I won’t.”
“Arthur, wait, please!” I hear Mum begging but I’m already halfway through the kitchen.
Fuck them.
I come back, not expecting flowers or a fucking entourage of support but maybe just a place to sleep tonight. Not even that. Feels all a bit pointless now. Sure, fine, whatever, I got clean for myself but what was the point if not even my own fucking family can’t accept me? I was alright to live there when I was off my face but not now that I’m clean? If anything, it just doesn’t make sense to me.
I sit on one of the chairs in the garden, really fighting the urge to have a cigarette. But I don’t. I’m better now so instead, I reach for my phone and dial a number I know will pick up on the third ring. Phone is always never that far from him but also notglued to his hand and like clockwork, he picks up at the start of the third ring.
“Who’s this?”
Smile to myself. “Piss off.”
“No, seriously, who is this?”
“I’m really not in the mood, Con.”
“Nah, just thought I’d never fucking hear from you again—your number started collecting dust in my contacts.”
“Yep,” I sigh. “Well, I’m here.”
“Are you alive?”
I imagine him properly tilting his head, frowning, fully serious.
“No, I’m talking from the grave—seriously, Con, I need a favour.”
“I’m not shoving contraband up my arse for you.”
Roll my eyes. Nice to know not everything has changed.
“Have you got a spare room?”
“I do, actually—got three. Moved into a nice little apartment in Mayfair—the twins kicked me out of the hotel—pricks— so I bought a place on South Audley. Yeah, got a gym, spa, swimming pool.” He munches on something. “Why do you ask?”
“Reckon I could crash in one of them?”
The line goes silent.
“Are you asking to move in with me?” Can hear the smile in his voice. “Could’ve at least taken me out for dinner first, Arth.”
“Connie,” I try my best not to laugh. “Please, mate.”
“Only if you promise that I can have my own bedroom in Buckingham Palace—I would ask for an entire wing but I know that’s pushing it a bit.”
Shake my head. Missed him a lot. “I’m never going to live there.”
It goes silent again and I wonder what he’s thinking. I mean, is everyone thinking the same as my parents? Realistically, who wants an ex-druggie living with them. I know I won’t relapse but they don’t. What are they going to do? Just take my word? Even I know how stupid that sounds.
“So—uh, can I?” Clear my throat.
“What—oh, yeah—I was just moving the cardboard cut out of you from one of the rooms.”
My face drops. “Are you joking?”
I can hear some rustling from his end.
