Page 80 of The Grosvenor's Ghost
“What?” I shrug with a small smile.
“Why do you turn your nose up at that?”
”I’m not?”
She squints. “Yes, you are.”
I pull back. “How am I?”
She puts her glasses on her desk, tilts her head at me. “You always do this and I never understand why. Me and your father raised you to be grateful for what you have.”
I throw my arms up. “I am grateful!”
She gives me one of those looks, a proper mum look. “You’re spoiled is what you are.”
I shake my head, she raises her brow.
“Well, I might be a bit but that’s yours and Dad’s fault!”
“I raised you and Freddy to both be understanding of the misfortunate. You’re looking as if this girl is going to come swanning in here and rob us blind!”
“That isn’t true in the slightest! You were the one who got funny when Charlie joined my school. You said—and I quote—that they just let any old riff raff into my school now!”
Sticks her nose in the air, shakes her head. “I don’t remember saying that.”
“Of course you don’t,” I mutter. “And as well, you hated Arthur! You hated the fact he was doing drugs. That makes you no better than me—in fact, that makes me a better person than you because I never once judged him!” I raise my voice ever so slightly, just enough so she doesn’t accuse me of shouting at her.
“You have no idea, Phoebe! I was protecting you!” She shouts.
I think I’m crying, I don’t know why.
“You judged him all the time!”
She’s breathing hard, I can see her chest rising and falling and I think she might be close to tears, as well but I’m not sure. I’ve only ever seen her cry a handful of times.
“That wasn’t me judging him. That was me protecting you from what I went through.”
I let out a laugh. “And what exactly was it that you went through? As far as I’m concerned, you’ve loved Dad your whole life and unless I missed something, he was never an addict!”
Her tongue darts out to wet her top lip, she glances down, chews her lip.
After a second, she raises her head, looks at me. “Come with me,” she says quietly.
And maybe it’s the way we just went from having a screaming match to her being eerily calm, but I follow her. She takes me upstairs and into her wardrobe.
It never gets old, this room. It’s exactly what you’d expect from a fashion designer. You could probably pay off the entire mortgage of a three bedroom house in London with all of the pieces in here. There’s an island in the middle, with a display top that shows all of her fashion jewellery—the fine pieces are locked in a safe—, huge, floor to ceiling built in wardrobes, all white and paneled and filled with garments that date back to the sixties.
But by the looks of things, we’re not here to look at any of that stuff. She drags over the ottoman in the corner of the room, stands on it and opens up one of the top cabinets. My mum pulls out a giant Dior box, opens it up, pulls out another box, opens that and then finally pulls out an old, tattered memory box.
She nods her head at me to sit down on the window seat and sniffs, taking in deep breaths.
“This,” she holds the box up. “Is something I never wanted to show you. Ever.”
I hold my breath. We all have skeletons in the closet but it’s rare someone drags them out and actually shows you them.
“But, I want you to know.” She sits beside me, box on her lap and squeezes my hands. “I want you to understand why I was the way I was back then, with Arthur. Okay?”
I nod.
