Page 82 of The Grosvenor's Ghost
“Yeah, of course I do,” I nod. “Oh my God, Mum, I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay, darling. I’m fine now.”
She pulls back, blows out a breath and wipes her eyes. She puts the box back, holds her hand out to me, takes me down to the kitchen where she puts the kettle on.
“Why did you not go to the police?” I ask, dipping my chocolate digestive into my tea.
“The police don’t care about people like that.”
“Is that why you tell everyone your parents died?”
Her eyes flutter shut like she’s exhausted and she nods.
“But they’re not, are they?”
“No. Last I heard, my sister put them into a home and wiped her hands of them, as well.”
I tilt my head, something drops inside my mind. “Why did your sister—”
“I think we’ve heard about enough of my trauma to last a lifetime, Phoebe,” she cuts in, tone sharp. “But, no. I don’t know why she did that.”
“But that’s why we don’t see her, isn’t it? Because of what happened?” I push, trying to fit the pieces all together.
She reaches across the table, holds my hand. “Yeah.”
And while growing up, my mum might not have always been there, I wouldn’t wish for a different person to call my mum. Fortunately for me (and Freddy), we’ve always enjoyed the apology gifts and trips away. Sure, there have been times over the years that could’ve been better but when I think of those times, I have to tell myself that just like me, she was once sixteen years old. Mum’s aren’t the exception to making mistakes. And I think having a child is the trickiest thing a woman could dobecause how do you figure out someone else's life while still figuring out yours?
∗ ∗ ∗
That evening, Digby pops round with a bunch of flowers and an offer to go out for dinner.
“I’ve already eaten,” I tell him, cross legged on my bed and flipping through a Vanity Fair.
He reaches for my hands, takes them. I look up at him.
“Why don’t we go to Hampshire for the weekend? Just you and me?”
I scrunch my face up.
“Come on, Phoebe. I’ve barely seen you this week.”
“Yeah, because you kicked me out.”
He rolls his eyes. “No I didn’t. I just needed to concentrate on my exams.”
“And because you were jealous over Arthur and I,” I finish for him.
He tuts. “No, I’m not.”
“Okay,” I mutter, pull my hands away from him and flip the page.
“Why do you never want to go up there with me? It’s your favourite place.”
I stare at him.
It’s mine and Arthur’s place. So is Oxford. And I’m not ready to hang a new picture over the hole in the wall. I spent my worst days, my best days and my most memorable days in those houses. Anything I could create with Digby there would never level up.
Digby sighs. “Where does this leave us then, Phoebe?”
