Page 9 of The Grosvenor's Ghost
“Why would I be joking?”
“That’s a bit weird, mate.”
“We’ve been bringing it to dinner,” he says, dead serious. “The lot of us, fucking missed the bones of you, Arth—course you can stay with me. Been dreaming of the day me and you would live together.”
I go to say something but I can’t get my words out, feel like my throats closed up…like I’m fucking choked up or something.
“Just promise no racking up in my bathroom, alright? I’ve had these countertops imported in from Tuscany.”
“Yeah,” I cough out a laugh. “I promise.”
Chapter Three
Lady Phoebe
I’m pulling up my rather tedious white lace tights when Digby walks into the room, doing up his cufflinks.
It’s a shame that he is actually very handsome.
Kind of looks like a poster of British old money. Dark brown hair he always keeps swept back, always got a polo tied around his shoulders in the spring, linens in the summer, Barbour in the winter. He’s a bit perfect, looks wise. Deep set eyes, slightly murky (not an earthy brown), just brown. Plain, boring brown. Nothing really special about them.
There’s always something special about someone’s eyes but not his for some reason.
They’re just there, in his head, allowing him to see.
Built up well, played a lot of rugby, polo and lacrosse at Eton. Big on sports, always drags me to a pub when England are playing.
Maybe that’s one of the reasons I was drawn to him in the first place—so like Arthur but so not at the same time and I guess I found comfort in that. He was too far off Arthur for me to change him but reminded me of him in strange ways.
Like, sometimes, I’d whip my head around and see Arthur in him for a very brief, quiet second—but I collected those seconds, put them all in a jar and stored them under my bed so he’d never find them. He wouldn’t like that, Digby.
“You nearly ready?” He calls from the wardrobe.
“I am.” I sit on the edge of the bed, slipping my heels on. “Could you grab my bag, please?”
He laughs. “What one?”
“The Chanel,” roll my eyes. “The black and white one—it’s tweed, if that helps. 2005!”
“The year it was made makes no difference to me!”
Just as I go to get it myself, he comes out holding two. One is the 2005 I was after and the other is the Kelly shopper, 2023.
I stare at them for a second, Arthur bought me the Kelly after I mentioned that I liked it one time in a passing conversation.
“If I said ‘get the Kelly’, I would’ve expected you to only grab that one,” I tell him, reaching for it and turning to the mirror. It does go rather nicely with my dress. “But it will do.”
“But you have other bags called Kelly—how am I to know?” He groans, sulks back into the wardrobe.
Take a deep breath, one that hurts my chest.
Arthur never complained about my bags—he bought me most of them.
“I’m ready!” I shout in a voice much louder than I anticipated.
Digby puts on a placating smile, hand on my back and leads me out of his apartment and down to where his horrid car is parked.
I hate his car.
