Page 10 of The Grosvenor's Ghost
Mercedes Maybach—I mean why do you need a car that has a bloody champagne cooler and tray tables?
We’ve never even fucked in here before.
Total waste of money.
Looks crap.
Too big.
And I’m pretty sure one of my drivers had the same car.
It’s fucking embarrassing.
But I let him open the passenger door for me and I get in anyway.
“Are you alright?” He asks, looks over at me, one hand on my leg, the other on the steering wheel. “You’ve been a bit off.”
“No, I haven’t.”
He pulls a face that I catch out of the corner of my eye. “You have but alright.”
Whip around, look at him. “I haven’t!”
He says nothing for a minute as we move slowly out of his Knightsbridge complex. It’s on the tip of his tongue, I know it is. I can fucking feel that is.
And then low and behold, it comes out, in a tone very sharp and very pissed off.
“It’s Arthur, isn’t it?”
I try my best to swallow the lump in my throat. “What is?”
Digby laughs, shakes his head once. “Don’t, Phoebs—not tonight, yeah?”
“How many times have I told you not to call me that?!”
His jaw ticks.
I can feel how hard I’m breathing.
The fragile trap door that’s been holding us up finally opens and down we go, into the abyss of all the things we didn’t want to face.
“And how many fucking times have I told you not to mention him?”
Lick my lips, stare out of the window. “I haven’t mentioned him.”
“The bag!” He points to my lap. “He brought you that fucking bag when you were kids!”
Throw my hands up, frown. “It’s a fucking Chanel, Digby! What am I meant to do? Burn it?”
“If it keeps him out of your head then, yes! Fucking burn it!”
“Fuck you,” I mutter, hating myself even more for the tears blurring my vision.
“Yeah,” he nods to himself, flicking the indicator. “Fuck you, too.”
We arrive at Le Pont De La Tour a few minutes later after a thick silence suffocating the both of us. It’s just a dinner, nothing fancy. Connie, twins, Zara, Athena, Spencer.
“Do not,” I warn Digby. “Bring up anything.”
