Page 130 of The Grosvenor's Ghost
“You fucking kissed him!” He roars.
I peek one eye open and see him walking away from me, hands in his hair, pacing the room.
“Why?” He shouts, turning around to look at me.
I’ve never felt so small and stupid in my entire life.
“I knew it!” He laughs humorlessly. “You’re sleeping with him, aren’t you?” He looks at me, sort of nods his head like he already knows the answer.
Still, I give a weak shake of my head.
But even when I do, the tears start rolling out of my eyes.
I shake my head again, and again and again.
He doesn’t buy it.
He comes marching over to me again and I think, fuck, this is it, he’s going to batter me so I reach behind my back and twist the door knob, legging it out of my room and down the stairs because if he does hit me—which he wouldn’t, not in front of my friends—at least I’d have witnesses.
I can hardly see through the tears streaming down my face but I do see someone get up from the couch—Albie, I think? I can see his dark head of hair.
“What the fuck is going on?” He shouts, walking over to the staircase where Digby is jogging down.
I shake my head, unable to say anything.
I hear another door open upstairs, I think that might be Spencer or Connie. I wonder where Arthur is? Is he here? I don’t know. I have a headache and nothing feels right. I feel the same as when I took those fucking weed brownies Connie gave me in year nine—detached, not real, in a dream, do you know what I mean?
But I’m panicking, I know that much. Underneath the bubble I feel trapped in, is a lining of this gut wrenching panic.
I back myself into a corner while they all start shouting at each other. It’s all so loud and over the top and I wonder how we got here in the first place?
It’s my fault, really, isn’t it?
Arthur’s too, for coming back, but we can’t blame him for that. He was going to come back anyway. I reckon even if Digby and I were married, it still would’ve turned out like this.
It dies down after a few minutes, people start leaving, going to their rooms after trying to ask me questions.
It’s then I see a pair of legs coming down the stairs that I know for a fact belong to Arthur. He’s freshly showered, his hair still wet, wearing clothes like he’s going out.
I stand up, he spots me instantly, can see the way his heart drops in his eyes.
I’m shaking, in nothing but my underwear, my makeup running and my lips still red after being pressed together by his.
“Where were you?”
He opens his mouth, swallows, says nothing but comes over to me, wraps his arms around me.
Perhaps it’s the way he holds me, with the right amount of pressure, or maybe it’s the way he smells—Tom Ford’s Myrrhe Mystère and my entire life—or maybe it’s the way that without saying anything, he pulls away and gives me a sorry look before walking out of the front door.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Prince Arthur
I’m an arsehole for leaving—not a thought, just a fact—but a down right cunt when I catch a taxi and step foot onto Astrid’s boat.
We don’t talk much, really. We say hello and then she grabs my hand and leads me down to her bedroom. I don’t know why I do it. I don’t know why I did drugs. I don’t know why I hurt Phoebe so badly. Everything around me is so big and fucking loud and my head’s a black hole.
I’m not justifying it, nor is Astrid—because there is no justification.
