Page 139 of The Grosvenor's Ghost
“It can kill someone,” Athena and I say at the same time.
“Excatly!” Connie pushes his glasses on top of his head, looks at us. “Should we go out out tonight?”
“Like clubbing out?” Athena frowns.
“Yeah,” he nods, shrugs, looks to me.
“I’m not in the mood.”
“I’ll go if George comes,” Athena says. “Phoebe, you should come, it will take your mind off it.”
I scrunch my face up. “Everyone’s seen my boobs, they’ll just be looking at me, imagining me with no clothes on.”
“Yeah, so” Connie shrugs his lips. “Your boobs are fucking mint.”
I turn my head to face him. “How…do…you…know?”
“Because I used to look at them like, all the fucking time—I mean, you’ve got a fantastic rack, Phoebs. If I was you, I wouldn’t wear a top, ever,” he tells me, straight faced.
“Why do you have to be such a fucking pig?”
“Would you rather me say they’re the worst set of tits I’ve ever seen?”
“Well, no,” I say airily.
He gives me a look, points at Athena. “About George coming, that’s a no.”
“Well then I can’t come,” she frowns.
“Yes, you can. It’ll just be us three and Spence.”
“I can’t go out with just you, Connie,” she tells him, like it’s obvious. “I’m not allowed.”
“George’s words are they?” He pulls back, shocked. “I’ll have a word with him.”
“No!” She laughs. “George wouldn’t care but it’s my culture—I’m a Gypsy—I’m not allowed to go out with boys on my own unless George or my dad is there.”
Something you probably didn’t know about Athena and the twins. Athena’s mum's side is full Roman Gypsy, her dad grew up on a council estate in Essex. Sullivan and the Stratton’s are Irish Gypsy and India is Romani. From what I’ve gathered, their marriage was one of convenience to settle the beef between the two sides years ago. The boys have been raised by the same values and so has Athena. It’s not something I fully understand but just like any other culture that I’m not a part of, still something I fully respect.
Sure, George wouldn’t care if Athena went out with us without him but it’s not something she would be comfortable doing. She told me once that it’s not as strict as it used to be, like when her mum was growing up, but still, there’s still rules about other things.
“Fine,” Connie rolls his eyes. “He can come but tell him not to be such a moody prick—I wanna have a good time, not think about killing myself.”
“Connie, I’m really not in the mood,” I groan.
“Oh, please,” he gets up on his knees, hands together. “Just one little drinky and maybe a couple of teeny tiny shots?”
“No,” I sigh. “Digby will probably want to go out for dinner or something.”
“You’re so fucking boring,” he moans and then turns to me, “Do you wanna go for a fag?”
I nod and we stand on the steps that lead down to the beach.
“Do you know where Arthur is?”
I exhale, flicking the ash onto the floor.
Connie shakes his head. “Nah, I thought he went out.”
