Page 15 of The Grosvenor's Ghost
“Yeah,” Digby mutters, helping me slip my coat on. “Come on.”
When we walk off, I hear his name being muttered by someone at the table, probably Albie.
“Why did you say that to my friend?” I ask Digby when we get back to his apartment. “That really wasn’t nice.”
He rolls his eyes, all exasperated and kicks his shoes off by the door. “It was just a joke, Phoebe.”
“Not a very nice one.”
He spins around, arms up. “Everytime I try to make an effort with your friends, they reject me. I don’t know what else to do.”
“That was not making an effort, that was an insult!”
“I’ve sat around plenty of tables and heard them say vile things to each other!”
“Yes, but…” I trail off, shake my head, sigh.
You’re not one of us, I want to tell him, it doesn’t work like that.
Digby stands there in the dimly lit kitchen and waits for me to say it. He knows I want to but I don’t so he spins on his heel and goes into the bedroom.
I guess it’s been a bit hard, trying to make it work with him because I think he knows we wouldn’t be together if Arthur was still here. This relationship feels like when you lose a puzzlepiece so you try and fit the wrong one in the extra space but it just doesn’t quite fit, it bunches up the picture or just pops right back out.
I pull the chair out at the table, head in my hands.
And then there’s an incessant knocking on the door.
It’s the concierge—he has a specific knock, it’s that two knocks and then one more in the most obnoxious rhythm.
A second goes by, Digby doesn’t go and get it so I get up, open the door. No one’s there, the entire hallway is empty.
But when I look down, at my feet is yet another bunch of baby’s breath. I pick them up, use my foot to close the door and bring them over to the table.
No note, again. A smile still spreads over my face.
It started when we first met at Uni, the flowers. Digby would send me a bunch every day, sometimes thrice a day. By the end of my few months there, the girl next door had terrible hay fever and my hallway started to resemble Kew Gardens. Whenever I thanked him for them or he came round and spotted them, he’d brush it off, smile small and carry on with his day.
I didn’t know how he managed to get them so fresh and beautiful in the winter months, I never asked, I was just happy to have them.
Pick the new bunch up, place them on the windowsill, straighten out the bunch beside them and admire my little set up.
Digby comes out of the room, a towel wrapped around his waist and his hair soaking wet. He comes up behind me, wraps his arms around my waist.
“I’m sorry,” He mutters into my ear. “I’ll make more of an effort with your friends, okay?” And then he presses his lips into the side of my head. “I love you.”
“Yeah,” I sigh, staring ahead out of the window to the gardens. “Me too.”
Chapter Four
Prince Arthur
Connie and I pop over to Mayfair to meet the boys. First time I’ve seen them, didn’t really want to right away because now I’m having a bit of a panic attack on their doorstep.
The whole time while I was away, I rehearsed every conversation with everyone who I knew deserved one but since coming back to London, the words I’ve been reciting over and over in my head, completely fly out of the window.
You know, never really geared myself up for my own mother kicking me out but here we are.
Living with Connie is basically how you’d expect. Lot of day time drinking, a bit more old soap rewatching then what you’d expect maybe, many drawers I’m not allowed to open, one of everything—like, literally, everything. One fork, spoon, knife, plate, bowl, towel—all untouched, too because sod cooking for yourself when your best pals run a hotel with Michelin star dining—and a few too many ‘abstract’ art pieces lining the walls.
