Page 186 of The Grosvenor's Ghost
Prince Arthur
Everything feels a bit perfect now. Perfect in a way I’ve never felt before. Almost satisfying. I roll over, my arm hitting Phoebe’s back. We’ve been dating since her birthday, just over a few weeks now.
It’s hard to explain.
Feels like it’s always been like this but also not?
It’s never been like this before. We’ve never been together like this before. This is new. A really fucking frightening new that I would never forgive myself for ruining.
I can’t ruin this because it’ll be the last time.
If I mess it up this time, I won’t let her come back to me.
It’s this or nothing—fucking life or death. Feels as though someone’s picked up the puzzle that’s been sitting on the floor in a million pieces and carefully, precisely put it back together again.
It’s the first of fucking December but it’s hot in here, the sun piercing through her French doors because I’ve woken up in her bed, in her room at her mum’s. Every morning is perfect here. Even back before, on Monday mornings when we had school. The first few minutes when I blinked awake and became conscious, were perfect here. There’s something about her home. Feels like a home, do you know what I mean? When someone dies in your house, it stops feeling like a home, instead it becomes the shelter your family lives under. Did for us, anyway. But not here. Never here. It’s always warm. Heating’s always on fall blast. Something’s always cooking—be it coffee ora gourmet full English. Even when we were kids and I’d come here, I remember there being toys and mess everywhere.
Mum hated mess. Our house was always so tucked away, so neat, so sterile that you wondered if anyone actually lived there or if it was just a show home.
I never liked being at my house. Phoebe was never there. Never stayed over. She didn’t know my house like I know hers.
I lay on my back, wondering what things would be like if I never had her or her family. I think I’d be dead. When my family fell apart ten years ago, hers picked us right back up. It’s important to have that, almost imperative for when something like Theo happens to you. Without it you’re just continually spiralling further and further into the abyss that is grief.
Phoebe stirs next to me, stretches her arms above her head and then looks over at me. “Hi.”
“Hi.”
She gives it a second, yawns, squeezes her eyes shut for a moment before sitting up and grabbing my face, kissing the lips off me.
Gross, ain’t it? Kissing first thing in the morning but not for us. The girls kissed me straight after I’ve vomited despite her crippling fear of germs. Mate, she’s bathed me bollock naked while I’ve been off my face. We’ve shared toothbrushes and clothes and water and food and air and life—kissing in the morning isn’t as gross as you’d think.
“Plans for today?” She asks, slipping out of bed and throwing her robe on.
I scratch the back of my neck, throw my legs over the side of the bed. “Mum’s been banging on about lunch.”
She faces me, nods. “Since the article?”
Laugh. “What one?”
As you’d expect, those pictures of us on Tower Bridge have taken the entire world by storm. We’re wanted for podcasts,photos shoots, interviews—the lot. Before we do any of that, though, we need to talk to my family. I’ve been putting it off. When I was at Buckingham Palace celebrating Grandad’s birthday a couple weeks ago, I didn’t even bring it up. I avoided every glance and question.
“We should.” Phoebe walks out of her bathroom with her toothbrush sticking out of her mouth. “Lunch, I mean.” She dips back inside to spit and then leans against the doorframe with her arms crossed over her chest. “We owe it to your mum, Arthur.”
“I know we do,” I sigh, standing up and itching my stomach. I sit on one of her armchairs by her French doors. She comes over, sits on the other one. I nod my chin at her. “Can I ask you something?”
“What?”
“You still got my notebook here?”
Without a word she stands up, walks over to her bedside drawer and throws a black leather notebook into my lap.
“What’s in it?” She asks, sitting back down.
I frown. “You’ve never looked inside of it?”
She pulls back. “No, why would I? It’s yours.”
“Yeah, but, you’re a nosey cow and it’s been sitting in here for years. I wouldn’t be cross at you if you did.”
