Page 65 of The Grosvenor's Ghost
Which is exactly what she’s doing right now. Her mirrorball eyes are locked on mine from across the room. She speaks to me in a language no one else will ever be able to learn. She’s sorry. She’s annoyed with Digby. She wants to be sitting here. She’s bored.
I don’t know what happened between that night and now. We woke up that morning, entangled together the way our hearts are, to the sound of her phone ringing. She was really panicked. Digby had been calling her non stop for about two hours. She picked up, phone tucked between her shoulder and ear as she danced around to get her clothes on.
Left a few minutes later.
Haven’t spoken since.
They fought, undoubtedly.
Hate to think about how that went down.
Digby’s the type. Not to hit her, no—but he’d get close, I reckon. Hit the wall above her head, watch her flinch. Watch as she cries so he can feel like a man. Maybe it’s a societal thing—it honestly can be in some cases—he knows she ranks higher than him in near enough all aspects. He hates that. He’s the man.
He has the look about him, too. That fucking smug look that just makes you want to punch him. I was on the fence about him from day one but as time ticks on, I’ve pretty much made up my mind. I hate him and given the chance, I would punch him, yeah.
I stand up, adjust my tie, clear my throat, sort of twitch my head over to the right in hopes that she clocks on.
I stand in the foyer, wait a couple minutes for her.
She knows me.
She’d know that was me telling her to follow me.
She comes through the doors a second later, stands there, in front of me, absolutely nothing behind her eyes.
“Are you okay?” I reach for her wrist but she pulls back.
“I’m fine.”
“You need to stop lying to me.”
She laughs. Flat. Nothing there. “I’m not.”
“We haven’t spoken in a week.”
“What was there to say?”
“A lot.”
She shakes her head, eyes to the ceiling. “Not really.”
I grind my teeth.
“Your boyfriend know we were in the same bed, partially naked?”
She folds her lips, crosses her arms over her chest. Blinks a couple times, swallows, breathing in and out deeply—all the signs someone’s about to burst into tears. Phoebe sniffs, composes herself.
”Can I ask you something, Arthur?”
“Yeah.”
“Did you ever want help? When we were back in school?”
I frown, almost laugh. “Where’s this coming from?”
I don’t say yes nor do I say no because I’m not sure which answer would hurt her more.
“If you don’t start telling me the truth, Arthur, me and you will never work again. If you carry on lying to me, you’ll be the one sitting in the church, watching my dad give me away to Digby.”
