Page 75 of The Grosvenor's Ghost
“Can you waltz?” Astrid grins.
“Unfortunately.”
Some kind of Russian orchestrated waltz plays and we start dancing. There’s not a lot of thought put into it, it’s kind of like muscle memory. Our parents made sure we knew all the dances off by heart before we got old enough to tell them that we didn’t want to do it.
These balls aren’t really what you’d expect. It’s not all mini wedding dresses and serenades. It’s more like your average school prom just way more strict with way less drugs. They have them all over Europe. Only ever one or two a year—not like in the olden days where it marked the start of the social season. The social season for us never starts and never ends, it’s just the way we live.
I’m not sure what the point is for these things. Sure, charities are involved but it’s just a pointless tradition now.
“It’s like the MET gala for mini royals in here, isn’t it?” Astird says through her clenched smile as I spin her around and I couldn’t have said it better myself, that’s exactly what it is.
“Keep smiling,” I squeeze out through my own, pull her into me and then out, follow her around in a circle with our hands touching.
“My mouth is aching.”
I try my hardest not to break, keeping my smile and wide eyes in place as cameras snap in every corner of the room.
“We switch now,” I tell her, skating off and seamlessly making my way over to Phoebe who actually wasn’t who I was meant to be dancing with but how could I not?
“You look constipated,” she tells me and I break, my smiling cracking into an unsightly grin.
“You look perfect.”
And she does. Always does. When has she ever looked bad? I don’t think she has it in her. I don’t even think it’s the dress, either. Sure, it plays a part. It’s beautiful. Blue, strapless, glittery, crystals descending down it. Best dressed by a mile.
I place my hand on her bare back, she jumps slightly. My hands are cold, always are and her skin is always warm. The type of warmth you felt in the summer holidays when you were a kid and your biggest worry was going to bed while it was still light out. Nothing about Phoebe can be normal or straightforward. Even her fucking body temperature weaves its way through my mind, reminding me of a time when everything was okay.
Maybe that’s why I’ve always been so drawn to her? Hot and cold. Fire and ice. They never mix but people always couple them together because in some other universe, they probably do work—just not this one.
When the song slows to a gradual stop, Phoebe grabs my hand and pulls me through the crowd and out onto the patio.
“God, I needed some fresh air. Thought I was going to pass out.”
I lean against the stone balcony, looking out into the garden. Phoebe stands next to me, facing the doors we just walked out of. And then, out of the corner of my eye, I see her pull something out of the little clutch bag hanging off her wrist.
“What are you doing?” I snap harsher than intended.
“Huh?” She mutters, balancing a cigarette between her lips.
I grab it out of her mouth, pull her down the steps and onto the grass so we’re out of sight.
“You can’t smoke with all of them looking,” I tell her, handing her cigarette back.
She scoffs, rolls her eyes, cups the cigarette and lights it. “Please,” she blows out some smoke. “It’s hardly a cigarette—it’s menthol so it doesn’t even count.”
I cock my head, smile. “And if I said that to you?”
Her eyes pinch at the sides. “Not funny.”
“I’m just saying,” I hold my hands up.
She shakes her head, glances down at her feet hopping from one side to another. I watch as she flicks some ash onto the ground, inhales again and sniffs. I don’t know how I feel about her smoking? I suppose I should feel something, shouldn’t I? Tell her to stop or something—and I would if we were in any other situation but it’s not my place to tell her to stop. That, and I trust her. I’d like to think she wouldn’t do anything stupid. An odd cigarette really isn’t the end of the world when there’s bigger things at stake between us.
I clear my throat. “About the other day,” I say quietly. “Are you okay?”
Her head snaps up, she frowns. “The stalker thing?”
I nod.
