Page 95 of The Grosvenor's Ghost
“If anyone has a right to be pissed off, it’s me, Phoebe.”
Tilt my head, stare at him in pure, unfiltered, disbelief. “How so?”
He turns his head toward me. “You spent the night in your ex-boyfriend's bed, Phoebe!”
“He’s…” I search for the word but yeah, he’s right. I did. “Arthur for good sake. Arthur!”
His knuckles turn white with how hard he’s gripping the steering wheel. “That’s exactly my fucking point. If you weren’t pissed there’d be no denying that you would’ve slept with him!”
“That’s not true.”
He gives me one last look before focussing back on the road. “History doesn’t lie.”
I cross my arms over my chest. “And what does that mean?”
His chest puffs with a dry laugh. “What? You don’t think I’m aware of the fact that the only reason your relationship with him stood was because you dropped your knickers for him at every possible opportunity?”
I think my heart stops beating. Like, actually, for a second, I think it stops. All the air inside of me traps in my chest and suddenly I can’t breathe at all.
“Let me out.”
Digby shakes his head. “What? No.”
“I can’t breathe—let me out.”
“I’m driving, Phoebe! Stop it!” He shouts and amongst the blurring of the city lights and the confines of the car, it’s the only thing that cuts into my ever spinning mind.
“Let me out!”
“No!”
I try opening the door, it doesn’t budge. “Let me out, Digby!”
“I’m fucking driving!” He shouts louder.
I spin my head around. “Don’t swear at me!” I try the door again. “Now, Digby! Let me out of the fucking car.”
I think my voice must’ve dwindled down into a cry because he pulls over and unlocks the door. When someone shouts, they’re too angry to do anything. When they quiet down, they’ve had a moment to process—therefore more likely to do something.
He doesn’t say anything as I scramble for the door handle and haul myself out onto the pavement. Part of me wants him to stop me, take me home, kiss me, take my clothes off. Part of me wants him to drive off and never come back. Another, smaller part of me, is disgusted with myself. Grossed out in my own skin, a foreigner to the part of me I should know better than anyone else.
But as Digby drives off, I realise I've never known that part of myself; I handed it over to Arthur as soon as I could. He still hasn’t given it back to me so I can give it to someone else, either.
I fetch a cab, arrive at the restaurant a lot less worked up. Knocked for six when I walk in and see Primrose sitting beside Connie. Kind of hoped he’d ambush me with Arthur, instead.
I don’t know what to say to her. I don’t know what’s going on with them. No one ever brings it up to him because he gets funny, walks away, makes a joke out of it. She’s only ever in London for a couple of days at a time and then she goes back to Uni. But for those couple of days, Connie isn’t the Connie I’ve known for half of my life.
He changes in the way we all do when we’re around someone we want to be better for.
“Phoebe, hi!” Primrose stands up, hugs me. Big, pleasant smile on her face that I’m not used to seeing these days.
Changed a lot since school. Taller, clocked on to Connie’s obsession with her, put on some makeup, dressed in a way to fit the criteria of someone she thinks Connie would date. Still got massive curly hair, though. I mean—it’s truly magnificent. Each trundle carefully curls down her back, stops at her waist, frames her face. She’s beautiful. Got this pure, innocent look about her. You know, the kind of look that hasn’t been changed by the rags or the papers or the cameras.
“How are you?”
I sit down opposite the two of them, pop my bag on the spare seat next to me.
“Enough of all that,” Connie butts in, waves his hand in the air. “Let’s get some champagne.”
