Chapter Fourteen
Prince Arthur
Two years ago, to the day, I relapsed.
Six months of sobriety down the drain all because of what month it was—March. I mean, March is always a hard month. Never gets easier. Not with time or growth or anything. When the third month of the year rolls around, it’s just another reminder of why I am the way I am, if that makes sense.
I never really understood Theo’s death. Not until recently.
It was in therapy when it hit me. After my relapse on cocaine, I went back to the rehab facility for another month.
This was when I was told that the whole reason I started using drugs was because of my dead brother.
I guess it was. Part of me thought that all along, truthfully.
Seeing my mum taking her pills, seeing everyone so depressed.
It makes sense. It’s just at the time, the initial wave of grief was so intense that I didn’t see it.
I didn’t know I was using because of Theo dying.
I didn’t know I had a problem with drugs until that night in Phoebe’s bed when we were sixteen.
I didn’t know I was grieving until my therapist told me that I was in fact, the whole time, self medicating which is a form of grief. I didn’t see it because no one else was doing what I was. Looking back, my mum was self medicating too but I didn’t notice—I didn’t realise.
The relapse wasn’t accidental.
I saw the date on my phone one morning after kind of forgetting about everything and it just got me.
For the first time in six months, I felt the same way I did at thirteen.
I didn’t just want drugs, I needed them and that was still something I didn’t know how to cope with.
When I got out of rehab the first time, I thought I was cured.
I knew heroin felt good but I also knew I didn’t want to use it again.
Cocaine, though? That still itched me—still does now.
I even thought about going back. In a way, the relapse was inevitable. It was going to happen. I hadn’t been sober for longer than about three days since I was thirteen. Even six months in rehab wasn’t going to fix that.
You’re probably wondering where I even got the coke with being locked up in a mansion in the arse-end-of-nowhere Scotland but it turns out I wasn't the only one who had a knack for partying.
Apparently my grandad liked to call it in after a few too many, as well.
Found a bag of it between the pages of an old copy of The Count of Monte Cristo.
I blew the dust off the baggie— had no idea how long it’d been sitting there—and dipped my finger into it. Tasted it. Wasn’t very strong so I just snorted the whole bag. About five or six lines.
Grandad actually came to visit me that day, maybe it was a gut feeling or something and the second he opened the front door, he knew. Slapped me round the back of the head, threw me into his car and drove me straight back to the dark building with the caged windows and sterilised chairs.
I don’t plan on telling Phoebe this, by the way. Not because I’m lying or because I want to hide this from her, I just don’t see what purpose it would give her if she found out. She’d probably only hate me more. Lose even more trust and respect for me.
Anyways, since it is March, everyone’s in London, preparing.
Mum’s even taken it upon herself to throw lunch together and invite them all over.
And I mean fucking everyone. Honestly, you’d think she’s still high with how fucked this guest list is.
Obviously all the Grosvenor’s, Mia Tisdale, Joanne Tomkins and all the Cadogan’s.
If I had a free pass to relapse, it would be, without a doubt, today.
We’re all sitting around the table and for the fifth time, I feel someone’s shoe kick me under the table.
I blink, realise I’ve been zoned out for the past twenty minutes.
“What was that?”
“Victoria asked how your date went with Princess Astrid, darling—please try to be more present,” Mum smiles, tensely.
“Oh,” clear my throat, look over to Phoebe’s mum. “It wasn’t really a date.”
“It was,” Ev pipes up.
“No,” I shake my head, laugh flatly. “It really actually wasn’t.”
“I think she’s very pretty,” Phoebe shrugs and my eyes go to her.
Fuck, I hate that she’s here. Hate that she’s got a boyfriend. Hate that for the first time in over ten years that she’s in my house and I can’t disappear off to my bedroom with her because it’s not actually my bedroom anymore.
“She is, isn’t she?” Mum agrees, eyes locked on me.
I start feeling a bit hot, my shirt collar suddenly tightens up and starts choking the life out of me.
“She’s alright,” I mutter.
“Alright?” Phoebe laughs. “She’s more than alright! I could only dream of having legs like hers.”
“Astrid does don a lethal pair of legs,” Mia chimes in.
“I actually custom made her eighteenth birthday gown, and they are impeccable.” Victoria nods, proudly.
“Why are we talking about her fucking legs?” I whisper to myself.
Another kick under the table.
I look up, Phoebe is sitting directly opposite me.
She’s got pretty nice legs, too.
“How’s school, Evangline?” Joanne asks.
I take a deep breath, sip my water and take another bite from my beef wellington.
“Fine,” she mumbles.
“School has never been Evangline’s thing, has it, darling?” Mum adds with a smile so fake I can almost—almost—see the plastic melting off her face.
She hates that Evangline hates school. Hates that she had to be held behind. Hates that she knows she won’t do good in her final A-levels. Hates that she won’t go to Uni. Hates that her baby won't be the perfect child she so badly wants.
Ridiculous, really. Five, sometimes six days a week since she was about three years old, she’s trained ballet nine hours.
Danced in The Royal Opera House, opened shows in Paris and Moscow.
Won all but two of her competitions. Sure, that’s unusual for a royal but then again, if you’re that good at something why waste it?
Especially in this day and age. If this was twenty years ago, everyone would look down at her.
I wish I knew more about my sister. Wished I went to more shows and gave her something to look out for in the crowd other than Delphine but I didn’t.
I don’t know what other things she’s accomplished or who she trains with or who she’s met or what opportunities she’s had to turn down because of her title.
I don’t even know how many trophies she’s won (do ballerinas even win trophies?).
Phoebe frowns when no one else says anything.
“Evangeline, aren’t you opening The Nutcracker this year?”
“What?—oh yeah, I am, yes.”
“See!” Phoebe smiles, raising her glass to everyone. “That’s amazing!”
Mum raises her glass and then looks at her. “You didn’t tell me you got the part, darling?”
“Yes, I did,” my sister mutters quietly beside me.
Ev and I still aren’t on very good speaking terms. That food thing is still playing on my mind, though.
Looking at her plate, she’s only eaten a few potatoes and maybe two carrots.
The rest of it’s just been cut up to mush to make it look like it’s been eaten, I think?
Or has she eaten more? I don’t know? I guess no one was really paying attention.
Lunch drags on, no one—thankfully—asks me how recovery is going or anything adjacent.
Johnathan talks about his new restaurant opening in San Francisco.
Mia, Sebastian and Joanne all kind of just sit there nodding and smiling at all the right points because it’s all still really sticky between them three.
I think Joanne only came with hopes of Mia not turning up and vica versa.
After we all help clean up, Mia and Joanne both grab their coats and then pause and stare at one another.
“Who do you think will go?” Phoebe says into my ear, coming up behind me.
“I don’t know—they’re both kind of family?”
“So awks, imagining being them three,” she whispers, wiping her hands on a tea towel.
“Imagine if Digby turned up, that’s what it’d be like.”
She smiles. “Me and you haven’t slept together, though.”
And then we both say ‘yet’ inside our heads.
Phoebe walks back into the dining room while I study the both of them.
They’re both family, both as important as each other.
One was engaged to a prince, one birthed a monarch.
There’s no higher power. Although, it doesn’t surprise me that Joanne is the one to say goodbye first and leave.
In her mind, Mia will always be more important. Some could argue that she is.
Sebastian nods at Mia as he closes the door after Joanne but she doesn’t smile at him or anything.
She looks deflated, like she knows she should’ve been the one to leave but she didn’t because when has she ever?
If she truly, whole heartedly, believed she should’ve been the one to leave, I don’t think she would’ve slept with Sebastian in the first place.
Is it sick that I want to know which one he loved more?
Would he go back to Joanne if she let him?
Would he marry Mia? Doubt it, to be honest. She’s already cracked on with Henry Finsbury.
Still messed up. He was Theo’s best mate.
But the more I stare at Mia, the more I don’t actually hate her the way you’d think I would.
I mean, who am I to hate when you’ve seen what grief done to me?
I’ll never be in a place to judge anyone, I don’t think.
There is a strange feeling that settles over everyone after all the cleaning up has been done. We all know why we’re here. Theo died and that’s the only reason why we all had lunch together today.
It sinks in for everyone and they all go their separate ways. The parents go into the living room, Ev dashes upstairs, Mia and Sebastian go into the library, followed by Phoebe very swiftly after.
When I sit down in there, it’s like that day in Oxford all over again. The four of us, staring at each other, breaths held, hoping no one brings anything up.