Chapter Seventeen
Lady Phoebe
“That can’t be true,” I tell Zara.
“No,” she nods, eyes darting between Athena and I. “I swear to god, it is!”
“But—and no offence,” Athena whispers. “We all thought you were a…whore.”
”Oh!” Zara laughs loudly despite our prestigious setting of Hide in Piccadilly (but then again, we all know she isn’t one for social graces).
“I used to be a whore—not a paid one, although I had this crazy experience once in New York but I’ll tell you another time—but not anymore. I think I’ve gone celibate.”
My eyes widen. “Celibate?! You do know that means not having sex, right?”
She rolls her eyes to the heavens. “I’m not thick. I know what it means.”
“I could never,” Athena sighs. “I think because I was shamed so much growing up that now—well,” she blows out a breath. “It’s just insane. I don’t even go to Pilates anymore!”
“Nice,” I mutter, a bit impressed.
I mean, we all knew that George had it in him but to hear it coming from Athena? She never talks openly about this kind of stuff so for it to be that good…
“Anyway,” Athena smiles, resting her chin in her hands and staring at me in a way I don’t particularly like. “What’s with all the Bliss pavlova?”
“It’s palava, Athena!” Zara and I shout at the same time.
She waves her hand through the air. “Who actually cares? I want to know what’s going on. You hardly bring her name up.”
“Why would I?”
I sink back into my seat a little bit because I think I’m maybe a bit ashamed about it still.
It happened almost two years ago, me and her falling out.
I know the adult thing to do would be to clear the air, talk with her—whatever.
But I’m not an adult in that way. I don’t see why I should?
She was in the wrong, what she said to me upset me—not the other way around.
“I don’t know why you ever bothered with her,” Zara shrugs. “All she does now is spend her weekends at Estelle Manor because she thinks it’s the pinnacle of luxury when in actuality, we all just think she’s getting pimped out.”
“They make a delicious vegetable tempura, though,” Athena pouts.
“Shut up, you can get that at Bassett’s,” I snap, flustered.
“Has she reached out to you?” Zara asks.
I swallow. “Not really.”
“What does ‘not really’ mean?”
“Like,” I sip my wine to stall. “She texted me a few months ago, when Arthur came back. Didn’t open it, though. I didn’t know what I was going to say to her so I just left it.”
Athena tuts. “You two were such good friends.”
Zara sits there in her vintage fur, a sorry look on her face which you don’t get much from her.
She’s very hard—facial wise. Not from Botox, either—which, can you believe, she’s had none of.
We clicked right away, kind of. But I’ve seen her when she’s been nothing but a solid granite box.
There’s no chipping away, no openings, no windows.
We’re polar opposites. She doesn’t apologise or look sorry or cry or moan or complain.
“But what she said…”
“Yes,” my eyes snap up to glare at her. “I know.”
I get my bag and head for the bathrooms.
They don’t even know the full extent of what Bliss said to me that night and they still think it’s bad and unforgivable.
They don’t know all of it because I haven’t told them and if I was to tell them, I’d have to tell them about The Nightmare and I’ve yet to even tell Digby about that and Jesus Christ, I don’t think I can breathe.
I remind myself of how I was inhaling deep breaths just a moment ago but it seems lost and now I wonder if I’m going to die and if I do, right here, in the loo, will I see Arthur?
Moments like these are when I wished my sister was here but it’s old news now, she lives in L.A, I live in London—it’s just what happens.
I mean, it’s not what ‘just happens’ because she’s my sister and all she left me with was a fleeting goodbye and a promise to see me on my birthday which she didn’t upkeep.
I might be twenty-one but I still need my sister.
There isn’t an age limit to which you stop needing someone or something (despite what the world will have you hear).
I’m happy for her, though. She finally got what she wanted after watching Arthur and I all these years.
Now, I know we weren’t the picture for a healthy relationship but when you see people together who you know would die for the other, you get jealous.
I’m not saying my own sister was jealous of me because that’s far from the truth but maybe just longed for the kind of love I had—have—for Arthur?
I manage to calm myself down a bit—which is always hard when every single thought inside your head hits you like a tidal wave and completely washes you out to sea—reapply my lipgloss and go back out to finish my rather liquid-y lunch.
“Is that just not the peak of embarrassment?” Zara whispers across the table, nods behind me.
I turn around, see a couple waiters bringing over a house desert with a little candle on it to another table.
I laugh. “I think people just say it’s their birthday to get the free brownie.”
“Fancy that,” Athena snorts. “You spend like, twenty-five-hundred on a dinner just to skimp out on a fifteen pound dessert.”
“I know,” Zara turns her nose up. “On an adjacent note, I’m not being fucking funny but what even is beans on toast? Have you ever eaten that?”
I smile. “Arthur used to eat that all the time.”
“That’s disgusting. A guy tried feeding it to me once but I thought he meant to give it to his dog so I scrapped the food into the dog bowl.”
“That’s because you’re American and new money,” I tell her.
Athena snorts. “George still calls you a yank.”
Zara rolls her eyes, smiles.
I like Zara as my friend. Not as much as I liked Bliss being my friend but then again, I think I just have an attachment to the people I grew up with.
Even though I was never actually close with Athena—and some could argue that I even hated her—I still feel more comfortable around her?
I don’t know why. I don’t like change much.
After lunch, we stop by Harrods. I pick up a few pieces for summer, grab those Aquazzura heels that I haven’t stopped thinking about and then we part ways and I go back home—not home but the place I live with Digby.
I open the front door and to say I’m knocked for six would be an understatement because Arthur’s standing in the kitchen, mug in hand, having a rather comfortable chinwag with Digby.
Neither of them face me when I shut the door and drop my bags dramatically on the floor.
“Sorry, have I come at a bad time?” I say, walk over to them, tilt my face in front of Digby, eyebrows up.
He blinks, puts his mug down on the counter behind him and kisses my head. “Sorry,” he laughs. “When I got back, Arthur was waiting in the lobby so I invited him up for a cuppa.”
“I can see that.”
Digby pulls me into his chest, arms wrapped around my shoulders, my eyes locked on Arthur because he’s the only thing I can see—but it’d be like that even if I wasn’t standing in front of him, wouldn’t it?
“How are you?” I ask Arthur a bit nervously.
He grins. “All the better for seeing you.”
Digby shifts behind me and now I’m glad he can’t see my face because a hot blush spreads up my neck and cheeks.
I hated what I was doing to Arthur. Really, I was.
The last time I saw him was about a week ago at that Claridge's lunch when I lied and told him I was going to marry Digby—I mean, not even I could believe he brought that. In what fucking world would I marry him? But I had to say it—had to throw him an unmovable curveball—otherwise, we’d be spending more of those Oxford nights together and I couldn’t do that to him.
That, and, Digby got so funny about that.
He tried so hard to ignore me when I got back but then I kissed him and touched him and made him all better because apparently sex is a soft spot for all men.
It was weird, sleeping with him knowing I still had Arthur’s scent on me but Digby didn’t seem to notice or care.
All he wanted was to be inside of me so that Arthur wasn’t.
He believed me when I said I didn’t fuck Arthur which was shocking but I have also been told that I can be such a crap liar.
Apparently the tip of my nose turns pink or something.
Also, I think I’d tell Digby if I did. He hasn’t done anything to me. You can’t punish someone for loving you. That’s cruel.
Arthur sips his tea loudly and I wonder if there’s sugar and honey in it.
“Do you want a biscuit with that?” I nod at him.
Shakes his head. “I’m alright, just stopping by. Was in the area.”
I squint.
“Thought you were over in Mayfair now, with Connie?” Digby says before I can.
Arthur drops his head for a second, sniffs a short laugh. “Was out, having a gander and ended up here.”
“Convenient,” Digby mutters, lips pressed against the back of my head.
“Very much so!” I smile.
“Yep,” Arthur nods, rocks back on his heels, hand in his pocket.
“So—”
I spin around. “Would you guys like to see my recent purchases?” My smile is tense, I can feel that it is but honestly? Anything to make Digby shut up in front of him.
My boyfriend rolls his eyes. “You mean my purchases?”
“No,” I frown.
“She has got her own job, mate,” Arthur cocks his head, wipes away his smile with his hand.
“Thank you,” I nod at him and then glare back to Digby. “But since you’re so keen on shoving your card down my throat, maybe you can wire me the money?”
Digby smiles in a strange way, almost condescending. “I’m alright.”
I hold up one of the big green Harrods bags. “Would you like to see Arthur?”
“Love to,” he grins, giving Digby a look as he walks over to me.
I start to unbox my shoes on the kitchen table. Digby slams his mug down on the draining board.
“I’ll leave you girls to it, then?”
He comes behind me, grabs his coat off the hook.
“Where are you going?”
“Out,” he mutters, back to me, fiddling with his keys.
Roll my eyes. “Out where? To meet your mistress?”