Chapter Twenty
Lady Phoebe
“So, you know, Charlie Faulkner?” Athena says on the other end of the phone.
“Yes.”
“And his sister?”
“He has a sister?”
She tuts. “Yes! She lives in my house. She’s in year eleven at Darcy.”
“Oh, okay, what about her?”
“Well, George asked me to put in a little word on her behalf…”
“Why do I not like where this is heading?”
“She loves fashion—she’s a bit…strange—and George was just wondering if his best friend could maybe help out the misfortunate?”
I frown. “What do you mean she’s strange? Athena, what the fuck?”
“She’s not like us,” she whispers. “She’s been through a lot of shit but she’s so kind, really, she’s the loveliest girl ever. She has an eye for fashion that rivals Cynthia’s. I’m telling you, Phoebe, the first time I met her she was wearing literal rags and still managed to Miranda Priestly me!”
I laugh. “Okay and what do you want me to do for her? I can put a word in with my mum?”
“You could maybe take her to the shop, show her the behind the scenes stuff?”
I nod. “Okay.”
“You are the best, Phoebe. Seriously, you don’t know what this will mean for her.”
“Is this a charity thing?”
I can feel her eye roll. “No! I’m just being a good kind-of sister to her.”
“Well, aren’t you the little Samaritan,” I smile. “I’m at home now so I’ll speak to my mum.”
“You’re the best, talk later, love you.”
I end the call and head down the stairs of my childhood home and into my mothers office.
We haven’t spoken a lot since I started working with her (not for her because I’m not her employee, I’m technically self-employed, just under her name but that still doesn’t make her my boss (despite what she’ll have you believe)).
But we’re not not on good terms. We haven’t fallen out or anything.
In fact, after the ball last weekend, she stroked my hair all night while I cried over Arthur.
Digby doesn’t want me at his right now because he needs to work on some last minute exam deadlines but I think it’s actually because he’s pissed over all the publicity Arthur and I have been getting. He’d never admit it, though. I reckon he’d rather shoot himself in the foot ten times over.
I find my mum knee deep in work at her desk, portfolios laid out, sketches hanging off every inch of the walls.
She’s even got her glasses on which makes me hesitant to disturb her.
Whenever Mum had her glasses on while she was working, whatever it was, could wait.
It’s the one rule Freddy and I actually listened to growing up.
“Mum?”
“What, Phoebe?” She stresses without looking at me.
I tell her what Athena told me over the phone but by the time I’m done, she’s staring at me with a deep frown.
“What?” I shrug with a small smile.
“Why do you turn your nose up at that?”
”I’m not?”
She squints. “Yes, you are.”
I pull back. “How am I?”
She puts her glasses on her desk, tilts her head at me. “You always do this and I never understand why. Me and your father raised you to be grateful for what you have.”
I throw my arms up. “I am grateful!”
She gives me one of those looks, a proper mum look. “You’re spoiled is what you are.”
I shake my head, she raises her brow.
“Well, I might be a bit but that’s yours and Dad’s fault!”
“I raised you and Freddy to both be understanding of the misfortunate. You’re looking as if this girl is going to come swanning in here and rob us blind!”
“That isn’t true in the slightest! You were the one who got funny when Charlie joined my school. You said—and I quote—that they just let any old riff raff into my school now!”
Sticks her nose in the air, shakes her head. “I don’t remember saying that.”
“Of course you don’t,” I mutter. “And as well, you hated Arthur! You hated the fact he was doing drugs. That makes you no better than me—in fact, that makes me a better person than you because I never once judged him!” I raise my voice ever so slightly, just enough so she doesn’t accuse me of shouting at her.
“You have no idea, Phoebe! I was protecting you!” She shouts.
I think I’m crying, I don’t know why.
“You judged him all the time!”
She’s breathing hard, I can see her chest rising and falling and I think she might be close to tears, as well but I’m not sure. I’ve only ever seen her cry a handful of times.
“That wasn’t me judging him. That was me protecting you from what I went through.”
I let out a laugh. “And what exactly was it that you went through? As far as I’m concerned, you’ve loved Dad your whole life and unless I missed something, he was never an addict!”
Her tongue darts out to wet her top lip, she glances down, chews her lip.
After a second, she raises her head, looks at me. “Come with me,” she says quietly.
And maybe it’s the way we just went from having a screaming match to her being eerily calm, but I follow her. She takes me upstairs and into her wardrobe.
It never gets old, this room. It’s exactly what you’d expect from a fashion designer.
You could probably pay off the entire mortgage of a three bedroom house in London with all of the pieces in here.
There’s an island in the middle, with a display top that shows all of her fashion jewellery—the fine pieces are locked in a safe—, huge, floor to ceiling built in wardrobes, all white and paneled and filled with garments that date back to the sixties.
But by the looks of things, we’re not here to look at any of that stuff.
She drags over the ottoman in the corner of the room, stands on it and opens up one of the top cabinets.
My mum pulls out a giant Dior box, opens it up, pulls out another box, opens that and then finally pulls out an old, tattered memory box.
She nods her head at me to sit down on the window seat and sniffs, taking in deep breaths.
“This,” she holds the box up. “Is something I never wanted to show you. Ever.”
I hold my breath. We all have skeletons in the closet but it’s rare someone drags them out and actually shows you them.
“But, I want you to know.” She sits beside me, box on her lap and squeezes my hands. “I want you to understand why I was the way I was back then, with Arthur. Okay?”
I nod.
“Does Dad know?”
“Yeah, Dad and Cynthia. They’ve never seen this box, though.”
I swallow. “Okay.”
She brushes her cheek, clears her throat, flicks the small lock open and takes everything out.
It just looks like random bits of paper and some pictures.
She holds them out for me, I take them, almost drop them with how shaky my hands are.
I flip the first picture over. It’s dark but It’s of someone, someone’s back littered with welts and bruises. In the corner, the date is scribbled in white sharpie. 4th May, 1994.
I tell myself it isn’t what I intentionally thought it was and put it down beside me, picking up the other.
This one is a picture of a girl outside what looks like a school with a boy beside her, his arm over her shoulder.
The girl looks like my mum but it can’t be—surely not.
Her skirt is rolled up to the high heavens, her hair is pulled into a messy bun, her hand is up in a backwards peace sign with pen littered all over it.
And I know for a fact that boy isn’t my dad because he looks like someone who probably isn’t doing the best for himself right now.
The date on this one is 22nd November, 1999.
Another picture, of the side of someone’s face with a bruised cheek and a black eye. 3rd August, 1993.
One of a pair of hands pulling back some hair, matted and covered in blood. 25th December, 1996.
The boy is back in this one but I still can’t get a proper look at him because it looks like they’re at a party.
It’s too dark and blurry to see but the girl is resting on his knee in a neon pink mini dress and stilettos while the boy behind has his arm around her waist, wearing jeans and a polo.
But where her dress is so short, I can see the bruises marking the inside of her thigh. 5th April, 2001.
“Jesus,” I breathe out. “I can’t look at anymore.”
My mum takes the pictures from me, stares at them herself with tears running down her cheeks.
“You see that boy,” she points to the school picture. “He’s the only boy I’ve ever loved.”
I whip my head around, mouth open.
“Is that Dad?”
She shakes her head, teeth sinking into her bottom lip.
“Are you having an affair?” I ask quietly.
She wipes another tear, laughs. “No.”
I shake my head, trying to understand. “What happened to him, then? Is he my real dad?”
Her jaw twitches, she looks at me. “He died, Phoebe.”
My heart sinks. “How?”
“Drugs.”
I’m crying so hard that my head is pounding. I grab her hands and squeeze them. “What about the other pictures? Did he hurt you?”
“No,” she shakes her head. “That,” she nods at the photos on her lap. “Is how I grew up. On a council estate in Essex with a family who couldn’t love me the way I love you even if they were paid to. They didn’t work and my idea of a fancy dinner was a jacket potato with real butter.”
“Jesus,” I sob, scrambling to my knees to hug her. “Why have you never told us this before?”
She shakes her head against my chest, wraps her arms around me and holds me as if I’m the boy in the pictures.
“It’s not your burden to carry. It’s all behind me now.”
And then she looks up at me. “But you understand now, don’t you? Why I was like that?” She begs. “You get it, don’t you, Phoebs?”
“Yeah, of course I do,” I nod. “Oh my God, Mum, I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay, darling. I’m fine now.”
She pulls back, blows out a breath and wipes her eyes. She puts the box back, holds her hand out to me, takes me down to the kitchen where she puts the kettle on.
“Why did you not go to the police?” I ask, dipping my chocolate digestive into my tea.
“The police don’t care about people like that.”
“Is that why you tell everyone your parents died?”
Her eyes flutter shut like she’s exhausted and she nods.
“But they’re not, are they?”
“No. Last I heard, my sister put them into a home and wiped her hands of them, as well.”
I tilt my head, something drops inside my mind. “Why did your sister—”
“I think we’ve heard about enough of my trauma to last a lifetime, Phoebe,” she cuts in, tone sharp. “But, no. I don’t know why she did that.”
“But that’s why we don’t see her, isn’t it? Because of what happened?” I push, trying to fit the pieces all together.
She reaches across the table, holds my hand. “Yeah.”
And while growing up, my mum might not have always been there, I wouldn’t wish for a different person to call my mum.
Fortunately for me (and Freddy), we’ve always enjoyed the apology gifts and trips away.
Sure, there have been times over the years that could’ve been better but when I think of those times, I have to tell myself that just like me, she was once sixteen years old.
Mum’s aren’t the exception to making mistakes.
And I think having a child is the trickiest thing a woman could do because how do you figure out someone else's life while still figuring out yours?
? ? ?
That evening, Digby pops round with a bunch of flowers and an offer to go out for dinner.
“I’ve already eaten,” I tell him, cross legged on my bed and flipping through a Vanity Fair.
He reaches for my hands, takes them. I look up at him.
“Why don’t we go to Hampshire for the weekend? Just you and me?”
I scrunch my face up.
“Come on, Phoebe. I’ve barely seen you this week.”
“Yeah, because you kicked me out.”
He rolls his eyes. “No I didn’t. I just needed to concentrate on my exams.”
“And because you were jealous over Arthur and I,” I finish for him.
He tuts. “No, I’m not.”
“Okay,” I mutter, pull my hands away from him and flip the page.
“Why do you never want to go up there with me? It’s your favourite place.”
I stare at him.
It’s mine and Arthur’s place. So is Oxford. And I’m not ready to hang a new picture over the hole in the wall. I spent my worst days, my best days and my most memorable days in those houses. Anything I could create with Digby there would never level up.
Digby sighs. “Where does this leave us then, Phoebe?”
I shrug.
“You’re not even bothered with this relationship, are you?”
“I am,” I mutter. Lean back on my bed, cross my ankles.
He stands up, at the foot of my bed, arms out. “Do you want to break up?”
My heart plummets. Like, I actually feel it drop to the pit of my stomach. I throw my magazine to the side. Crawl over to him on my knees and wrap my arms around his neck.
“You know I don’t want that.”
He cocks his head. “Do I?”
I nod, pull my vest over my head and kiss him.
He goes to lean back on my bed but I push him to the floor and straddle him because we’ve never had sex in my bed before and I don’t intend on starting now.
Not when I know Arthur is just a stone's throw away from me, a constant shadow that looms over me—always has done and always will. When—and if—I slide that ring onto Digby’s finger at the altar, it won’t be my doing, it’ll be Arthur’s.