Chapter Twenty-Seven
Prince Arthur
Head’s still fucked when I go down to the lobby the next morning.
I don’t know what to feel—offended, maybe? That she’d think something like that would make me love her any less? Shattered inside and out because she didn’t feel as though she could tell me? Relieved, maybe, because I feel like I’ve kind of got her back a bit?
I don’t know—I don’t fucking know.
After she told me and explained it as best as she could, she kissed me—face, jaw, neck, until she went under the covers and then we went to sleep.
I was expecting that we’d maybe sit down this morning to talk about it more, maybe she’d want to see where I was with all of it but no—she sent me down to get some ice for her face while she got ready in the bathroom.
For the best probably, to have a couple minutes apart to wrap our heads around it.
I just really, really fucking wish she’d told me sooner—do I love her any less?
No. Nothing could make me love her any less, unfortunately.
I doubt that if she cheated on me, I’d love her any less.
But that’s the thing about love, it doesn’t snuff out like a flame overnight.
Slowly, overtime, it dwindles, bit by bit burns off until there’s nothing left but thick grey smoke.
I go down in jeans and a t-shirt and think about giving Connie a quick call but then I hear shouting—lots of angry, aggressive shouting.
Turn the corner, pull back because surely not—like, no way—?
Digby stands at the front desk, hurling abuse at a manager and a concierge.
“Just tell me what fucking room she’s in!” He shouts, slams his hand down on the desk.
I stand a few feet away, observing.
The manager pulls a face, swallows. “I will have to ask you to leave Mr Beaufort. You are disturbing our guests.”
Digby throws his head back, laughs, looks over to the side, spots me. Face drops.
He comes storming over with the manager hot on his heels.
“You,” he pokes my chest. “You fucking prick.”
I frown, shake my head. “Don’t know what you’re talking about?”
His jaw ticks, his face red. He leans in close to my face but he looks like a dick—I’ve got inches on him in terms of height (and every other area, too, but I’m not about to be that childish).
“Tell me where she is,” he says slowly, eyes blazing.
I shrug, give a look over to the manager to say I’m fine but he’s already on his walkie-talkie.
“Where’s who?”
I almost smile.
“Don’t mess me about,” he warns, flicks his head over my shoulder. “Where is she? I just want to talk to her, make sure she’s alright.”
Digby goes to walk past me but I push his chest back.
“She’s more than alright, mate. Don’t worry.”
I see his face fall, like completely. His eyebrows drop, his jaw goes slack, his eyelids go heavy.
“Where is she?” He pronounces every word as if that’s going to get me to lead him to her. “Just tell me, Arthur.”
“Arthur, where on earth is my ice? My face is all puffy—oh my god.”
Both our heads whip around, lock on Phoebe standing on the bottom step of the stairs that lead up to the rooms.
“Digby,” she marches over. “What the fuck are you doing here?” She whispers, eyes darting around the lobby.
He immediately goes to her, leans in to kiss her, I think ,but she pulls back. “What are you doing?”
His face goes soft, tilts his head, grabs her hand. “I was worried. Just wanted to make sure you were okay but they,” he nods back over to the check in desk. “Wouldn’t tell me what room you were in.”
I can see it on her face, plain as day, that she doesn’t want him here, popping the bubble she was so comfortably wrapped up in with me last night.
Phoebe swallows, takes a deep breath then looks over at me. “Can you get my ice please?”
I frown, eyes darting between both of them. “I’m not leaving you with him.”
She rolls her eyes, Digby sniffs a laugh. “It’s fine, I promise. We’re just going to talk.”
She can see how uncomfortable this is making me so she grabs my wrist, pulls me over to the corner.
“It will be fine, just relax.”
“I am fine,” I pull back, nod over at Digby. “He’s the one who isn’t fine, should’ve seen the way he was going just a minute ago—they almost kicked him out!”
She sniffs, glances at her feet. “I know, I know—I’m sorry.” Something flashes through her eyes, something painful. “But you’re not my boyfriend, he is.”
My stomach dips, I nod, walk off to get the ice.
My legs feel like jelly when I look back and see the two of them walking up the stairs.
I swear to be as quick as possible because people can be unpredictable when they’re angry and let’s be honest, Phoebe isn’t the best person to be around when you’re that riled up.
She’s too soft, too innocent, too easy to hurt.
I get a champagne bucket filled with ice and then take the lift up to the room.
Will she be pissed at me?
I don’t know.
We’ve spent so long apart that I’m scared I don’t know her at all now.
But if she still is the Phoebe that I grew up with then I know she wants me to go in there, she wants me there because she doesn’t want to be alone with Digby.
I don’t knock, I don’t clear my throat, I just walk straight in.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Phoebe cries.
There’s a crash, a loud scattering on the floor.
I drop the ice, run into the bathroom.
Digby’s raging. All her makeup, all her stuff—all broken and bleeding over the tiles.
“Did you fucking sleep with him!” He shouts, gets in her face and that’s when it clocks—what I’m looking at.
I rush over to him, push him hard, he stumbles.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” I ask, completely bewildered.
“It’s fine,” Phoebe sniffs, back glued to the wall, face red and blotchy. “It’s okay, Arthur.”
“It’s fucking far from fine!” I shout, waving at the mess all over the bathroom.
Digby ignores me, turns back to Phoebe, breathes slowly, his chest rising and falling quickly.
“Tell me the truth, did you sleep with him?” He asks it so calmly, so softly that it’s hard to believe he was just destroying her things.
Her watery eyes lock on mine for a brief second—is she going to tell him?
I don’t shake my head or nod or give her any indication on what to tell him.
The silence is suffocating.
“No,” Phoebe whispers with a small shake of her head.
The three of us still for a second and I think it’s over, he’ll go, leave her alone and we can all go back to normal.
But the stillness is quickly struck when Digby turns around, puts his fist through the mirror.
“You lying bitch!” He shouts at the top of his lungs, glass falling all over the counter and to the floor—and it happens so quickly that none of us register what happened until he rushes over to Phoebe cradling her hand.
“Get away from me!” She shouts, tears streaming down her face. “Now! Get out, Digby.”
I’m stock still.
She turns her back to us, still cradling her hand.
Digby brushes past me on his way out and I wonder if I should leave as well because didn’t I do the exact same thing to her?
I remember it, that night in her bathroom when she flushed the coke down the toilet.
I’ve never forgotten that night, even on the nights after that when I didn’t even know what day of the week it was.
I still saw it—the flinch, the blood, the tears, the way she went to go to me first before anything else.
Kind of hated her for that, a bit.
How could she still be with me after that?
Why didn’t she leave?
Why didn’t she realise that she deserved better?
The sight of blood trickling to the tiles snaps me out of it and carefully, I go over to her.
When I place my hand on her back, she doesn’t flinch, just turns around and throws herself at me.
“I miss her, Arthur,” she wails, her whole body trembling. “I miss Freddy so much.”
“I know,” I mutter, squeezing her hard to hopefully calm her down.
“I want her back so badly.”
“I know you do.”
“I don’t know what I’m doing wrong,” she shakes her head against my chest. “Everyone just keeps leaving me.”
“I’m not,” I promise her. “I’m not leaving. I’m not going anywhere, Phoebs—never again.”
She continues to cry for a good five minutes in the bathroom. I move us over to sit on the side of the bathtub.
“Let me have a look at your hand.”
She pulls away, holds it out.
It’s deep but not stitches deep, thankfully. Just a small slit on the side of her right hand.
“Hospital job?” She sniffs, looks up at me.
I smile, shake my head, stare at her face, try to locate a similar mark I left on her a few years ago. I catch it but it’s faint and I can probably only see it because I was the one who put it there.
I reach up, brush my finger over it, she grabs my hand, leans into it.
“I’m sorry,” I tell her. “For that.”
She shrugs. “It’s okay. You didn’t mean it—you weren’t you then and I know that, Arthur. You’d never do something like that now. Digby wasn’t high or drunk, he did that because it’s in him to do that.”
“You don’t need to make me feel better about it. It was a shitty thing to do regardless of my state of mind.”
She smiles softly. “We were kids.”
“Yeah, acting like fully grown adults.”
Phoebe leans in, presses her lips softly against mine.
“What am I going to do about all my shit?” She laughs, tired, waves her hand to the floor. “That’s at least three grand’s worth of stuff.”
“Well,” I pull her up, walk over to the sink. “Lucky for you that we’re in Paris and not in the middle of the desert.”
She smiles at me through the mirror as I rinse her hand under the tap—it’s a real, genuine smile. Reaches her eyes.
We go out, I buy her all the shit he ruined and although I’d have much rather sat down with her and talked about it instead of spending money, it puts a smile on her face.
I guess that’s what she’s used to, though. A lot of girls in our circle are. When you only ever received gifts instead of conversations, it kind of just sticks.
The whole day, she acts fine, like nothing happened at all and in a weird, sick way, it makes me happy—like it’s her. That’s what Phoebe does. That’s what my Phoebe has always done. Her acting any other way would’ve put me on edge.