Chapter Twenty-Nine
Prince Arthur
Friday night at Stratton House isn’t where I wanted to be but after Digby’s little show at Ascot yesterday, it’s exactly where I needed to be.
“Fucking cheek of him,” Connie shakes his head. “I still can’t believe it.”
George shrugs, tuts, leans back into the sofa in his office. “What can we do? Can’t exactly tell her who she can and can’t date. She’s a grown woman.”
“Still our friend, though,” Albie cuts in from the armchair in front of George’s desk.
I think about it.
I want to kill him.
I treated Phoebe bad—believe me, I know I did—but never like that.
Never sober, straight-faced and so publicly.
That type of humiliation and cruelty only comes from the people who have it embedded deep into their bones.
There’s no way to sparkle glitter over what he did even though we all know Phoebe will try to anyway.
“I fucking hate him.”
George looks at me. “Don’t we all?”
There’s a knock on the door. George goes over to open it and Charlie pops his head through.
“Your kid’s out there,” he nods over at Connie. “Making a bit of a knob of himself.” He smiles, ducks back out.
“I knew it!” Connie slaps the sofa, stands up. “I knew I shouldn’t have let him tag along.” And then he looks over at George, points at him. “You bar him, you hear me? He’s not even allowed within a ten foot radius of this place, alright?”
George grins, holds his hands up, nods.
I turn to him once Connie leaves. “Heard anything from Tilden yet?”
George shakes his head, a stern, swift flick. “Nope—not a fucking peep.”
I frown for a second. “Would Phoebe know anything about him?”
He pulls a face. “Doubt it, mate. None of the girls speak to them anymore. Not since they left school—not even Athena.”
I run a hand down my face, lean back into the sofa.
“Shit.”
“Yeah,” George sighs.
And then he sits up, pins me with a stare. “You’re gonna tell her, aren’t you?”
I lean forward, almost laugh. “Who? Phoebe?”
“Well, yeah…”
“I can’t tell her—she’d run a thousand miles.” Shake my head. “I can’t get her involved.”
“She already is involved, mate. The flowers…?”
“Yeah, but—” Clear my throat. “No,” I shake my head. “I can’t tell her.”
He gives me a look, a strange look. “You can’t not tell her?”
“Why not?”
We’ve already jumped through a thousand hoops, I’m not sure my legs will carry me through another hundred—let alone another thousand.
I’m tired of the jumping, of the chasing, of the stolen kisses—I’m exhausted from it all.
All I want is her. Plain and simple, exactly how she comes—her.
No more hoops, no more boulders, nothing.
“I can’t, George.” Pinch the bridge of my nose. “I really can’t.”
After a second he holds his hands up. “Fine, don’t.”
We stare each other down for a second, not sure why he thinks it’s his place to tell me to tell Phoebe.
Without even asking him I know that there’s an entire list of shit he hasn’t—and will never—confess to Athena.
Killings, guns, drugs, laundering, heists, racketeering—it goes on. Athena knows nothing.
Despite what you may believe, some secrets are way better off being kept away, locked, bolted, in that special box in your mind. There’s probably a ring box size in my mind, the rest of it has already been bared to Phoebe.
The old IPhone 6 sitting on the coffee table vibrates, Albie picks it up, nods at his brother and I get up and leave.
I take the stairs up to the main floor of the club. Not really my scene anymore but there’s no denying there’s always an atmosphere in here there’s pretty much unbeatable. I mean, I’ve been in near enough every exclusive nightclub you can think of and yet, I always find myself back here.
I go to the bar where it’s most quiet and without even acknowledging me, the bartender slides me across a glass of Coke, a Stratton embroidered napkin sitting underneath it.
I take a sip without smelling it because I reckon he values his life more than anything.
Maybe at another club I might’ve hesitated but not here—never here.
Red hot on any kind of date rape or spiking.
A scandal like that is the last thing this family needs.
It clocks after a second.
The temptation that comes with a sober person sitting at a bar simply just isn’t there.
I start thinking about it—the fact I’m not even interested in giving into the thought of there being no temptation.
Thought there’d be something. A slight twinge, a breath of a whisper, a gentle blow in my ear, a quiet ringing in my head but there’s nothing at all.
Then again, even if I wanted to challenge myself, I’d never get served alcohol in here.
It is strange, though—staring at the tables I used to be nose deep in coke at, the bathrooms where I’d find myself for half the night, the walls I used to hold myself up, the bar top I used to crouch behind when everyone else told me I’d had enough—being sober here.
All these memories that you might think are bad ones actually put a slight, small smile on my face.
It’s almost bittersweet. I could say that those times were my peak of loving Phoebe but the reality is my entire life has been at the height of loving her.
No down moments, no overly high moments—it’s all been one steady ascend of loving her.
I wonder if it’s like that for everyone.
Does everyone look at their partners and feel as though they’re chugging up a rollercoaster, waiting for the inevitable dip in your stomach as you go free falling only for it to never come?
You know, every time I look at Phoebe I almost feel myself going up for the first time.
I can’t pinpoint a singular moment where I fell in love with her—it’s just always been like this.
I wonder if this is how Digby feels and if that is the case, then I can’t say I blame him. Getting off that roller coaster might just be the most difficult, painful, tricky thing someone can do.
It’s then, when I’m picturing this roller coaster in my mind that a pair of long tanned legs comes bounding up to the bar.
“Another round of shots!” She calls out, pushing past everyone else waiting.
The bartender nods, gets right to it.
Phoebe doesn’t spot me but I see her so I grab her wrist as she goes to leave. She spins towards me, a smile, and then shock, and then confusion until she pulls her hand back.
“Knew it wouldn’t take long,” she remarks, nods at my glass.
“It's Coke.”
She scoffs, rolls her eyes. “Your favourite.”
I wipe away my smile and hold the glass out to her.
She frowns, takes a sip, looks surprised.
“You’re drunk again,” I note, tilt my head at her.
“Like you’re one to talk.”
“I’m not.”
“So, what’s your point?” She raises her eyebrows, impatient.
I shrug. “No point, just an observation. I heard what happened at Ascot.”
Phoebe rolls her eyes. “Get your nose out, Arthur. You weren’t even there.”
“I heard you wanted me to be, though.”
Her jaw tenses for a second. “What are you even doing here? Spying on me? I have a boyfriend,” she hiccups. “And before you think about going and running your mouth to him, he knows I’m here—you little tell-tale.”
“Okay,” I nod.
“And,” she points at me. “I love him, Arthur.”
“I’m sure you do.”
“Oh,” she nods dramatically. “I do. I love Digby and he’s my boyfriend and you’re not—so, whatever.” She clicks her tongue, shrugs.
“Will I be leaving my bedroom door open tonight?”
“Fuck you.”
“Or actually,” I wag my finger at her, grin on my face. “Connie just bought a lovely new chaise for the front room.”
She stares at me, eyes blazing.
“Heard you got a thing for them.”
She pouts, biting the inside of her cheek, neck red.
“Anyway,” I jump off the barstool. “Door’ll always be open for you, Phoebs.” I brush past her, drop a spare key to the apartment into her open hand—because of course it’s fucking open—and pull the back of her head into me to give her a rough kiss on her forehead.
My heart fucking shatters as I walk right past her and out of the club.
I want nothing more than to drag her out of here and put her in my bed but I can’t—it’s not my place to do that anymore so I did the next best thing, get a key cut so she knows she’ll always have somewhere where she knows she’s welcome.
I get into one of the town cars waiting outside, the London sky passing by me in a blur of forgettable nights, broken promises, shattered hearts, murky truths, street lights and trees.
I’m about five minutes away when my phone pings with a text from George. It’s a number.
A number I knew all too well.
He tells me to call it, he might be more liable to pick up if he sees me calling.
I think about it. Could be a bigger temptation than sitting at a bar.
When I get in, I go straight out to the balcony because Connie forgot to turn the air con on again before he left and call the number.
I don’t give it much thought.
Push comes to shove, I’ll just lob my phone off the balcony.
With every ring, my stomach dips to the point where I actually think I might throw up.
Six, seven rings before it cuts and the line goes silent for a short second.
‘The number you have called is not avail—’