Chapter Thirty
Lady Phoebe
June was a mess, complete and utter shit show. Paris, spilling my guts to Arthur, sleeping with Arthur, Ascot—it was all too much so the only option was to flee the country and spend some time floating around the Mediterranean on my family’s yacht.
“I’m so glad you’re back,” I tell Spencer as we lounge on the top deck in tiny, skimpy bikinis that would give the paparazzi that have been following us heart attacks.
“I’m glad I was away,” she scoffs, hands me the bottle of oil to rub across her back. “Sounds like it all went a bit pear shaped.”
“You know,” I sigh. “I don’t even care anymore.”
“About what exactly? Digby, Arthur, Astrid, Arthur and Astrid, you and Digby? Honestly, Phoebe, it’s like the early seasons of Made In Chelsea.”
“All of it,” I tell her, moving onto my back.
That’s another thing, too—after Arthur and I’s little run in at Stratton House last weekend, Astrid magically got back in touch with him and now they’ve been going on dates.
And I don’t just mean the quiet, low-key, hush-hush kind.
I mean, the holding hands in public, lips brushing cheeks, dining alfresco kind.
I wondered for a couple days if they had slept together.
I asked myself if that would bother me and I truly thought it wouldn’t until Zara told me to stop frowning so much because otherwise I’d need Botox and that’s so not in right now—unless of course, your one wish in life is to look like a real housewife of Cheshire.
I’ve been using Digby to keep my mind off it.
Kind of just sleeping with him any chance I get because I still can’t find the words for him.
He never apologised for Ascot, by the way.
That night, I went home (home, home, childhood home) and we didn’t speak for a few days.
Like usual, it got swept under the carpet (maybe my fault?
Maybe I shouldn’t have let him sweep it under the rug?) and we just went back to normal.
I say we but that’s probably more just Digby specific because every time I am under or on top of him, he isn’t the one I'm looking at. It’s always Arthur. Always.
It’s his lips I’m kissing, his name I’m muttering in my head, his hair I’m grabbing onto, his back I’m clawing at.
Hasn’t been Digby for a long time. Since forever, really.
I also wondered if Arthur was put off because of what I told him in Paris. I stripped myself naked—skin and all—and like I already predicted, he didn’t like what he saw.
That’s fine.
I knew that would be the case.
I mean, why wouldn’t it?
It’s the dates with Astrid I’m finding myself thinking about late at night.
For some reason, I’d rather their sex tape get leaked.
Dates are intimate. Dates are where you get the little inside jokes and the deepest parts of yourself splayed open.
You get to know someone on a date. If you’re sleeping with them, there’s not much space or time to get to know them.
That and well, Arthur never took me on a date.
I think I’m just angry at the idea of Astrid getting him sober when she never loved him when he was high.
Athena comes up to the top deck carrying a tray of fresh fruit.
“You’ll never guess who’s Monaco.”
“Bliss.”
She rolls her eyes at me. “You’re meant to guess.”
I grab a bunch of grapes. “I don’t actually have that many friends to guess from, so…”
“Anyway,” she shrugs. “Connie and the boys are coming later tonight.”
Spencer pops her head up behind me. “Connie’s coming?”
Athena grins at me.
“Yeah,” I smile as Spence sits fully upright, sunglasses balancing on the edge of her nose. “Connie’s coming.”
“Why’d you say it like that?” She frowns.
“Like what?”
“Like…” she laughs. “Like there’s something going on.”
I look at Athena, back to Spence, shrug. “Nothing’s going on.”
She flops back down. “Whatever.”
Athena starts laughing, throws a strawberry over my head at her.
“Can anyone else hear that?” I ask, looking up at the sky. “Look—that fucking helicopter has been circling us for hours!”
“Oh, yeah,” Athena nods, stands up, waves at it. “That’s just Reggie and Ivan.”
“Who?”
She turns back to me. “George’s men.”
I frown. “He’s spying on you?”
Athena rolls her eyes. “Not like that! Just making sure I’m safe.”
“And why wouldn’t you be?” Spencer pipes up.
“I don’t know, he just loves me,” she says casually, popping a slice of grapefruit in her mouth.
“Where’s Lottie?” I ask. “Is she coming with Charlie?”
“No,” Athena shakes her head. “They’re in Gibraltar for some business stuff.
He’s coming over for tonight and then straight back to London for some training football camp thing—whatever.
” And then she leans in, slides her sunglasses off.
“But between us, they’re on a bit of a break at the moment.
You know,” she nods at me. “Her depression is back and before you think I’m a terrible friend, I actually begged her to let me stay with her while Charlie was gone but she wasn’t having none of it.
She was all, ‘If you don’t go you’ll have to help me change the baby’s nappy’ and I was like ‘I’m your best friend but even I have to draw lines. ’ You know?”
She shakes her head. “Shitty nappies is where I draw the line.”
“Oh, right,” I nod slowly.
“Anyway,” she leans back, crosses her long legs. “Will Digby be popping over?”
I groan. “I don’t see why he would. All we do is have sex, there’s not exactly loads to talk about.”
“Is it even good sex?” Spencer butts in.
“Ohmigosh!” Athena squeals. “That’s so marmy! You can’t ask people about that stuff, Spence!”
“Get over yourself!”
“To answer your question,” I swing my head around to look at Spencer.
“It’s not. It really isn’t. It’s so boring, you know?
Like, no excitement, no sparks—with Arthur it was always exciting.
” I turn back to look at Athena. “Might wanna cover your virgin ears for this bit.” Back to Spencer.
“With Digby it’s just in, out, roll over and go to sleep.
It’s what I imagine married people sex is like—I mean, this is my prime!
I’m twenty-one for crying out loud. I shouldn't be having boring, old people sex! I should be like…”
“Swinging?” Spencer fills in. “Whips and chains?”
“Fuck off,” I shove her. “But you know what I mean, right?” I turn my head to look at both girls.
They both nod and for some reason that makes me feel even worse.
Like, maybe I was just making it up in my head that the spark I once felt with Digby has truly fizzled out.
Then again, did I even feel a spark in the first place?
Was I just running into the first pair of open arms I found? Filling the hole Arthur left in me?
? ? ?
We dock in Monaco and go for dinner at La M?me after the boys decided to give us a rather theatrical entrance via helicopter.
We meet the boys at the restaurant because Athena had a wardrobe malfunction on the way and then Spencer wanted to change her shoes and then she had to do a wee (a nervous one, I think). And then I forgot my phone and then Spence had to do another wee (definitely a nervous one).
But eventually we get there, bladders empty and stomachs ready to fill.
My eyes land on Arthur because obviously they do anyway but I wasn’t expecting him to be here. I thought he was staying in London because he thought Digby was going to be here and he wouldn’t have wanted to make it awkward for me.
But no, he’s here, sitting at the table, next to Connie.
“How comes you came?” I nod at Arthur as we sit down.
That weird tension that’s been lingering between us recently isn’t lost on me either but I keep my tone fine, casual, no high lilts, no low drops to make it sound like a really important question.
“I got him to come,” Connie smiles proudly, pats him on the back.
“With all this setting up, we should get you to host the next season of Love Island.”
He gives me a dirty look while Arthur snorts.
“Where’s your boyfriend?” He throws at me with the same pretend fine-ness in his voice.
I shrug one shoulder. “At home.” I rest my chin in my hands. “Where’s Astrid?”
His jaw tense for a short, split second. “On her boat.”
I frown. “What do you mean?”
He takes a sip from his water. “She’s here, on her own boat, with her own friends.”
Something weird and heavy sits in the pit of my stomach then—I don’t like it. I don’t like her being here. I don’t like him being with her. I don’t like their dates. I don’t like the mere thought of them being anything more than casual friends who go on dates.
I don’t like any of it.
It isn’t right.
I used to think it’d help—him being with someone else now I know that he can be happy on his own (I think?).
But the truth is, it isn’t helping. Not now I’ve realised that there was never any spark with Digby.
I imagined it all. The whole thing. Digby and I—it was never real.
The first kiss, the first time we slept together, the first time I thought he bought me flowers.
That picking up of my heartbeat was never there.
It was all imagined. When I saw Arthur for the first time on that rooftop, I knew because that’s when I felt it for real and there’s quite a significant difference between something real and fake.
I can’t be happy with Digby so surely—surely—he can’t be happy with Astrid? I mean, Arthur and I, we’re one of the same. Cut from the same body, only placed on this earth to find one another.
“That’s nice for her,” I mutter.
Arthur nods, chest out, back straight and it’s so obvious.
So clear that it’s all a facade. When he saw me at Stratton and gave me the key and started being all cocky?
Fake. That isn’t him. There’s a thick, plastic sheen over the both of us that we can both very clearly see but for some reason, neither one of us wants to be the first to rip it off so for now, we’ll stay pretending.
To Arthur, I’m happy with Digby.
To me, Arthur is happy with Astrid.
Are we actually?
Are we fuck.