The Grosvenor’s Ghost (LaLaLondon Universe #2)

Chapter One

Lady Phoebe

“And then there was the time I accidentally took viagra at the Natural History Museum—complete shitshow. Honestly, never do it. I woke up the next morning and had breakfast with someone’s granddaughter,” Zara laughs, downs the rest of her drink while the others howl at yet another of her socially unacceptable stories.

I smile in the way you do to not make the other person feel awkward, although, I’m almost certain Zara hasn’t felt awkward or embarrassed a day in her life.

She’s a bit of a liability if I’m being honest.

I do like her, though, don’t get me wrong but she’s just a bit jagged around the edges, too aware of the fact that once upon a time she didn’t have money but now she does. When I went out with her, I felt myself over apologetic for our services to soften the blows of her harsh demands.

‘Oh, Darling, you do know I ordered a dirty martini and not swamp water? Why is there a gherkin swimming around aimlessly like a limp cock instead of three neatly stacked olives on a cocktail stick? It’s the simplest recipe in the history of mixology, my love.

If you can’t make it correctly, I’ll go behind the bar and do it myself’ was said to the barely eighteen year old waitress at the Red Room.

‘If I was going to be doing bumps of anything it’d be cocaine not fish eggs. Go and get me a mother of pearl spoon before I shut this place down for abuse,’ was screamed at the waiter at Scott’s when I met her for lunch.

Cynthia is a fan of her, though. Mum says it’s because she reminds her of a younger, more calmer (if you can believe it) version of her which I don’t find hard to believe.

“You alright, Phoebs?” Digby whispers in my ear.

I blink out of my trance, rub my hands on my thighs and smile up at him.

“I’m okay.”

“Sure?” He smiles the same way he did when we first met.

“Yeah.”

Lean up, kiss his cheek because our friends have all subconsciously looked our way. It’s more so Connie and George who have been keeping eyes on us which is weird because I have people who keep eyes on me already.

It’s because of him. I know it is. It’s obvious that it is.

“Right,” George claps. “More drinks?”

Digby leans over the table, hands George his gold Amex. “I’ll get this round, mate.”

George frowns, an amused grin on his face, looks down at his brother then back to Digby’s outstretched hand. “We’re at my bar, mate—the tab is under my name.”

Digby aristocratic-ally smiles and wags his card at him. “No, I know but—”

George’s smile drops like it’s been thrown off a building.

“Think I can’t fucking afford it or something?”

“Um…” Digby clears his throat, shakes his head, puts his card away.

I bury my head in my hands and internally pass away.

They couldn’t make it any more obvious that they don’t like him.

Every time we go out, a small fire ignites in the middle of us.

Every hour or so it gets slightly bigger and bigger until someone decides to throw vodka on it in hopes it will fizzle out but well…

we all know how that ends. It doesn’t work.

Will never work. And everytime I think it will, I leave covered in soot and burnt to a crisp.

George walks off to order us another few bottles of champagne. Connie eyes me over the rim of his gin I loved Digby.

“Seen a ghost, Phoebs?” he laughs, nudging my arm as I reach for my glass on the table.

Shake my head numbly. “Stop calling me that.”

“Alright,” he mutters, offended even though I’ve been telling him to stop calling me that since the first time he did.

The familiarity of the walls closing in around me and the sweat coating my hands makes me ditch my glass and reach for the bottle. I drink straight from that until the clock chimes midnight.

We stand on the rooftop garden, watching the fireworks as they go off over the London Eye. I’m swaying and the January air feels warm. The sparkles on my dress are chafing against my bare arms and I want to take it off.

“Happy New Year,” Digby kisses me as I stand there like the painting of Lucretia by Sir Godfrey Kneller which I hate because not only is it deeply depressing but I’ve never cared for art. Not until Digby. I’d much rather be the human form of Oizy’s.

“Happy New Year,” I mutter once he pulls back but he’s not done, he yanks my hips into him and holds my head to his chest which I can’t stand because It’d be so much easier if he didn’t love me.

It’s so much easier to hate when the object of your resentment is a truly, to the bone, horrible person who deserves to be hated.

And like I was as a teenager, I’m all twisted up inside, trying to battle this churning poison in my gut—pointing the hatred I have for myself at someone else who deserves it.

Over the years, Dr.Kane’s been telling me that I don’t deserve the hate I give myself which was a shock. I mean, how could I not hate myself for staying with Arthur when I knew full well I should've left him?

But as I reach up on my tip-toes and whisper into his ear, drag him into the back of a waiting town car outside of the club and throw myself into his lap, I’m reminded that it still creeps up every now and then.

I plead for him to kiss me the same way Arthur did.

Beg him to touch me in the spots Arthur knew.

Pray that he’ll say the things Arthur did that entered my ears like songs.

But he doesn’t, I realise, when we’re finished and sweaty.

He won’t know me like the back of his hand because I won’t let him.

I swore to myself that I would only save something so intimate for Arthur but when I realised he wasn’t going to be coming back anytime soon and that Digby really did love me, I just tried to wire him the same way Arthur was.

Tried to teach him the things Arthur did and loved.

Tried to turn him into someone he’d never become because no male walking this earth will ever compete with Arthur, let alone compare.

“I’m getting in the shower,” Digby kisses my head before jumping out of his bed.

I snuggle into the duvet that isn’t blue or satin and sure, maybe, we were only kids back then—Arthur and I—but that’s probably what made it so special, in a way.

We were so young and small and innocent and naive that something so big and grown up felt solely like ours.

Something no one else could touch because nobody else would be getting involved.

It was magical in a way that it isn’t now and I miss it.

I miss him.

I miss him like I never had him in the first place.

And if he is back, he won’t want me. No boy would.

Not even Digby, he’s only still here because I haven’t told him.

So I will continue to hold those giggly, awkward moments around my neck like a locket because I’ll never get them back, never get the chance to replace them with mature kisses and experienced hands.