Chapter Four
Prince Arthur
Connie and I pop over to Mayfair to meet the boys. First time I’ve seen them, didn’t really want to right away because now I’m having a bit of a panic attack on their doorstep.
The whole time while I was away, I rehearsed every conversation with everyone who I knew deserved one but since coming back to London, the words I’ve been reciting over and over in my head, completely fly out of the window.
You know, never really geared myself up for my own mother kicking me out but here we are.
Living with Connie is basically how you’d expect.
Lot of day time drinking, a bit more old soap rewatching then what you’d expect maybe, many drawers I’m not allowed to open, one of everything—like, literally, everything.
One fork, spoon, knife, plate, bowl, towel—all untouched, too because sod cooking for yourself when your best pals run a hotel with Michelin star dining—and a few too many ‘abstract’ art pieces lining the walls.
But other than that, it’s okay. We’ve always got along, me and him.
Done quite a lot of talking, too, which I think has been good.
Conversations when you come out of rehab or hospital are never easy, obviously but Connie’s the type of person to smooth it all down, know exactly what you mean and nod along even when you don’t make sense.
A woman opens the door a minute later, welcomes us in, bows her head at me—haven’t missed that.
I was under strict orders to not make any public appearances until the statements my family have put out have been well received but I don’t live with them anymore, I don’t have to abide by their stupid lockdown.
“Arthur,” George comes strolling through to the entryway. “How you been, mate?”
He slaps me on the back, pulls me in for a rough hug.
“I’m good,” I tell him, eyes darting all over their new house.
Got nothing on Connie’s apartment and also some castles I’ve been inside.
It’s the house their parents were building when we were at school.
Taken them about four years. No need to get into details because Channel 4 have already done a documentary on it, Architectural Digest has done a full walk through and every magazine under the sun has spoken about it.
But if for whatever reason you live under a rock, then it takes up an entire corner of a street in Mayfair, and apart from royal properties, is one of the most valuable homes in the world.
It’s insane.
“Come,” George nods his head and we follow him through the marble entryway, down a small set of stairs and into what I can only imagine is one of many family rooms.
He jumps over the back of the sunken sofa, gets himself comfy. “So, tell us, Arth, what you been up to?”
I sigh, heavily, cross my leg over my other knee and lean back. “Not much.”
George looks surprised for whatever reason.
“I know,” Connie scoffs. “No shagging.”
I cut him a look. “I was holed up in a fucking house in Scotland—it weren’t a bender in the Mediterranean.”
“No, I know,” George cocks his head. “But…I mean, gave us a bit of a fright there, Arth. Disappearing like that.”
He stares at me with a weird kind of empathy in his eye that I’ve never seen before. I do feel bad, of course, I do but other than saying sorry and making amends, what else can I do?
If I could reverse time and be a different person, you know I would do it in a heartbeat.
“Yeah,” clear my throat. “Sorry about that.”
“Go on,” Connie nudges my shoulder.
I glance at him.
“Tell him,” he encourages. “Tell him what you told me.”
“Con—” Shake my head.
“Tell me what?” George cuts in.
Look back over to him, blow out a breath. Lot harder saying sorry when you know the word is carrying more than just the meaning—for us, it carries years of trauma.
When I can’t find the words, George leans forward, briefly looking over his shoulder when Albie walks into the room, he gives me a small head nod and sits down.
“Look,” George starts. “Me and you, Arth—we’ve been friends for how many years?
A fucking lot, let me tell you. I know you’re sorry, yeah?
And I forgive you, I will always fucking forgive you.
You walk through that door—” he points to over his shoulder, “At gone midnight and need a place to stay, you know I will always let you in. You need anything—this goes for you as well, you muppet,” he points to Connie.
“It’s yours. You need to bury a body? I’ll point you to the right man.
Got nicked? Make me your only phone call and I’ll be there.
Youse are family. but…” he brushes a hand down his face and gives me a stern look.
“You fucking relapse and you can mark my words when I say I won’t forgive you—I mean, heroin, Arth? What were you thinking?”
Connie sniffs beside me. “That was fucking beautiful.”
I hang my head, squeeze my eyes closed.
After all this time, I still haven’t gotten to the bottom of his question.
I don’t know what I was thinking—I guess I wasn’t at all otherwise I wouldn’t be here now having this conversation.
It’s a tricky thing to navigate, addiction.
I know I’ll always be an addict but this time around, I don’t have the urges.
I don’t think I ever really wanted to use in the first place but it’s twisted up like that, drugs pull you in, you want them even when you don’t.
For instance, Connie smokes weed almost every night to sleep and every time, he comes in, smelling of Febreeze and apologising but it doesn’t bother me, doesn’t trigger me because weed was never a big deal to me.
I tried, of course, but I found it never gave me the effect that cocaine or heroin did—those drugs completely shut my brain off, there wasn’t a single thought or feeling inside of my head and that’s what I craved the most. Weed just made me feel tired and hungry and I wasn’t after that.
I was searching for a switch in my brain and I found it in a needle.
Taken a lot of time for me to realise there is no switch for your brain, not really.
Through all the therapy and rehab, I guess you could say I’m still chasing that feeling of turning my brain off but not in the form of drugs.
I’m learning to live with it, block out the unwanted thoughts, and realise that no matter what I do or how hard I go looking for it, there will never be anything permanent other than death to turn my brain off.
“I know,” I swallow, facing the twins again. “It was fucking stupid and believe me when I say I have absolutely no intentions of going back there. You know, I’ve got therapy and shit now.”
“That’s good,” George nods. “And how are you finding it?”
Well, I mean, first of all I’m finding his interest in my sobriety rather confusing since he seems more proud then my own family and secondly, “Good, actually. I listen, I take on board what he says because I want the help—even back then when I said I didn’t want help, I did. Never wanted to end up how I did.”
“Yeah,” George says in a low voice, leans back. “Well, I’m proud of you, Arth—like, proper, yeah? We all are.”
“You’re brave,” Albie tells me. “We’re all proper proud of you.”
His words, they kind of hit me at full force. I don’t know how to react so I just give him a bit of an awkward smile. Has my mum ever told me she was proud of me? Maybe? Once? Not enough or in any way that I can remember, anyways.
But then again, what is she meant to be proud of?
Getting clean, coming back, my brain argues.
“Anyway,” I clear my throat. “Enough about me, what have you lot been up to?”
“Not a lot of sleeping, I can tell you that much,” George groans.
“Oh, prey tell,” Connie winks at me, leans forward.
He rolls his eyes. “Because of the baby, you dick.”
My eyes almost pop out of my head. “You had a baby?!”
All three of them start laughing.
I frown.
Was I meant to know or something? I mean, surely Connie would’ve told me.
“No, I didn’t have a baby,” George eventually says. “Lottie was pregnant in school, weren’t she?”
“Oh, shit, yeah.” I remember, thinking back to it but we never knew if it was for real or just another money hungry rumour. “So she had it then? Was it Charlie’s?”
“They’re best mates now,” Connie tells me.
“Fuck off,” I laugh. “No way, are you actually?” I press when George says nothing.
“He’s alright, not my best mate, though.”
“He practically lives here!” Connie jumps in. “You kicked me out so you could house his family!”
George folds his lips in, wobbles his head. “Not true.”
“So is fucking true!”
“I kicked you out of the hotel because you kept shagging the cleaning ladies! They didn’t have to do the turndown service anymore because you were the fucking turndown service—only thing they were cleaning were their mouths after you were done with them!”
“Oh my god,” Connie mutters, shaking his head. “That isn’t true!”
George opens his mouth, closes it.
“We had to start making our own beds,” Albie chimes in.
“Whatever,” Connie rolls his eyes. “You’re just lazy.”
“Can we get back to this fucking baby, please?” I cut in.
“Oh, yeah, right,” George nods. “So, she had the baby a little bit after you left, Charlie signed with England—football—but when he’s away Lottie stays here with Athena.”
“Athena lives here?” I look around expecting her to jump out from the wall.
“Well,” he wipes away a smile, cheeks flushed a bit. “She’s with me, ain’t she? So wherever I am, she’s there. I still spend most of my time at the hotel but this gaff pisses all over that.”
“Says words like ‘gaff’ while sitting on a twelve grand sofa,” Connie laughs. “Your wealth is wasted on you common people.”
Albie reaches behind, lobs a TV remote at his head.
Connie’s face goes red. “We fucking spoke about throwing stuff at my head! Stop it!”
Albie then throws a cushion over at him.
Connie jumps up, tackles him to the floor.
“And then they start kissing,” George laughs, rolls his eyes. “Come on,” he nods his chin at me. “I’ll give you a tour.”