Chapter Six
Lady Phoebe
“Arthur’s back.”
“And how do you feel about that?” Dr. Kane asks.
I give him a dumb look. “How do you think I feel?”
“I don’t know,” he shrugs. “You tell me.”
“Messed up.”
He tilts his head. “Why?”
I roll my eyes, get up, walk around his office.
It’s very boring. Grey, black, white. Nothing for me to look at and distract myself—apart from that picture of his family on his desk but his son kind of resembles mashed potatoes, you know, pale, fat, chubby, so whenever I look at it, my stomach starts rumbling—so I go over to the window, stare down at all the tiny Londoners going about their days.
“What are you thinking about, Phoebe?”
“Like, right now?”
“Yes.”
“What my brains would look like splattered on the concrete if I jumped out this window.”
“Okay,” he says slowly. “That’s an intrusive thought and what do we do about those?”
I turn to face him. “I’m obviously not going to jump.”
“I know,” he smiles. “But when you get those thoughts, you have to acknowledge and ignore them.”
I start to wonder why I came today. We don’t have appointments, I just ring or text and if he has a free couple of hours, he tells me to come over.
His clientele are people I’d never know but chances are, I’ve sat next to them at dinner parties or danced with them at gala’s.
So it’s a different type of therapy. A tucked away building in Knightsbridge with no name on the front, nothing advertising that it’s a shrink.
Maybe I came because of Arthur, maybe I came to get away from Digby, maybe I came so I didn’t have to work today.
Or maybe I came just to talk. I don’t know.
Coming to therapy always made me feel guilty.
I haven't been through trauma. I’m not mentally disturbed.
My heart sometimes just feels too heavy for me to carry, and some days I feel physically incapable of getting out of bed.
Those, to me, aren’t flashing signs of needing therapy but after what happened the October I was in New York when Arthur left, the first thing my mum did was call up Dr. Kane and book me in.
“Sit down,” he tells me.
I cross my legs on the grey couch.
“What do you plan on saying to Arthur? Have you spoken to him already?”
“No—there’s too much to say that it feels like there’s nothing to say.”
“Okay,” he nods again because he’s very understanding like that. “Have you told Digby yet?”
I laugh. “About what?”
“Either things but let’s start with The Nightmare.”
Everything inside of me stills as it typically does at the mention of The Nightmare.
“No, I don’t have any plans to, either.”
“Why not? He is your boyfriend, isn’t he?”
“Yes.”
“So why not tell him.”
“Because…” I huff. “Goodness, are you always this difficult?”
He sniffs a short little laugh. “It’s not a difficult question.”
“I haven’t told him because it doesn’t feel like something he needs to know.”
“It’s been over a year and you still haven’t told your boyfriend that—”
I slap my hands over my ears like a child, shake my head. “You don’t need to say it, I know what we’re talking about.”
He shifts on his seat, taps his pen against the clipboard on his lap absentmindedly and then he cocks his head at me. “Will you tell Arthur?”
A lump forms in my throat. I hadn’t even thought about it—I mean, the only thing I’ve been thinking about has been Arthur and The Nightmare but not actually sitting down and telling him.
“Why won’t you tell anyone?”
I shrug, tuck my hair behind my ear.
“There must be a reason,” he presses.
“I don’t know…” I blow out a breath. “I guess I haven’t told Digby because he doesn’t deserve to know and Arthur—well…”
“Well what?”
I kind of stick my nose in the air a bit. “Goodness, you’re very prying.”
“I’m a therapist. I’m just trying to understand what’s going on in your head. You’re free to leave anytime you want.”
I give it a second, think about how to say it without it sounding too sad but then I realise there is no other way to say it.
There’s no way to pretty up how I feel. I’ve tried to ignore, tried to walk past it but everytime I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror, it hits me.
It’s like covering a hole in the wall with a beautiful painting—it’s still there, you’re going to know it’s there even if everyone else doesn’t.
“I don’t think Arthur will love me when he finds out.”
“Okay,” he says quietly, jotting something down.
I glance away from him, become very fidgety in my seat.
“I think he’ll see me as worthless—like a pointless woman.”
“Is Arthur the sort of man who would see it like that?”
Shake my head. “No—but it’ll change things very drastically for us and if he didn’t want to be with me because of it, I’d understand.”
“But it would hurt, yes?”
Roll my eyes at him. “Of course it’d bloody hurt.”
Dr. Kane shuffles on his seat, puts his pen down and faces me. “Do you think it’s fair to make an assumption like that about Arthur even when you know he isn’t that kind of person?”
I blink a few times. “What?”
“You’ve put Arthur on a pedestal here. You know he isn’t the type of person to view you as anything less than a woman but still, you think he would.
You’ve written a script for a future conversation.
You don’t have a magical mind, Phoebe. You can’t predict the future.
Forget what you think might happen and focus on having this conversation with the Arthur you know. ”
“But no man could love a woman who—”
I regather myself, walk about his office again. Go over to the window and crack it open so I can have a cigarette. He doesn’t mind and the office is so high up that no one walking past below could make it out as me hanging out the window with a menthol Vogue.
“Can you tell me to break up with Digby.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because that isn’t my place and telling my patients to break off relationships would be highly unprofessional. I can, however, ask why you want to break up with Digby.”
“I don’t like his car.”
He sighs. “We’ve spoken about this.”
“But it’s so ugly,” I tell him, staring out of the window.
“This isn’t about his car, is it?”
“No.” I can feel myself snapping, the thoughts slipping out of my tightly closed fist. “This is about me being so fucking alone—this is the loneliest I’ve ever felt and all I want is to have Arthur back but once I tell him about The Nightmare he won’t want me anymore.
And I haven’t told Digby about it because I don’t plan on marrying him like I do with Arthur.
Telling him would be as pointless as telling him tomorrow’s weather forecast. He wouldn’t care. ”
“Alright, calm down a second, Phoebe—take a deep breath.”
I smoke the last of my cigarette, stub it out on the windowsill and drop the butt onto the window ledge. My stomach curdles with the familiar sickness I’ve been experiencing for the last few years—one that won’t come up but just sits there, festering, brewing.
“What about telling Freddy about it?”
“She moved to L.A with her boyfriend, remember?”
He frowns. “You don’t call or text?”
“She’s too busy.”
Dr. Kane nods slowly, carefully almost. “Okay.”
“What did she tell you in therapy?”
“I can’t tell you that.”
I know the jist of it—that thing that happened when I was too young to take notice but she wasn’t so it kind of affected her a bit.
I think my parents only put her in therapy so she didn’t go blabbing to her friends in school about it.
No one knows it happened. They think it’s just rumours—so did I for a long time actually because it’s the sort of thing that makes you feel all hollow inside and you don’t want to think about the prospect of it maybe being true.
Think about what he said about me putting Arthur on a pedestal.
When you shove a human into a tiny box of them being a really good person, they almost always turn out to be a really horrible person and it just hurts so much more than you already thinking they were a bad person.
I see it often with celebrities. Fans regard them in such a high manor, completely disregarding the fact that they’re living breathing beings just as they are.
So when they find out who they voted for, they’re utterly heartbroken—which to me, is so fucking stupid.
Not a single person on this planet is an entirely good person.
I had Arthur on a pedestal for many years but then I became too aware that I did so now I’ve twisted him up and stuck a ‘bad person’ label on him just so I’m not disappointed.
I don’t know what he’s going to be like now.
I haven’t sat down with this version of him since I was about ten but I hoped he still drank diabetic tea and enjoyed drawing butterflies and telling me the most pointless facts about them.
I hoped he still wore that chain around his neck—maybe even added that crucifix pendant back on it.
I hoped he still liked his favourite songs and watched his favourite films and read his favourite books.
“Phoebe?”
I blink, rub my eyes.
“Do you want to be done for today?”
“Sure.” My voice comes out rough.
I pop my coat on and grab my bag for the sofa.
“Remember,” he walks over to the door. “Call or text me anytime you like.”
I nod, smile, turn to face him. “Maybe me and you could go on a date.”
Dr.Kane pulls back, laughs a bit. “That’s entirely inappropriate.”
“Yeah, but,” I wobble my head. “You’re stable, I’m not—it would work.”
“I have a wife and three kids, Phoebe,” he smiles, opening his office door for me.
I click my tongue. “Shame.”
He laughs again, waves me off.
When I get into the lift, my phone rings.
It’s George.
“Hello.”
“Phoebs, you busy right now?”
“Not really, why?” I frown.
“Do you…” he pauses and already I’m on edge. “Fancy seeing Arthur, like, tonight seeing him?”
“Uh—”
“Brilliant,” he cuts in. “Because I am hosting a coming home party for him at House tonight.”
“George—”
“Listen,” he lowers his voice. “He’s changed, Phoebs. Like, really changed.”
I walk out of the lift, stand in the foyer of the building. “Is throwing a party for an ex-addict really a bright idea?”
He sighs, hisses. “Yeah, I know, I know but he really ain’t the man you think he is anymore. Believe me.”
“I don’t know—”
“Just come,” he says. “You don’t have to stay for long.”
I swallow, feel that gaping hole in my stomach clench at the thought of seeing him.
I knew it was going to happen, obviously.
Us being in the same city, having the same group of friends and not bumping into one another is impossible.
And I think the longer I put it off, the worse it’ll be.
It’s like slowly ripping off a wax strip, it just doesn’t work—you have to close your eyes, take a deep breath and just rip it straight off.
“Fine,” I relent. “Okay, I’ll come.”