Chapter Seven
Lady Phoebe
“You do know that I will talk to him, don’t you?”
Digby drapes his arms around my chest, staring at our reflections in the mirror. “I just don’t see what good that would do.”
I go to frown but then I realise he can see me so I straighten my features out. “You can’t be serious.”
He sighs, rests his cheek on my head. “The past is the past.”
“What I have with Arthur isn’t the past.”
It’s the present and the future—even if we aren’t together but Digby doesn’t understand that, he never will, because he’s never loved anyone the same way Arthur and I have loved one another.
And I hope that maybe one day he will so he can look back at this fleeting relationship with a small nod and a knowing smile.
He walks away from me, sits on the edge of his bed.
“I’m not staying long, though. I have an essay to write.”
I nod with a smile, slightly relieved.
He isn’t happy about tonight. He knows Arthur will be there and he knows I will talk to him. For years, he’s avoided this scenario. But I’m not with him to make him understand what happened between us in school.
The honest to God truth is that I don’t know why I’m with him.
I’m almost ready but something feels off, weird. I go over to his chest of drawers and rummage through some of my jewellery strewn across the top.
“Have you seen my ring?” I ask him, still looking.
I can sense his eye roll. “Haven’t seen it for like, two years.”
Clench my fists, chew the inside of my cheek.
“Are you sure?”
“Positive, Phoebe.”
I turn around to face him. “I won’t be cross if you tell me you accidentally flushed it or put it out with the rubbish—I just want to know where it is.”
He laughs softly, shakes his head. “Haven’t seen it.”
“But—well, where is it, then?” I stress, throwing my hands up.
The Tiffany ring—Arthur’s ring. Been missing since he left.
I don’t remember taking it off that night or waking up without it on but then again, I could’ve?
I mean, I probably did, that’s the only plausible explanation.
It got lost when I went off to Uni for a bit, or maybe I lost it before then but I can’t be sure because those months are all a bit hazy for me.
Tonight, however, I wanted to wear it. Wanted Arthur to see the huge diamond glisten under the lights so he knew I was still his.
That ring, for me, for us, was like a secret.
When I had it on—which was all the time—people knew that Arthur gave it to me as a fake wedding band but what they didn’t know was that it represented something much deeper.
It showed that, throughout it all, I still wore it so I was still his.
Maybe it doesn’t make sense to you but it did to us.
And tonight I wanted that secret back. I wanted him to know that for me, no time had passed at all.
“I don’t know, Phoebe—but come on, we’re going to be late.”
Begrudgingly, I walk away, allowing Digby to escort me out to his fugly car and over to Stratton House.
My stomach knots up as you would expect it to.
I’ve been busying myself since leaving Dr.Kane’s office earlier this afternoon but now it’s kind of just hit me all at once and I start to feel sick.
I don’t know what to expect.
Part of me wants to fall in love with him all over again, part of me doesn't, part of me never stopped falling in love with him. My entire being is a mosaic of Arthur and I’m so used to it being cracked that I’m not sure if I’m ready for it to be pieced together.
The paparazzi are rife outside when we get there.
I tell Digby to park around the back and that George will let us in that way.
I’m also unsure if they’ve spoken since that God awful dinner.
I doubt they have because I doubt many people just have George Stratton as a contact in their phone but if not, that’s really awkward, isn’t it?
I open my mouth to tell Digby that I’m nervous but he just gets out of the car, slams the door and heads towards the fire exit.
George lets us in, Digby storms right past him—no time for pleasantries tonight.
“What’s got his knickers in a twist?” George laughs, pulls me, kisses my head.
“Probably that monstrosity of a car.”
“God,” he looks down at me. “You really hate that car, don’t you?”
I nod and then sort of gesture behind him. “Is he…is he—like, is he—is he…”
“Is he in there?” He finishes for me with a smile. “Yeah, he’s there.”
“Oh, okay.” I swallow although my throat feels thick and clogged up. “I’m not sure I can talk to him, George.”
He stares down at me, maybe a bit guilty for setting this up? Maybe thanking himself for doing it because no one else would?
“You’ll be grand,” he tells me, hooking his arm over my neck. “Come in—have a juice, relax.”
“A juice?”
He pulls a face. “Yeah, well, it’s all alcohol free so it’s technically juice, ain’t it?”
I slap his chest. “Look at you—alcohol free.”
He rolls his eyes. “Just for tonight. Him being in recovery doesn't mean the rest of us have to be.”
My hair frames my face as I hang my head a bit. We walk into the club, it’s already buzzing and in a way, I’m shocked. This is a party for an ex-addict. Why is everyone acting as if this is going to be a normal night out?
But then again, that’s a good thing, no? This is normal. Being out. Arthur being here. George being here—all of that is normal. We used to do this all the time. Not much has changed since he left yet, everything has changed because he hasn’t been here.
George leaves me to it, walks over to some friends of his and I go over to the bar. Order a water because there’s no point in ordering a concoction of sickly syrup and juices when I could really use something to settle my nerves.
“Bit of Dutch courage?”
Connie stands next to me, flashing a small brass flask.
I quickly glance around, take it from him, swallow a healthy mouthful—and then a bit more.
“Thanks.”
“You nervous?” He asks, sitting on the barstool.
“What do you think?”
He shrugs. “You shouldn’t be—he’s changed. Massively. Completely different bloke now, Phoebs.”
“Different how?” My stomach dips. I don’t want him to be different.
Connie shakes his head. “Not like that—different good. He’s a good different, a healthy different. Still looks the same, talks the same, walks the same, acts the same. He’s the same Arthur, just not on drugs.”
I sip my water, eyes darting across the room like a paranoid maniac as if he’s just going to pop out from behind the bar like fucking ‘Here’s Johnny!’
I can’t sit here, waiting any longer. Get up, go to find George but then I bump into someone’s extremely hard chest.
“Watch it.”
Ronan glares down at me, quickly putting on a smile once he clocks that it’s me.
“Hi.”
He brightens up, ruffles my head (?). “You alright, Phoebs? How's your boyfriend? I heard he’s got a shit car, must be tough.”
Roll my eyes. “Everything’s tickety-boo, actually.”
“Heard from that sister of yours?”
I take a deep breath. Like I said, nothing has changed—not even Ronan’s strange infatuation with my sister even though he’s well aware of her current boyfriend.
“I told you, didn’t I? If I hear from her, I’ll let you know.” I blink a few times. “Have I let you know yet?”
My neck starts to cramp with how I am quite literally staring up at him.
If anything has changed it’s been him and definitely not in a bad way.
He looks how he did, obviously—just better.
Maybe also a bit more darker, more troubled?
Does that make me sick for thinking those bad attributes make him look good?
“Anyway,” I clear my throat, compose myself. “Can I have the key to go upstairs, please?”
“Why?” He frowns, sliding it out of his pocket anyway.
“Because I want a cigarette—thank you.”
He pins me with a parental stare and waves at his chest. “Fucks your lungs up, that does.”
“I’m well aware,” I say over my shoulder, staring down at the mangled lungs on the back of my cigarette box. I never understood why they added those. It doesn’t stop anyone from buying them. Just shifts my appetite.
But that’s sort of funny in a way—we know how terrible and cancerous cigarettes are and yet, it doesn’t scare that many people.
We still smoke even though it’s bad. We still press bruises on our legs even though they hurt.
We still dip our fingers into hot wax even though it burns.
It’s the things that catch us off guard that hurt the most—nipping your skin with a razor, pricking your thumb with a knife, accidentally tweezing your skin instead of your eyebrow hairs.
I think it’s because if we already know it’s going to hurt, it’s not that bad—we’re prepared, geared up, ready. When we’re caught off guard, we’re often relaxed, slumped, soft, uncaring, at our most vulnerable—we think we’re safe in those moments.
Getting hurt when you think you’re safe hurts more than any bruise or cigarette.
I’m on the rooftop, smoking one of those cigarettes that I know hurt, staring out into the London skyline. It’s very peaceful up here. Cold, but peaceful.
“Phoebe?”
I jump so hard that my cigarette slips from between my fingers.
I know who that is.
I know his voice.
With a rock the size of the entirety of my teenage years in the pit of my stomach, I turn around slowly to face him.
“Hi, Arthur.”
He takes another two steps closer to me, hands in his pockets.
“How are you?” He asks and I can tell he’s nervous. His voice is shaky, his right leg is bouncing slightly.
“I’m okay…I think?”
He smiles and it stabs me straight through the heart. I swear, I could’ve fallen right off this roof into the London traffic and I wouldn’t feel a thing—that’s how delirious I am right now.
“You think?” Arthur sits down on one of the chairs, legs spread, hand resting on his knee. “Sit down, tell me why you think you might be okay.”
And it’s so weird.
We’ve seen each other naked, I’ve wiped sick from his mouth and blood from his nose and yet, we now can’t string a conversation together?