Chapter Nine
Lady Phoebe
“No, darling, stick with the Epsom leather,” Mum tells me again as we stand in her office, flicking through some new swatches for my next edit.
“But for the boots I should do calfskin!”
She slams the book shut, walks away with her hands up. “Do as you please but the Epsom will look better!”
“Mummy, why would I do Epsom leather for boots! That’s absurd!”
She puts her long manicured fingers to her temple and faces away from me. We’ve really been butting heads with this next collection. Not sure why since it’s my line, just under her brand. It’s all equestrian wear, too. What does she know about that?
When I left Uni, I decided I needed to do something.
I was spending a lot of time in Hampshire with my horses, competed in a couple competitions and fell back in love with it again.
I had started modelling for my mum, too.
Walked a few shows. Other brands reached out but after a particularly draining New York Fashion Week, I decided that I didn’t actually like doing it.
Now how Freddy did. I was always way more interested in the actual clothes rather than just putting them on.
I’ve always found it fascinating. Maybe it was growing up with Cynthia and my mum but from a very young age, I was just absolutely enamored with the concept of fashion.
My sister chimed in, too. I knew that when she was wearing black and burgundy and burnt orange in the middle of summer that something was wrong so I’d go and talk to her.
To me, fashion has always been more than just clothes.
It’s been a line of communication, a way of conversing.
When someone doesn’t want to speak, their outfit will say a thousand words.
After I stopped modelling, I split my time three ways.
With Digby, in Hampshire and with my mum in her offices.
One day, her and Cynthia asked if I’d be interested in working on my own line of equestrian wear for the brand.
VK Designs doesn’t typically work in athleisure wear but with the competitions that I’d been dabbling in, every write up and Tatler interview was about my love for riding.
I was becoming known for it. I said yes and now I’ve been working on it for just under two years.
I’ve already worked on my first collection. Debuted it on the runway in the gardens of our Hampshire home. It was very lowkey, the guests were hand selected by myself and my mother and then it kind of broke Vogue. I suppose you don’t get many intimate, rustic runways these days.
I’m trying to make it a bit like Ralph Lauren but on crack.
It’s practical, you can wear it to the stables without looking like a twat.
My aim is to make it actual riding wear and not everyday wear.
We all know the dreadful pandemic of athleisure becoming a part of everyone’s wardrobe—even the ones who have never once stepped foot inside of a gym.
Mum’s phone rings from the other side of the office, she rolls her eyes. “I need Cynthia back now!”
As she goes outside to take the call, I start fixating on what stitching to use for the jumping boots.
I’m doing three different lengths because not every woman is five-foot-nine with legs like Twiggy’s.
But Cynthia has fucked off to the Maldives for three months so she isn’t coming back until the end of February.
My mum likes to work by herself and so do I.
To say all her stores dotted around London aren’t enough to keep enough distance between us is an understatement.
“Phoebe?”
Digby stands in front of me, bunch of baby’s breath in his hands, sorry look on his face.
I can’t remember why we argued the other night—something about Arthur.
He didn’t like how long I spent talking to him or something.
We haven’t really spoken since. I went back home after staying at Connie’s before either of them woke up because Arthur kissing me was so left field that I actually hadn’t even had time to process it.
It was dreamy, a childhood-like wonder that I wanted again and again and again.
“I’m sorry,” he says, sitting on the ivory bouclé sofa. “For the other night.”
“Me too,” I mutter, chewing my lip as I think about getting a second opinion on going with a chain stitch for the boots.
I hear him sigh. “Let me take you out for lunch.”
“Can’t. Busy.” I briefly glance up at him, nod towards the flowers. “Thanks for those.”
“What?” He laughs.
“The flowers,” I roll my eyes. “Thank you for getting me them, it’s always a lovely gesture.”
“I didn’t get you those, they were waiting downstairs when I got here.” He chuckles once more, shakes his head. “Doesn’t matter—look, let's go for some lunch, I want to make it up to you.”
I squint, tilt my head. “What do you mean you didn’t get me those flowers?”
He shrugs dumbly. “I didn’t get you those.”
My chest starts to get a little heavy.
“But you’ve been buying me all the other ones?”
Digby pouts his lips, shakes his head slowly. “Nope.”
I stand up, not sure why because my body freezes. You know the feeling when something dawns on you and immediately you think the worst?
“What do you mean?”
Digby gets up, puts his arm out to grab my hand. “It doesn’t matter, Phoebe, forget about it. Let’s just go—”
I ignore him, squeeze my eyes shut. “So, if you haven't been buying them for me, who has?”
Digby blows out an irritated breath, throws his arms about. “I don’t know, probably Arthur knowing him.”
Put my shaky hand to my mouth and shake my head.
When he told me they weren’t from him, something immediately felt off.
I knew it wasn’t Arthur. I just knew. It was a feeling so strong that I didn’t even acknowledge it.
I find it hard to breathe when I take another glance toward the bunch sitting on the coffee table. They look the same as all the others.
“No,” I tell him, certain. “It wasn’t Arthur.”
“Look, Phoebe—”
“Shut up a second!” I snap.
He backs away, swallows, looks scared. My heart is beating at a rapid pace—one I’m sure is unhealthy but I can’t slow it down, I can’t stop.
Is this a stalker situation? I know girls who have experienced that before, it wouldn’t be completely ridiculous for me to assume that.
I don’t get sent fan mail, I don’t have secret admirers.
Sure, the world is full of perverts but if any of them have taken a liking to me, I wouldn’t know about it.
I have people who sort through my mail before handing over the important stuff to me.
If anything weird came through, I would’ve known about it.
These flowers, every single bunch have been sent to me when I’ve felt the most safe. My home, my place of work, school. I even got sent a bunch when I was mid way through having dinner in Paris.
I start to feel a bit sick. Knowing I’ve been watched when I felt most secure.
Being taken advantage of at your most vulnerable is the most naked and exposed you can feel without taking your clothes off but what's to say they haven't been watching me while I sleep or change clothes. I’m always careful to close the curtains when I’m in my towel but what if I forgot one time and that one time was all it took?
“I have to go,” I tell Digby, grabbing my coat.
“What?” He tries pulling my wrist as I go to leave but I shake his grip free and dart out of the office. “Phoebe, come back for fuck sake! Where are you going?” He calls after me but I don’t go back, I don’t listen because I’m not safe anymore.
I don’t feel that frightened when I’m in the back of my car, Harold driving me.
I just feel angry. Pissed off. Who in their right mind thinks they’re that entitled to do that to me?
The world is full of people who think everything should be served to them on a golden platter but this is different.
When bad things happen to you, it’s hard to picture the person as a human like you are because you’d never do that to someone.
It’s a confronting thought—not every single person is good.
It’s hard to believe that there are genuine bad people out there.
Maybe it’s just me but I like to think no one is ever capable of doing something so terrible.
I like to see the good. It makes life easier instead of constantly pulling someone apart until you reach the badness embedded into their bones.
Yeah, okay, no one is perfect but you can be imperfect and still good.
I’m not talking about looks here, I’m talking about who people are when you look them in the eye.
Real, malicious, ill-intended human beings who have the same heart, lungs and kidneys as me.
Harold pulls up in front of Stratton House, I get out and basically run towards the door.
“Here’s trouble,” Ronan remarks as he spots me in the doorway. “What you doing here?”
He stands in my way, looking down at me with his signature grin. “Phoebe?” He blinks.
“What?—oh sorry, can you move?”
Ronan doesn’t budge, just stands there like he owns the joint—which he sort of does, so…
“Seriously,” I clench my jaw. “Move.”
“Who do you want?”
“George.”
He shrugs, clicks his tongue. “Busy at the minute, come back later.”
“What are you? His young, hot secretary? Move!”
“You think I’m hot?”
Roll my eyes, almost stamp my foot. “I think you’re being a dick.”
And then his face twists up into a frown, like he can finally see how angry I truly am. He moves out of the way, I storm past him and down the stairs, where the offices are.
“Phoebe.” Ronan stops me just as I'm about to barge my way into George’s office. “You alright?”
“No,” I swallow, on the verge of tears but I’d rather be told that Arthur’s killed someone then cry in front of him. “I have a stalker.”
He arches a brow, looks left and then back to me. Laughs. “You sure about that?”
I glare at him. “Positive.”
He backs away, nods his head. “Alright, then.” And just as he goes to walk off, he turns around, points to me. “You tell me if you hear anything from your sister, yeah?”
I give him a fake smile.
“Speak of the devil,” George remarks, looks shocked when I walk into his office without knocking. “Just doing your taxes here, Phoebs and do you mind telling me why you’ve spent almost twenty-three grand on one dinner? What have you been eating, girl? Fucking golden bars or something?”
“I told you to do my taxes because you can discount them, not be my fucking accountant.”
I didn’t even realise both Charlie and Albie were sitting in here until one of them snorts,
George’s face drops. “Accountants are the people who do your taxes, you twat.”
“Ohmigod!” I throw my hands up. “I don’t care!”
He pulls back with a smile. “What’s gotten into you?”
Hands on my hips, I face away from him. “Tell your goons to get out. I need to talk to you.”
They both leave and when I hear the door shut, I face him. He nods at me to take a seat but I can’t. I’m angry, I’m offended, I’m hurt—I’m so many things that I haven't felt this strongly in such a long time that I don’t even know what to do with myself.
“What’s going on, then?”
“Can you find people?” I ask, picking up a paperweight from his bookshelf—honestly, cheek of him to question my spending habits. This is a four thousand pound nineteenth century paperweight.
“Depends.”
George leans back in his chair, stares at me like he knows something's wrong without me even saying it. He won’t ask directly.
He won’t ask if I have a stalker but he’ll know.
The twins are the kind of people who just know everything about everyone.
And it’s weird because everyone knows what type of people they are yet, they don’t go around advertising it.
They observe. They watch. And then they work.
Both very patient, heavy on self discipline.
Not like me. The second I know one thing about something, I’m on the phone telling Connie.
“What does it depend on?”
“Just sit down for a second, you’re making me dizzy.”
I put the paperweight back, sit on the couch against the wall. I know it’s a terrible habit but I start picking my nails as we sit in silence. He’s waiting for me to say it but I can’t—I don’t want to. Saying something aloud makes it real.
“What’s happened, Phoebe?” He asks in that low voice that makes you want to open up.
“Can you find someone who’s been sending me flowers?”
He coughs once to cover his laugh. “What?”
I look over at him. “You need to take me seriously.”
“I am,” he nods, eyebrows knitted together. “Just confused.”
“But you can find the person, can’t you?”
“I can try,” he shrugs. “I need more information.”
So I tell him, that right from when Arthur left up until today, someone has been sending me bunches of baby’s breath.
The more I go on, the more confused or worried he looks.
It’s hard to tell with him. He’s like a robot, only ever showing the default feelings of happiness, anger, shock and amusement.
It’s so rare to see him show anything else.
Never seen him cry or frightened or upset.
I wonder what that would be like. I wonder if he feels those things at all.
I wonder if I spent a minute inside of his brain that I’d feel all of those things so intensely that I’d understand why they don’t show on his face.
“Okay,” he nods once I come up for air. “Okay.”
But whatever is showing on his face right now doesn’t have a label. His eyes are squinted, his mouth is set in a straight line and his eyebrows have formed into a faint frown—nothing too dramatic but still, I know he was sitting there, taking in every single word that left my mouth.
“You’ll be able to find them?”
His mouth opens, he runs a hand down his face, sinks his teeth into his bottom lip. “I don’t know.”
I get up to leave. He’s still staring at me like he’s itching to say something. I’ve calmed down a lot but the way he’s looking at me is only boiling my blood more.
“Do you know?” I ask in a tiny voice. “Do you know who it is?”
He buries his head into his hands, elbows on the desk. I give him a second before I say it again, louder this time. “George, if you know who it is, you have to tell me.”
He doesn’t move.
“This is my safety we’re talking about.”
“Get out.” He tells me in such a low and sinister voice that I do exactly that.
Part of me wished he’d turn around, laugh, say it was Arthur even though I knew it wasn’t.
He knows who it is.
He knows and he won’t tell me which only frightens me more.