Chapter Twelve #2
Tilt my head, frown. “Postpartum?”
Her mouth opens, closes, laughs airily. “Potato, tamala.”
“Right.”
“So, yeah, she’s back at the house with Charlie, all very sad.”
“Isn’t the baby about two now?”
“No—yeah, she is but it comes back every now and then. She was really bad with it when she was born—the baby’s still a nightmare, though. Woke up the other night, saw her sitting at the bottom of the stairs. Something out of the fucking poltergeist.”
I laugh, sip my champagne.
“No seriously, Phoebe—I might as well camp out in Epping Forest.”
She walks off after that, straight over to George who looks like he’s about two point five seconds away from shooting the place up.
And now that I’m left alone, I’m thinking of the kiss Arthur gave me the other night at Connie’s. Unexpected, sure. Unwelcome? Not at all.
Even if it was papped and Digby saw it on the front page of every rag, I wouldn’t have cared—wouldn’t have regretted it.
You’re probably thinking I’m pissed right?
Him and Princess Astrid? But I’m not, actually.
Not at all. If anything, I’m quite very happy for him.
Him being with someone is less temptation for me.
I’d never ruin any of his future relationships.
Any girl he could be with after me, deserves him way more than what I ever could now.
That and, every girl, at least once, deserves to be loved the way Arthur loves.
You might not think it, given our history, but I’ve seen it—the way he loves, he spreads it out across the road, uncaring about cars and pedestrians.
With a weak, battered smile, he handed me his scarred, bruised, dirty heart and timidly asked me if I’d take it. And I did. That’s more than what most people would do. They’d see it getting run over a hundred times and just walk away.
Not Arthur, though.
Anyways, over in the far corner, I see a group of suits rather intrigued by a certain canvas.
No one else is interested in anything else here.
As most of these things go, it turns into a free for all.
Free drink, food—everyone leaves half-cut before the sun has even set.
It can’t be one of Connie’s paintings. I mean, surely not?
Albie’s stood to the right of me, fixing his hair in the mirror mounted on the wall.
I pull him over to me, glass to my mouth. “Whose painting are they looking at over there? It’s not Connie’s, is it?”
His lips twitch into his own version of a grin. “Nah. That’s one of Primrose's paintings.”
“Primrose?”
He blinks twice. “Yeah—Primrose Moore.”
“Primrose Moore?!”
“Yeah.”
“As in, Primrose-Primrose?”
He nods.
“Not Darcy Primrose, though, right?”
“Yep.”
“Connie’s Primrose?”
“Yes, Phoebe, that one.”
He looks agitated.
“Oh my goodness!” I frown. “Does she know?”
Albie shrugs. “Don’t know.”
“Gah, I didn’t know she was back on the scene.”
“Was she ever on the scene?”
“She was with Connie for a bit, so, yeah?”
He wobbles his head. “I wouldn’t call what they had ‘dating’.”
I roll my eyes. “As if you know anything about romantic relationships. All you do is shag your twin's girlfriend.”
“Happened once, but alright.”
I cut him a sideways glance. “Weird that it happened at all, though, really.”
He walks off in a strop. Didn’t know it was still such a sore spot for him. Thought Albie had the thickest skin out of all of us. There’s rumours of him fucking past school friends mothers, for crying out loud. I'm shocked he didn't have a crack on Sophia.
A little later on in the evening, I find myself decompressing in one of the reception rooms at the back of the house.
You know when you have at least five conversations with people and didn’t fuck up once so now you’re exhausted?
It’s almost like, if I did fuck up in any of those conversations I wouldn’t be so tired now because keeping up a persona in front of people you barely know is so much hard work.
It’s not a simple two way conversation with a flowing topic.
It’s constantly telling yourself not to swear too much or leave too long a pause in between questions.
It’s mentally reciting what to say next when someone says something.
It’s making sure your glass is filled so you can take long sips to plan out your next facial expression. It’s an entire performance.
I expect Digby to maybe come looking for me.
But not Arthur.
He pops his head around the door, his shoulders sagging lightly when he spots me sitting on the sofa.
“Just wanted to say bye, I’m heading off.”
My heart drops.
I want to go with him.
I sit up, lock my eyes on the fireplace that’s just a little bit to the left of where he’s standing.
“You kissed me the other night.”
There’s a small silence. I move my eyes over to him. With Arthur, I’ve never cared if my eyes are awkwardly staring at him for too long. He swallows, glances down, licks his lip, runs a hand through his hair.
“I’m sorry?”
I smile. “No, you’re not.”
His lips pull up, he subconsciously moves further into the room. “You’re right, I’m not.”
“I’m just saying…” I wave my hand about, averting his gaze. “That, hypothetically, if you kissed me again I wouldn’t be sorry, either.”
“Yeah?”
He looks shocked.
Arthur walks into the room, leans against the fireplace. Head tilted, eyes studying me. “Was that an invite?”
I study him, too. The way he fills out his suit with a healthy weight.
His skin, plump and glowy. Eyes brighter and clearer than ever.
It kills me. It kills me because I can’t have him now.
I can’t have the Arthur I prayed for for so long.
It wouldn’t be fair on him. It would fucking destroy him and he doesn’t deserve that now.
Sober Arthur is standing a mere few inches away from me and I can’t have him.
“No,” I mutter finally, looking down. “That wasn’t an invite.”
“Sounded a bit like one.”
“I have a boyfriend,” I say rather quietly.
“Yeah and from what I’ve heard he’s a total prat.”
Lift my head up. “Fine but I—”
“You love him?” He cocks an eyebrow, trying his hardest not to smile.
Squint my eyes, pull a face I don’t mean to pull. “I’m fond of him.”
“You’re fond of him?” He laughs.
“Rather so.”
“Alright, Phoebs.” He nods, blinks, takes a deep breath.
I think he’s going to leave but he doesn’t.
Instead, he comes over to me, grabs my face in one hand and gives me another kiss and I fucking hate him for it.
I wished he’d stop stealing kisses because I can’t be with him but the more I find myself alone with him and the more his lips seem to gravitate towards mine, the more I’m going to ignore everything and throw myself at his feet again.
Love is stronger than anything. Stronger than reality, stronger than freedom, stronger than wealth and power and health.
Everyone wants to be loved in some capacity.
Even the people you think don’t. They want it more than anyone else.
It’s something about knowing that out of the eight billion people put onto this earth, someone, somewhere found you.
Two out of eight billion? That’s special.
I’m not even talking solely about romantic love.
Best friends, parents, siblings. There’s a love for everyone.
When Arthur pulls back, I shiver. He walks out of the room, cheeks red and head hanging.
He doesn’t regret it but he’s also not the type to pine after girls already in relationships. Doesn’t want to turn out like Sebastian. One kiss is fine. Two kisses border on a few whispers. Three? That’s inching into scandal territory.
Two is okay.
Two is completely fine considering he has almost three years worth of kisses to give me.