Chapter Thirty-Eight
Lady Phoebe
Autumn in London is beautiful, isn’t it? Early September so the sun still comes out for a couple of days before ducking behind grey clouds. The leaves are threatening to fall and the rain is fresh.
Digby and I walk hand in hand around Hyde Park after catching a late lunch in Hide over in Mayfair.
He picked me up after I finished going over some last minute samples for my new equestrian range.
Mum isn’t around a lot lately. Nor is Dad, actually.
I know they work but it feels a bit personal sometimes, like, just because I’ve grown up, I still need my parents, you know?
Anyway, Dr.Kane says I’m not to blame them anymore.
I know you’re confused—wondering what happened over the summer but to be honest, there isn’t much to tell.
Arthur admitted something to me that’s been keeping me up at night and Digby took the proposal (or lack thereof) fairly well.
He said he was rushing into it and that we should just take things slow until I’m ready.
Arthur scared me. What he said. I didn’t like it—I don’t know anyone that would—but it hasn’t kept me away just like the drugs and everything else didn’t.
We’re sleeping together again only this time, Digby has no idea and thinks I’m all for him.
It’s shit, I know. I don’t know why I can’t bring myself to just finish with him.
Maybe it’s because of days like this. Just us two, walking around, being normal.
Normal is nice and not something I ever really got with Arthur.
We didn’t go to Wimbledon this year. Not only is it a fucking snoozefest, but the pictures of me were still surfacing so I kind of just grabbed onto that as my ticket to not attend anything I didn’t want to.
Everyone was right, though. It did blow over a few weeks later.
Doesn’t mean it’s blown over for me, though.
“Are you alright?” Digby gives my hand a squeeze.
I smile up at him. “I’m okay.”
And I am, that’s the truth, just imagining everyone we pass is looking at me as though I’m a walking x-ray. They’ve all seen my naked body now. There isn’t much else that can be hidden.
“Are you excited for it to launch?”
“What?”
I blink a few times, drag my eyes away from the paparazzi lurching in the trees.
“The clothing thing,” he laughs, drapes his arm around my shoulders. “Are you excited for it?”
“Oh, yeah,” I nod. “I’ve been working on this for months. Mum and Cynthia are pleased with how it’s turning out.”
“And are you pleased with it?”
I frown. “Of course, I am.”
“No, I know,” he wobbles his head a bit. “But like, you’re always so focused on someone else’s opinion—it’s alright to put yourself first, Phoebs. This is yours, yeah? Your thing.”
I pull back from him, stop walking, look at him. “She’s my mother, Digby. This is her line that I’m producing this under, obviously her opinion is going to matter.”
He gives me a funny look. “Don’t take it the wrong way, I just—”
“You just what?”
He shrugs helplessly. “I just want you to be taking credit for it, yeah? You’ve worked hard. I’m proud of you.”
I say nothing and we keep walking even though he’s rubbed me the wrong way—I mean, what would he know about fashion and my mother? He’s only met her a handful of times. But that’s him, though. Will never form his opinion, just takes what you give him and runs with it.
Sure, my parents might not be in the country a lot of the time or have all the time in the world to give me, but they did—when I needed it the most (usually). I don’t know. Maybe I’m just overthinking it because I’m well and truly over being with him.
I need to let him go, give him to someone else but what if when I do that, it’s too late and Arthur has moved on and then I’m all on my own.
I’m not sure I know how to be alone. I’ve always had someone.
Arthur, my sister, my friends. I’m alone so much in my own head that I’m not sure that I’d be able to handle being alone physically, as well.
When we get home, I kick my shoes off and hang my coat up and then Digby’s on me. Kissing my neck, hands in my hair, body pressed up against mine.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers, backing me into the wall by the front door. “Come on, I’ll make it up to you.”
I push him off, duck under his arm and walk down the hall. “I’m not really in the mood. I have a headache.”
He follows me into our room where I start to undress.
“We haven’t had sex in weeks, Phoebs.”
“So? Priests go their whole lives. I think you’ll be fine.”
I go into the wardrobe, grab a shirt from one of my hangers and slip it on. It’s one of Arthur’s that I’ve had for years. A Ralph Lauren Purple Label Oxford button down. Nothing fancy. But it’s his which automatically makes it fancy.
Digby’s sitting on the bottom of the bed, brows furrowed. “Have you gone off me or something?”
“No.”
“Then why won’t you even kiss me?” He comes up behind me in the mirror, hands around my waist, chin resting on my shoulder. “You’re not shagging Arthur, are you?”
I turn around, break free from his grip on me. “Stop with that, Digby, for fuck sake! I’m not sleeping with Arthur! God forbid I don’t drop to my knees for you the second you click your fingers.”
He throws his head back, laughs. “That is not what I mean and you know it! Since the summer, since that dinner when you ran over to him, you’ve been weird.”
“Maybe you freaked me out! About to ask me to marry you. Jesus Christ, Digby, what world are you living in!”
“One where I love you and want to spend the rest of my life with you but it seems I’m here on my own because you don’t, do you, Phoebe?”
I tilt my head, roll my eyes. “Don’t what?”
“Love me,” he says quietly.
No, I don’t. Love is such a strong word.
Happiness, anger, sadness and love—pretty much the core four emotions.
They take up so much of our lives and yet people just throw them around like they mean nothing.
Even the Greeks who lived long before us knew the power of the word.
I don’t think I can bring myself to stand here and lie to his face like that.
About Arthur, sure, yeah—but not that. I’m not sure there’s anything worse than someone lying to you about love. Feels cruel.
And honestly, I think I lost a lot of the love I thought I had for him when I realised that being with him was turning me into a not very nice person.
I stand there, in our room, facing him, unsure of what I’m going to do next.
“Phoebe,” he says and takes a couple of steps towards me. “Whose shirt is that?”
I look down at myself. “What?”
“That isn’t my shirt.” He comes closer, pinches the bottom of it between his fingers. “This isn’t mine.”
I rip the shirt from his fingers. “Don’t be silly, of course it is.”
“Turn around,” he says evenly. “Let me see the tag.”
“You,” I point at him. “Have lost the fucking plot.”
He whacks my finger away. “If there isn’t a problem let me see the tag.”
“And what do you think the label is going to prove? Don’t tell me your mum is still ironing your name into your shirts.”
He rolls his eyes. “Stop messing me around, Phoebe! Just let me fucking see it!”
“Stop swearing at me!” I scream, putting some distance between us.
Hands gripping his hair, jaw clenched, he stares at me with these dark eyes. “Fucking grow up will you!”
I blow out a deep breath. “I’m leaving.”
He pulls back. “You’re what?”
“I’m leaving,” I say, walking out of the room.
He follows me as I grab my trench and throw it over the shirt that isn’t his.
“You’re leaving me?” He says softly, almost vulnerable.
I slip my heels back on, stand up, shrug. “Why should I stay?”
“Answer my fucking question!” He shouts. “You’re leaving me for him, aren’t you?”
I get close to him, my heart pounding, my stomach turning acidic. “And why should I fucking stay? You disrespect my friends, me, my family, everything I do? Give me a good reason as to why I should stay.”
He breathes heavily, staring down at me, our chests almost touching. “Why him? Why not me?”
“Why not him?”
His tongue darts out to wet his top lip and he walks back.
“Say it,” I dare him. “Go on.”
He shakes his head.
“No, go on,” I shrug. “Say it.”
A second passes before he locks his eyes on me.
I know it’s coming.
“Because I’m not a fucking junkie and he is!”
But it still stings.
I nod, grab my keys from the table and then walk out.
? ? ?
We all know where I end up. And maybe I subconsciously planned this. Picked out the shirt knowing he was going to tell it wasn’t his and goading him into saying the one thing that’s been on the tip of his tongue for months.
Still, though, when Connie opens the door to his apartment, it feels like taking a deep breath.
But when I see Arthur walking out of his bedroom and stopping in the hallway, it feels like everything all at once.
When I look at him, I can almost see everything that we’ve ever been through.
He’s like a walking memory book of all my best and worst years and what’s the good without the bad?
With Digby, there’s nothing. With Arthur there is everything.
There’s every single day since I was five years old.
Every day, every night, every dream, he appeared to me just like Aphrodite rising from her shell—and she was meant to be something so ugly. Born from a severed penis and yet, turned out to be the personification of love and beauty. They’re quite similar, don’t you think?
“Phoebe?” He comes walking over. “What you doing here?”
I look back at Connie, he stands there, showing off his fresh tan wearing only his boxers. He never asks why I turn up. Just opens the door and welcomes me in.
I turn back to Arthur. “I wanted to see you.”
He frowns, a bit confused, I imagine. “I have a dinner thing with my family tonight—”
“Oh, right,” I nod, a bit sad. “I’ll come another time.”
I go to leave but he reaches out, grabs my wrist and kisses me. “You didn’t let me finish. I have a dinner thing tonight but I wasn’t planning on turning up anyway.”
Connie walks past us, squeezes the back of my neck as he goes.
I pull back a bit, my arms still wrapped around his waist. “Are you sure? Maybe you should go. When was the last time you showed up to anything with your family?”
He gives me a careless shrug, scrunches up at his face. “They don’t really feel like my family, Phoebs. You, him,” he nods behind him. “The rest of you, you feel like my family more than them.”
I let out a breath, feel very sorry for him. “Have you at least spoken to any of them? Evangeline phoned me earlier. Asked after you.”
He laughs. “Did she fuck.”
“She did!” I hit his chest. “She is your sister.”
“What did she want?” He puts his arm over my shoulders, walks us down to his room.
I slip the belt off my trench, watch his eyes go wide. “Nothing. She just wondered how you were.”
“Yeah, well,” he stretches, scratches the back of his neck. “They only seem to want me for something. Mum only calls once a fortnight and it’s usually for press.”
I throw my coat onto the chair in the corner that’s already piled high with clothes and slip my heels off. He eyes me up as I lay against his headboard, wipes away a small smile and then comes over.
Tugs the shirt I’m wearing. “This mine?”
I nod.
He nods back, smiles again. “Can I take it off?”
His hand is already trailing up the buttons. “Only if you promise to talk to your family. Maybe not Sebastian but at least Ev. I know she misses you, Arthur.”
“Fine,” he relents with an eye roll. “Now can I take my shirt off?”
I tug the bottom of his t-shirt. “I’d love it if you did.”
He laughs, crashes his lips to mine and you know the rest by now.
It’s the same as two plus two being four and circles having no straight edges.
This is just who we are and even though it isn’t fair or nice or particularly straight forward, there aren't a lot of things in life that are. Every love will be different to yours. And isn’t that wonderful?
There will be no two of the same kinds of love.