Chapter Forty-Two
Prince Arthur
There’s a knock on the door.
I haul myself off the sofa and go and answer. God knows who it could be at this time.
“Hi,” Phoebe says quietly, standing on the doorstep in a long trench, her hair a mess and her face puffy.
“What are you doing here?” I ask even though I move to the side and let her in.
“Oh my god!” She cries and faces me, her shoulders slumped. “Can you stop asking me that? You are the third person tonight who has asked me what I’m doing and I don’t know! I don’t know what I’m doing!” She throws her arms up aimlessly.
I frown, glance out of the front door to see a cab pulling away at the gates. I close the door, walk over to Phoebe and put my arms around her. She falls into me, crumbling into a million shattered pieces.
I’m not sure how she knows that I was in Oxford, or why she came in the first place and didn’t go straight to Digby.
Really, though, none of that matters. It doesn’t matter because she’s broken and she came to me to fix her and maybe you think that’s a lot—to go to one person whenever you need fixing but it’s what we do.
When one of us breaks, the other races to pick up the pieces.
Glue them together as quickly as we can, even if it’s shit and the pieces are all in the wrong place, we still do it.
“Phoebe.” I move my hand to her face, force her to look at me. “What’s gone wrong?”
Her lips wobble, her jaw clenches. “Everything.” She shakes her head, her eyebrows dip and she looks at me. “I hate you for leaving, Arthur! I hate the way you left. I hate the fact that you never said goodbye and I hate myself the most for not doing anything about it!”
Her fists come out and she starts hitting my chest.
I let her.
I don’t stop her.
“You ruined me so much when you were gone!” She sobs. “I thought you died—Arthur, I thought you were dead! You know what grief feels like so why did you do that to me?”
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, for what it’s worth.
She gives my chest one last hit before gulping in a breath and then falling into me. I don’t know what she needs so I just hold her. I hold her with the right amount of pressure until we slide down the wall in the hallway and the sun penetrates through the windows, warming mine and hers skin.
I wake up, stretch my arms above my head and then focus on the brown hair fanning across my lap.
We fell asleep on the floor, in the hallway.
Every bone in my body aches. It’s nothing, though, my bones have been aching and breaking and moaning in pain everyday.
That’s what she does to me. The pain I inflicted on her has come back to me physically and I’ll carry that pain all the way to my grave.
She stirs a few minutes later, lets out a little whimper as she sits up. “Fuck,” she mutters, squints up at me. “Why did we sleep on the floor?”
I scratch the back of my neck. “We got tired—you had a bit of a breakdown.”
She frowns like she’s trying to remember, a little ‘oh’ slipping through her lips. “I’m sorry,” she says with a small shrug. “Would you like me to leave?” Phoebe laughs, nods to the front door.
“No, why would I want you to leave?” I laugh.
She closes her eyes, yawns. “Because I’m unstable, Arthur. I’m like, the last thing you need in your life.”
I crouch down in front of her, grab her face with both hands, she blinks a couple times.
“You are the only thing I’ve ever needed—in a relationship, not in a relationship, young, old, stable, unstable, first thing in the morning, last thing at night—” I blow out a breath, shake my head, “All versions of you are what I need.”
Her pink lips part, takes a deep breath, her eyes widen. “I don’t want to ruin your life.”
I tilt my head. “When have you ever done that?”
“Now,” she says quietly.
“You’re actively ruining my life, are you?”
“Maybe,” she shrugs.
“And how do you know that?”
She looks away, twists her lips. “Because it’s obvious that you’re doing a lot better than me.”
I dig my fingers into her sides, she squirms but looks back at me. “Am I?”
“Yes!” She sighs, waves her hand up and down.
“Or maybe I’m just better at hiding it then you are?”
“What?”
“You don’t think I’ve been dying everyday watching you with Digby? The only time I’ve felt like I can properly breathe is when we’re together.”
One side of her mouth pulls up into a sad smile. “But that’s my fault, I—”
“You can’t blame yourself for being with Digby and trying to move on, Phoebs.
I didn’t go away and hope that you’d still be waiting for me.
I hoped that you would move on and find someone better.
Stop trying to ruin good things; you’re allowed to have them so let yourself have this—whatever ‘this’ is with us now. ”
She laughs softly. “You sound just like my therapist.”
“Yeah? Well then he’s a top bloke, ain’t he?”
“He’s alright,” she admits.
“So, can you stop now?” I sigh, leaning my head against the wall behind me.
“Stop what?”
“Trying to push me out because you think I don’t want you because I’m not going anywhere. I’m never going to go away again. I’m not leaving you again, Phoebs. I want you, always have, so just let me, yeah?”
She smiles, tilts her head. “Let you have me? Sounds rather possessive.”
“Just let me have you,” I nod. “You don’t need to want me back.”
She tuts, frowns. “Of course I want you back.”
“Well,” I throw my arms up. “There we go!”
“There we go,” she nods. “What now?”
“Uh,” I stand up, stretch my arms out again. “Breakfast? Coffee? Shower? Pop down St.Paul's and get married? Up to you, really.”
She throws her head back, laughs, reaches her hands out to me to pull her up from the floor. “You’re a bit ridiculous, really, aren’t you?”
“Ridiculous, optimistic—it’s all the same.”
I walk into the kitchen with Phoebe dragging her feet slowly behind me.
It’s actually pretty well stocked for once.
I come up here a lot when Connie has Primrose or other company over.
I stayed once when Primrose was there for the night—and yeah, never again, couldn’t look him—or her for that matter, never underestimate the quiet ones—in the eye for a week.
Phoebe sits on the island, swinging her legs as I start making some tea.
Herbal for her, mine with two sugars and half a teaspoon of honey.
I don’t know why I like it so sweet. I only drink black coffee.
I’ve thought about it, you know, maybe I just hate tea but force myself to drink it because I’m British?
“Digby left,” Phoebe says suddenly.
I stop pouring the milk, put it down and look over my shoulder at her. “What?”
“Yeah,” she shrugs casually. “Walked out last night. Took a bag with him.”
“Shit.” I shake my head, trying to understand why she’s so calm—but she wasn’t last night so maybe that was the reason for her coming here and the breakdown? “What happened?”
She swallows. “Told him we were sleeping together.”
My eyebrows shoot up. I almost choke. “You did?”
Phoebe waves her hand airily. “He knew anyway—just wanted to hear me say it. We got into a bit of a tiff and then he packed a bag and walked out. I don’t know where he went.”
“And that’s why you came here?”
She hesitates for a second. “Yeah. I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want to get into it. I didn’t even know you were here, I just wanted to get away.”
I nod, turn back around and finish pouring the milk into the two mugs. When I hand over her tea, I pull out one of the stools at the island and sit down.
“Do you think he’ll come back?”
“I hope not,” she mutters.
“Did you love him?” I ask then, out of nowhere—the question didn’t even pop into my head before I said it.
“No, I don’t—” she shakes her head. “I don’t think I did.
” She shrugs her lips, sips her tea. “I think I just like the idea of being with someone. You left, Freddy left, Mum was always working. I was lonely.” She turns her face to me, eyebrows raised.
“Don’t tell me you’re sorry again. I know you are. ”
“Fair enough,” I smile, give her a nod.
And then we drink our teas at the kitchen island while the sun continues rising like this is something we’ve always done.
It feels like something we’ve always done.
It’s a really mundane scenario when you think about it—drinking tea in the morning—but we’ve never been afforded mundane moments before.
I was right in what I said to her, though.
I’m not leaving Phoebe again. All I want is more of these mundane, everyday, boring moments with her because she doesn’t make it boring.
Her just being here with me drinking fucking tea is going to be the only thing I think about until we’re granted another moment like this.
All my life all I’ve wanted is to share every day with her.
I’m not fussy about how or when or why—just her is enough, as she is.
We end up spending the entire weekend in Oxford.
We take walks together in the back fields, have sex in my grandad's vintage Range Rover that I once taught her how to drive in, bath together in the evening before cooking meals in the kitchen. And then of a night, we retreat back to what we once were, Arthur and Phoebe, Phoebe and Arthur. We pull the magic cloak over ourselves and bathe in the stillness that we’ve never been allowed to have in the outside world.
When we were kids it was a blanket fort, when we were teenagers it was the duvet on her bed and us now?
It’s whenever my eyes fix their glance on her because when I see her, nothing else matters.