Chapter Forty-Nine
Prince Arthu r
I try to open my eyes slowly but they fucking hurt, like a thousand pins stabbing my eyelids. It’s bright, too—too bright. And my back hurts.
I blink a couple times, rub my eyes, manage to open them fully and when I do, I see a pair of eyes staring back at me and I wonder why I’m not in the bed beside her. I usually am.
This morning, however, I am not. I’m crouched beside the toilet in a bathroom that isn’t mine or hers. It takes me a second to clock where we are, but also, why are we here?
I used last night. I know I did. I haven’t woken up like this in years.
The more I wake up, the more I remember.
There was a box with my name on it. The woman behind the desk gave it to me when I walked in after I left dinner early because I had a headache.
Still do. I remember being really fucking confused because I didn’t order anything but I was too tired to think properly so when I got in, I opened it and that’s when I saw it.
The plastic bag fell right into my lap.
I picked it up—didn’t open it straight away. My heart sort of plummeted because I hadn’t been in such direct contact with drugs since coming back. I hadn’t even really thought about using. But it was there, right in front of me and I just—
In fact, I’m not sure what I did or what I was thinking.
I don’t think I was thinking because If I was, I wouldn’t have touched it.
I told myself over and over to call someone.
Anyone. But I didn’t want them to judge me or think I went out and bought drugs.
So I didn’t. I sat on the sofa, staring at the bag for what felt like all of two minutes before I opened it and took two lines.
It wasn’t coke. I’m not sure what it was.
I push myself up on the bathroom floor, feel some of my bones crack into place. I’m embarrassed. I don’t know what to say to Phoebe. Says a lot that she’s here, though, right? But then again, she’s always been here. So maybe all that says is that we’re right back to where we started.
I lean against the sink, feel her arms wrap around my back, her holds digging into my stomach. Holding me with so much force like she’s scared that it has gone back to the start—but it hasn’t because I’m never doing that again. I feel like shit.
Clear my throat, look at myself in the mirror. “I’m sorry.”
She nods against me and then pulls away, goes over to the shower, turns it on and then holds her hand out to me.
I shouldn’t take it, should I? I shouldn’t but I do.
I let her wash my hair and my body and watch as her tears mix in with the water running down her face.
I hold her to me. Told myself that if this happened that I’d let her go but now I’ve got her, I really, really don’t want to let her go.
I honestly don’t think I can and I honestly don’t think she’d let me.
We start playing this fucked up game that we invented about seven years ago where she finds me at my worst, takes my hand, washes away the dirt and then reinvents me with her kisses and soft touches.
I know we should talk but as she leads me out of the shower and wordlessly over to the bed, I don’t find the words.
There aren’t enough words in the dictionary for me—for us.
Me and her, we’ve invented our own world with our own language that no one understands.
And every time she throws her head back and moans out my name, I hate myself just a little bit less while I think she hates herself just a little bit more.
It’s selfish and you might think me a bad person for going along with it—feeding into her—but this dance is so ingrained into my memory, I don’t know how to not do this.
But you know what? I’ll die a happy man as long as I’m with her.
There isn’t a single other person alive on this earth who I could love in the same way and I know she feels the same and maybe that’s where we’re going wrong—I don’t know.
Phoebe lays on my chest, the sheets twisting around her body. “I love you.”
I smile to myself, staring at the ceiling. “You can leave me if you want.”
Her hand sneaks up from its place on my stomach, touches my jaw, turns my face towards her.
“I could never,” she swallows. Her lips trace my cheek, my ear, the side of my face.
“I love you so much,” she whispers before quickly pulling away and laying on her back, her hands covering her face as her body shakes with sobs.
“I love you so much that it physically fucking hurts me, Arthur. I get a sharp stabbing pain in my chest whenever I think about it—” her voice cracks. “I don’t know what to do.”
It might be the rawest display of love I’ve ever seen. I lean up, pry her hands away from her red blotchy face. “I know,” I tell her because I do. God, don’t I fucking know how she feels. “I’m sorry for last night—it was—” shake my head, lick my lips. “It will never fucking happen again.”
She nods, jumps up, wraps her arms around my neck, buries her face in my neck. “I know, Arthur. I know what happened and I am so fucking scared.”
Before I can say anything, a knock on the door brings us back to earth. “Can I come in?” Connie says, already half way through the door.
Phoebe rolls her eyes, snatching the sheet to cover herself. “And if I said no?”
He shrugs. “I’m already here, ain’t I?”
George then barges through.
“Jesus!” Phoebe throws her arms up. “Did you invite everyone in London or…?”
George smiles, gives me a nod, a silent question. I nod back, run a hand down my face. “Have the papers got hold of it?”
“Not yet,” he mutters.
“When can we go back home?” Phoebe huffs. “It’s nearly Christmas and I have nothing here.”
George gives her a look. “I don’t know if it’s safe for you to go back yet—I’ll let you know when it is.”
`She tilts her head. “Well, when is that going to be?”
He narrows his eyes at her. “I don’t fucking know.”
Phoebe sticks her nose in the air. “Well, I at least want a fresh pair of clothes.”
Con frowns. “What’s wrong with the clothes you have?”
“Oh my god,” she mutters under her breath. “What’s wrong with them? What’s fucking wrong with them? I don’t have any!”
“Yeah,” he nods. “Just put your clothes from last night on.”
Her jaw ticks, she glances at me then back to him. “Someone get him out of my sight.”
George sighs heavily, rolls his eyes. “Alright, I’ll send Athena ‘round your mum’s, get you some clothes and then you can go Christmas shopping or whatever.”
Phoebe smiles, all sarcastic. “Thanks—I’ll send you the bill and you can reimburse me. You know, for the inconvenience.”
“Fuck off,” he scoffs before walking out with Connie.
? ? ?
We spend the afternoon shopping with Hugo and three other bodyguards following us—as well as the paparazzi because Christmas shopping?
! Headline news, that is. It’s a nice little bubble we wrap ourselves in under the lights lining the streets.
Feels normal. Like this was how it was supposed to pan out in the first place.
We walked through the Harrod’s toy section to pick something up for Charlie’s kid and it just felt so natural. Yeah, it was absolutely rammed with it being Christmas but even still, she was there so it felt okay. Everything feels okay with her.
I think it’s really important to have people in your life who make things okay.
Life is a shit show a lot of the time but when there’s someone by your side who’s constantly armed with plasters and bandages, ready to soothe all the hits life throws at you, it makes it all a bit alright.
Doesn’t even have to be romantic. I’ve seen it with Phoebe and Freddy.
Seen it with George and Albie. My mum with Victoria.
Can be anyone. A pet, even. It’s crucial to have that one solid thing in a world where things are constantly changing.
The bubble we’ve been floating around in all afternoon is quickly popped when we get back to the hotel, though.
“I’m speaking to George,” Phoebe tells me, dumping her shopping bags in the middle of the lobby.
She struts off, her heels clicking on the tiles as she shouts his name, popping her head into every hallway and room.
After a few minutes, she comes storming back down towards me, George following behind her.
“Tell him,” Phoebe demands, looking at me. “Tell him that we want to go back home.”
“It’s been one night, Phoebs!”
Hands on her hips, nose in the air. “I don’t care! If Connie can still stay there, why can’t we?”
I frown, look over at George. “She’s got a bit of a point there.”
He clenches his jaw, throws his arms up. “Fine! Fucking go back there, but don’t come crawling back to me when your life is in danger again.”
She spins her head around. “The only person causing trouble is you.”
He leans in, right close to her face. “I’m not the one who killed someone!”
“He didn’t kill him!” She hisses, eyes darting around. Thankfully, we are actually the only people in here.
George squints his eyes at her. “Go back then—but I’m telling you, you are making the wrong fucking choice.”
“You’d know all about wrong choices, wouldn’t you?”
George looks over her head, shakes his head at me. “Get her out of here, will you?”
I tap her arm, nod my head towards the door.
I don’t know how I feel about going back.
But then again, she does have a point that it can’t be all bad if Connie is still staying there.
However, would George lie? Is this Phoebe just not seeing what’s in front of her again?
It doesn’t really matter that much, I don’t think.
Connie’s apartment is red hot on security.
It’s not like someone is going to break in and kill us in our sleep.
Phoebe’s in a strop the whole drive over to Con’s. Arms crossed, huffing and puffing. Maybe she’s still pissed at me. Maybe she’s scared. I don’t know. All I know is that I want to fix whatever it is for her.
When we get in, Connie sends me a text saying he’s going to be out all night, at a fucking sleepover. I’m unsure as to why he doesn't just tell me he’s spending the night at Primrose’s.
Phoebe throws her shopping bags down onto the kitchen table, kicks her shoes off and then collapses on the sofa. I follow her, sit next to her, put her feet on my lap.
“I’m so tired!” She groans.
“What do you want for dinner?”
She groans again, louder this time. “I don’t know!” And then she lifts her head up, a small smile on her face. “Indian?”
“You don’t like Indian.”
“Well,” she rolls her eyes. “I do now. I want a curry—with fish. The monkfish curry from Dishoom.”
I frown, stare over at her. “You’ve never had that before.”
“Yes, I have.”
“No, you haven’t.”
“I have!” She snaps, grabs a pillow from behind her and tucks it under her head. “That’s what I want for dinner.”
“Fine,” I shrug. “But you won’t like it. It’s made with coconut cream. You hate anything coconut.”
“Tastebuds can change,” she mutters.
That’s what I order, ain’t it? A fucking curry that has every single thing inside of it that she has never once in her life liked. And the strangest part? She eats the entire thing like she’s been starved for the past week.
“Are you feeling alright?” I look over at her, still eating my madras.
“Yeah,” she sighs, leaning back, feet crossed on the coffee table. “I’m okay—are you?”
“Yeah,” I nod slowly, looking at her plate that’s sparkling.
She rolls her head to face me, smiles. “That’s good, then, isn’t it?” Her eyelids flutter shut for a brief second before they pop back open. “I’m going to get in the bath.”
I nod, shoving more rice into my mouth. Weird, ain’t it? Is she being weird? I feel like she is. I won’t say anything, though. Maybe she does like curry and fish and coconut now. How would I know? I was gone for nearly three years.
That night, she wraps herself in my arms, smelling of the peony body wash she’s used for as long as I’ve known her.
Her head on my chest, her breath warming my skin.
Sure, I fucked up just one night ago and sure, I’m still laying wide awake, thinking about it.
Wondering if tomorrow she’ll wake up, see things for what they are and leave me.
But as for right now, I’ll tell myself she won’t because when has she ever?
She only left me once because she had no other choice.
I won’t give her that choice ever again.
If she leaves me again, it will be because she will want to and actually, I’ll be happy for her.
I’ve been alive for twenty-two years and too many days and still, I don’t feel like I deserve her.
In a lot of ways, I feel like I’ve ruined her.
I hate myself for that. Hate myself for a lot of other things too.
Love myself for a lot of things, as well.
Like how I managed to have it, lose her and then have her back again.
Greatest achievement of my life, loving her.