“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, thinkingabout 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.
Chapter Fifty
It was on that very same night when the lights on Mount Street penetrated through to the bedroom window where Lady Phoebe and Prince Arthur slept that it happened.
In the Prince’s dream, he was opening his display cabinet, placing his love for Phoebe inside, front and center while she slept soundly beside him. He always slept well when they shared a bed. Oftentimes, his dreams weren’t dreams at all but rather, heart racing, palm sweating reenactments of his traumas.
Phoebe didn’t dream on this night. Everything that could’ve happened in technicolour in her subconscious was happening in real life, anyways. She had no reason to dream.
And as the soft snores and purrs filled the empty bedroom, the front door rattled. Perhaps it was Connie after one too many pints—but no, he was staying with Primrose. Unbeknownst to them, it was two masked figures, breaking in.
Phoebe and Arthur woke with a startle, their hearts pounding, their throats dry. He told her to stay in the room while he went to check what the noise was. His body froze in the hallway, watching these two strangers staring back at him. Maybe it was a joke? Connie and George were prone to those. But for some reason, Arthur knew that wasn’t the case.
He geared himself up, ready to run back to his room and phone the police but as he turned on his heel to do just that, he bumped into Phoebe who was cowering behind his back. Her eyes were bright in the darkness, the whites visible, her mouth parted. The fear struck them both in their place.
The strangers took this vulnerability and without saying a word, dragged them to the floor. They sat against the walls,opposite each other, their eyes never leaving one another. In their last moments, they both always said it would be each other. This was their last moment, wasn’t it? This was it. With their eyes plastered on the others, they were going to go.
They had a good run, they both thought.
It didn’t feel real but then one of the masked strangers produced a knife and pointed it right at Phoebe. The scream Arthur let out was loud enough to wake the dead
He begged and pleaded, and asked them to take his life instead. It seemed these strangers had no qualms about who was going to die that night. Either one of them. It didn’t matter. The other would be equally as unhappy and we guess that was their main goal.
As the knife was pointed towards Phoebe's head, she cried, eyes locked on Arthur who was begging on his knees, praying to the god he hadn’t believed in for a long time. He pleaded with Him, apologised for every sin and asked him sincerely for these strangers to take his life instead.
The knife remained above Phoebe’s head, inching closer and closer until she screamed, hands erratically searching the floor for something to hold onto. Alas, she couldn’t find anything so she reached for the only piece of leverage she had. She didn’t want to tell him this way but if it was going to save both of their lives, she felt she had nothing to lose.
“Please!” She screeched, her voice cracking. “I’m pregnant.”
