Page 12 of The Spare

On Xav’s stag night just before Christmas—the night, incidentally, he confessed to me that he was in love with Ivy—I said something to him to the effect that he seemed far too focused on getting through his wedding and not focused enough on getting through the next fifty years. But I get it now. Contemplating the lifelong impact that my decision will have is frankly too large and unwieldy—and terrifying—to compute.

I suspect he was right.

I suspect focusing on getting through today, and then taking the rest of it one day at a time, is the only way to navigate this shitstorm.

At the mention of my wedding bed, Pieter’s mouth curves into a smirk. ‘I bet you can’t fucking wait. At least you want her. You’ve commented enough times how you want to bend her over and wipe that⁠—’

Nope.

I hold up my hand. ‘Not okay. That’s my wife you’re talking about—or it will be in a few hours. We’re done with that kind of talk.’

He shrugs, unbothered. It would take a lot more than a sudden bout of pearl clutching on my part to bother Pieter. ‘If you say so, mate.’

‘I do.’ I survey myself in the huge, gilded mirror that hangs above the mantelpiece in Belvedere’s study. The fact that I had a new morning suit ready to go as Xav’s best man has been a blessing. My suit is grey, my waistcoat buttermilk, my shirt the palest blue and my tie sky blue. I think I scrub up pretty well, actually.

I wonder what my bride will think when she sees me.

My bride.

It’s a head-fuck of the highest order to think that Slinky will walk up the aisle to me. That we’ll slide a ring onto each other’s fingers, and gaze into each other’s eyes, and promise ourselves to each other for the rest of our lives.

On one small matter, Pieter is correct, and that’s the one of my having wanted to rail my brother’s fiancée for as long as I can remember. It’s a combination, I think, of her stunning looks and her froideur, for want of a better word. God knows, I’ve fucked plenty of women who’ve thrown themselves at me, but Selena keeps herself apart. Keeps her walls up. I strongly suspect that dismantling them, brick by brick, orgasm by orgasm, will be a project of immense gratification. She tries so bloody hard to hold herself together, bless her, that being the man to finally undo her will surely be a privilege.

Knowing my future wife, it may also take me years to do.

The original plan was to have a rowdy, pre-ceremony groomsmen’s lunch at an ancient and excellent wine bar in the centre of Oxford. But my showing up in the groom’s place would, of course, let the cat rather spectacularly out of the bag. I trust Xav’s—my—groomsmen about as far as I can throw them. So we quietly cancelled it, citing my wish to have a quiet bite with my dying father instead. No matter how uncouth our mates are, there’s not much they could say to that.

In the end, Pieter and I enjoy a ploughman’s and some soup in the drawing room, courtesy of Cook. Lunch with a man who’s now nil by mouth isn’t really an option. I must admit, I can’t get much down except for the soup. I’m in a state of stomach-churning nerves and not a little existential angst over my upcoming metaphorical sky dive. But I do head upstairs to see Pa before we leave for the church.

Ma is, mercifully, over at Millbrook with Flora, indulging in all things bridal. While I feel for Slinks, having two mothers to deal with, I’m glad to have mine out of my hair. The events of the past week have challenged even her stoicism, and I’ve found her relentless cocktail of excitement and anxiety exhausting. At least she and Constance Wentworth can drive each other mad over a ‘medicinal’ sherry or two.

Pa’s room is giving ducal splendour mixed with hospice—and the result is depressing as fuck. The idea that I might be expected to move into this huge, creepy room once he’s… once I’ve succeeded him is laughable. No thank you. I’m sure Slinky will have a strong view on where she wants us to sleep, and I’m happy to roll with that, even if it means moving from my childhood bedroom.

Because the idea of my wife and I continuing my parents’—and my ancestors’—habit of separate rooms is equally laughable, and I hope Slinky knows that.

Pa is dozing. As I take my seat on one of the uncomfortable chairs at his bedside, I allow my mind to wander. I’ll fall asleep and wake up next to Slinks for the rest of my life. That kind of physical proximity must act as a form of icebreaker, surely? It’s not that I’m expecting to wake up one morning with her hand having accidentally wrapped itself around my dick—though a man can dream—but surely, as we sleep next to each other night after night, we’ll grow more comfortable with each other? More familiar?

I’m more apprehensive about this side of things than I’d like to admit. I meant what I said to her the other day. I expect this marriage to be real. But the only thing worse than an arranged marriage is, presumably, an arranged marriage where the wife you fancy the pants off won’t put out.

I’m not especially concerned that she won’t find me attractive. She likes me, that’s for sure. She has fun with me. When I took her for a few spins around the dance floor at Xav’s birthday party (an attempt to keep her occupied while he went off to enjoy his birthday present a.k.a. Ivy), I could tell she was into it. Her skin grew flushed, and I found her staring at my mouth a few times. She was definitely digging it. Me.

But I’m all too aware that this is an epic head-fuck for her, and I’d do well to remember that all this upheaval is likely to be a major stressor. If I know Slinks, and I do, she’ll retreat even further inside herself while she processes finding herself married to the wrong brother over the coming weeks and months.

So I’d do well to shelve my sneaky little fantasies of her blowing me later in her wedding dress.

I sit by Pa’s bed for ten minutes or so, wondering what to do. The nurse tells me he’s been in and out of sleep all morning and that I might want to try alerting him to my presence. He’s right. I can’t sit here all day. I have a wedding to attend and a cathedral full of guests to scandalise.

‘Pa,’ I say softly. ‘It’s Benedict.’

He stirs, his purple-veined eyelids fluttering. He looks positively ghoulish. This is a fucking miserable way to die. If I ever get like this, I’ll ask Slinky to put a pillow over my face and put me out of my misery. Then again, I haven’t spent my life smoking forty a day, unlike him, so there’s hope for me yet.

‘I’m off to the church in a few minutes,’ I clarify. ‘For the wedding.’

His eyelids ratchet open bit by bit. ‘Ah, yes.’

‘I’m marrying Selena. Instead of Xav.’

‘Excellent.’