Page 17 of The Spare

Only when the ceremony is well underway, at four fifteen, does step four kick in. The press release I’ve crafted will be broadly disseminated by the De Vere Estate’s PR manager, at which point I assume all hell will break loose online and on the many TV networks unofficially covering events from outside the cathedral.

Meanwhile, back to step one.

‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ Bishop Faulkner begins into his mic, with all the gravitas his age and status afford him, ‘if I might have your attention please.’ He waits calmly for silence. Far more calmly than I wait—my heart is thumping so hard it might break through my ribs. I think I’m going to throw communion-wine-coloured puke up all over my morning suit. Pieter must sense this because he clamps a reassuring hand to my shoulder and doesn’t let go.

‘I have a short announcement before we begin,’ the bishop continues. ‘Due to various machinations over the past week, upon which I am not at liberty to expand, we have a slight change to today’s scheduled proceedings. This wedding ceremony will take place between Miss Selena Wentworth, who will be arriving shortly’—he pauses for breath—‘and not Lord Xavier de Vere but, in fact, Lord Benedict de Vere, who has declared himself profoundly in love with Miss Wentworth and has therefore requested that he take his brother’s place today—and, indeed, forevermore. Thank you for your understanding.’

‘Deadpan as fuck,’ Pieter mutters behind me. ‘That was epic.’

There’s a momentary pause as the congregation, presumably, attempts to absorb this unhinged news, and then everyone goes fucking nuts—gasping and shouting and standing up. A few brave souls clap; I hear some definite F-bombs; I only hope none of the oldies faint. The bishop stays in place, looking amiably around at the carnage his bombshell is causing, while the noise level in his church goes through the roof.

‘And that, I believe,’ says Pieter, ‘is our cue.’

I bow my head for a second. ‘Most surreal moment of my life. Makes Burning Man feel like the Calm app.’

‘Amen, brother.’

He slaps me hard on the shoulder, and we walk out into the church.

It’s time for step two.

CHAPTER 8

Selena

‘Ithink this is all a jolly elegant solution,’ Dad says, looking out the window of the vintage Jag as it crawls through the beautiful streets of Oxford. ‘Don’t you, darling?’

The question is as rhetorical as it is closed-ended.

There’s only one acceptable response, and that’s yes.

I wish I were travelling with my bridesmaids right now and not my father. This was always going to be a strange journey—tense at my end and smug at Dad’s—but this moment feels beyond the pale.

Boxing Day was unbearable. After Xavier braved my parents and pulled myself together—outwardly, at least—I had to endure a day of Mum’s weeping and Dad’s whining. I could only imagine their crushing disappointment: a lifetime of expectations demolished; their bright future pulled without any of the conflict that actually having to marry the guy provided. We were united, at least, in our horror at the effect Xavier’s decision would have on the Wentworth brand—both personal and corporate—and the social annihilation it would undoubtedly effect.

So when Ben rocked up the next day with his shockingly effective solution, my parents’ delight was pure. Once again, not for them the complication of being shunted into a marital bed with a totally different guy. Instead, they saw it as an outright win, an epic eleventh-hour rescue from the jaws of defeat and humiliation.

Saying anything but yes to Ben was unthinkable in their eyes, just as unthinkable as saying anything but yes to Dad’s question now.

‘Very elegant.’ I pat his hand and refrain from adding, ‘Thanks for asking.’ Not once in the past week have they asked me outright if I’m okay with all this. I’m unclear if it’s due to a spectacular selfishness on their part or an assumption that I’m as invested as they are in making a match with the de Veres happen—at any cost.

I suspect it’s a little of both.

In any case, Benedict having stepped up is as ‘elegant’ a solution as finding a stand-in when a model is double-booked for a Wentworth photoshoot:

Pragmatic.

Efficient.

And, critically, a way to save face all round.

Having withdrawn my hand, I smooth down the skirt of my dress. At the very least, I can take pleasure in its beauty. Its craftsmanship. The French lace overlay is simply stunning, the beaded details exquisite. It honestly feels affronting that so many hours of painstaking labour went into this creation while the key details of the ceremony at which it’ll make its appearance have been so rudely, so rashly, overhauled. I force my palms down to the leather seat on either side of me. I can’t risk any grime on the pristine ivory.

Benedict messages me, and I reply straight away. We’re right on track, which means that, a few hundred metres away, our congregated guests are about to get the shock of their lives.

Our car drives slowly down St Aldate’s, followed immediately by two clones holding my mother and the bridesmaids. It’s already dark, and the illuminated Tom Tower looms up ahead. It’s usually a welcome sight—a beautiful Wren-designed clock tower under which you must pass to enter Christchurch College, and a true Oxford landmark—but today it feels positively ominous.

The large numbers of people on the street outside the college entrance only increase my anxiety. While I wouldn’t call them crowds exactly, people are definitely gathering. It’s a chaotic mixture, from what I can see, of unaccredited press with their long-lens cameras, members of the public, and curious tourists who’ve probably stopped to see what on earth is going on. There are a few local coppers doing their best to keep everyone on the pavements and out of the way of oncoming traffic.