Page 24 of The Spare

This is what I regret the most: that Ben will be put through the wringer and Xavier pitied, when in fact it’s the latter who’s the villain in this story and the former who’s saved the day. That said, we’re both fully aware that Xavier is probably balls-deep in his precious Ivy by now and doesn’t give a flying fuck what his aged relatives are saying about him.

Our generation is less scandalised and more thrilled with the juiciness of our situation.

‘It’s very Mafia,’ a university friend, Allie, says with a contented sigh. ‘I still can’t believe you switched the bloody groom! Are you sure you’re okay, though, darling?’

I put on my brightest smile. ‘Yeah! I’m super. I’m just really grateful that Benedict had the courage to do what he did. I know we’ll be really happy together.’

Right on cue, my new husband manoeuvres himself behind me and slips a possessive arm around my waist. ‘I promise I’m the best man for the job,’ he tells Allie smoothly. ‘I’m obsessed with Slinky here, and I’ll devote my entire life to making sure she’s is happy.’ And with that grandiose declaration, he buries his face in my neck and kisses it as his large hand palms my stomach possessively. That’s definitely a hint of tongue on my skin. I shiver, and it’s not with displeasure. Something of what I’m feeling must broadcast itself across my face, because Allie gives me a look that can only be described as you lucky bitch.

It hasn’t escaped my notice that Ben is proving very adroit at selling his infinite adoration for me at this reception through the power of a good old-fashioned grope.

The reception drags on for a couple more interminable hours, after which we bid farewell to most of the old fogeys and a hundred and fifty of us head into dinner. We’ve kept the stunning Belvedere ballroom clear for drinks and dancing later, and had a marquee assembled against the side of the house so that the multiple sets of French doors lead straight through.

To call this edifice a tent would be like calling Hampton Court Palace a country retreat. It’s utterly majestic, with a peaked roof from which endless amounts of gathered ivory silk hang softly. It’s also—critically, since this is the middle of winter—heated to tropical levels. We decided on a vague Gilded Age theme for the interior. When I say ‘we’, I’m of course referring to me, the wedding planners, Mum, Charlotte, and Ewan (try keeping Ewan away from stuff like this). Xavier was nowhere in these discussions, and nor did he want to be.

Even before he bailed, he could not have been less invested in this wedding… or this marriage.

Anyway, the Gilded Age is obviously a more American take on the era, but Ewan and I are obsessed with the TV show of the same name and have fallen hard for the aesthetic. More relevantly, the de Veres’ ancestor—the ninth duke, Walter de Vere—and his wife, Alice, had the current house built from scratch during the very same era, so it felt appropriate. I can’t say I’m anywhere near as obsessed by the Victorian conservatory filled with Alice’s original ferns as Xavier is—no one could be—but Ewan and I love a theme. We love a tie-in. So the marquee has beautiful pots filled with ferns around its perimeter, while a spectacular nineteenth-century crystal chandelier hangs from its peak.

We dine on crab and on venison from the Belvedere estate, and the beauty of the meal is that Benedict and I are basically protected by our families at the top table. After pudding—apple tarte tatin—my father stands to say a few words. The only noteworthy things about his speech, written weeks ago, are how gratingly self-satisfied he is at getting me married off to a de Vere brother and how very few words he’s had to change beyond swapping out Xavier’s name for Benedict’s.

Poor Pieter has been muzzled, given the circumstances, so there is no best man’s speech. Benedict stands, and I crane my neck to look up at him. He looks absurdly hot and absurdly self-satisfied. He was born to play to a crowd, and I know he’ll do it here.

He grins at our guests as he waits for the pre-emptive applause—and a whole lot of heckling—to die down. In my ample experience, the more aristocratic the wedding, the more raucous the guests tend to be. He puts a warm hand on my bare shoulder and holds the mic up. ‘My wife and I⁠—’

Instantly, the furore inside the marquee drowns him out. Our guests are even stamping their feet on the parquet flooring. He glances down at me, and we share a conspiratorial grin, because this whole situation feels as fun as it is ridiculous. Someone wolf-whistles.

Make that several someones.

‘My wife and I,’ Ben begins again, ‘are feeling particularly smug right now, now that we pulled the mother of all tricks on you goons.’

‘Poor old Xavier!’ one of his mates shouts through cupped hands, and everyone laughs.

Poor old Xavier, my arse. I could cheerfully wring my new brother-in-law’s neck for what he’s put me through this week. I may be ecstatically relieved that the wedding has gone ahead, not to mention in a whole state of confusion about my physical lust for and emotional misgivings about my new husband, but I’m not remotely out of the woods yet.

‘In all seriousness,’ Benedict continues, his fingers flexing on my skin, ‘I’m the one who should feel particularly smug or, as I should probably put it, grateful. I made a huge gamble last week. Enormous. I risked my relationship with my brother, and his relationship with Selena, and it was scary. Like, terrifying.’ He pauses and looks down at me, and I put my arm up so I can cover his hand with mine. He’s playing a part, and I can play, too. ‘But I knew she was worth it. I knew she was worth gambling everything on, just like I knew I’d regret it for the rest of my life if I held my peace and had to watch Slinks with my brother.’

His face is as sombre as his voice, and the marquee is utterly silent except for the fans of the hardworking industrial heaters. He’s good. He has them all convinced that this is the true nature of the past week’s events. Lord knows, he almost has me convinced. Enough people have accused me of being sociopathic in my time, but I haven’t ever been capable of lying through a smile like my husband is doing right now.

‘I owe Xav an enormous debt of gratitude for standing down,’ he continues. ‘Just like I owe Slinky an enormous debt of gratitude for walking away from the future she’s pictured since she was a baby and taking a chance on the spare instead.’

At his self-deprecating tone, there’s a smattering of applause. The heir-slash-spare joke is an ancient one where Xavier, Benedict, and our wider social circle are concerned, and few could accuse either man of not leaning heavily enough into their allocated role.

‘My future looks very different from how it looked at the bottom of a glass of claret on Christmas Day,’ he goes on. ‘It’s bright. Hopeful. I have purpose now—so much purpose. And God knows how much unforeseen work.’

He’s referring, I assume, to the fact that he’ll inherit the title imminently—something he’s not crass enough to spell out given that his father is dying in a distant wing of this very building.

He presses on, gazing down at me, those green eyes clear and true. ‘But, most of all, I have love. I love you, Slinky. I know you’re not as sold as I am on this relationship yet. I know it’s a lot to wrap your head around, and I know I wasn’t the safe bet for you—I know that more than anything. But I’ll spend the rest of my life rewarding your faith in me. In us.’

He bends and brushes his lips softly over mine as our guests go wild. My head is reeling: with an impressed kind of horror at the ease with which he lies, with gratitude and awe that he’s stepped up to such a magnificent extent for his brother, and with a riot of confusing physical reactions that the sensation of his mouth on mine elicits.

All I know is that I must remember this moment.

If he ever tries to tell me he loves me down the line, it’s imperative that I recall just how convincingly he declared it to a roomful of our nearest and dearest when he didn’t mean a single word.

After dinner, we adjourn to the Belvedere ballroom, where the party really gets going under the watchful eyes of Rubens’s frolicking nudes. Benedict and I have our first dance to Michael Bublé’s version of ‘The Best is Yet to Come’. It seems fitting, if on the optimistic side. He appears to take great glee in holding me close as we slow-dance for our guests’ gratification.

‘Relax, sweetheart,’ he croons in my ear as we move. ‘We’ve danced a million times before. It’s no biggie.’