Page 35 of The Spare

‘That’s completely beside the point. It’s a showroom, not a hotel room. Do it.’ I always argue with Ewan and the VM team over this stuff. In this context, the bed needs to look stuffed to the max: layer after layer of pillows, all upright, stacked in front of each other, from large to small, square to scatter, every single one karate-chopped down the middle of the top edge to plump it up. Anything less is plain underwhelming, and it will make onlookers feel sad, even if they don’t know why.

This is precisely my business: giving people what they don’t know they want, and serving it up so beautifully that they crave it like a drug.

‘You’re even more anal when you’re hungry.’

‘It’s called having a good eye, and you promised me a sandwich. Come on.’ I turn and march out. I’ve barely thought about my bodily functions all day, but all it took was a mention of the word sandwich and I’m salivating.

‘I feel like we’re in The Truman Show,’ he remarks, looking around as we sit at the island and eat our excellent cold roast beef and rocket ciabattas. There’s nowhere else to sit. The long, pale wood table in the kitchen has been beautifully set with our forget-me-not china and vases of fresh greenery to suggest a spring luncheon.

‘I’ve been feeling like I’m in The Truman Show for weeks now,’ I bat back.

‘Fair. Though it’s not The Truman Show if you know the world is watching.’

I give that unhelpful reminder the snarky smirk it deserves and pull my phone out of my handbag, a sweet little cream-and-tan CHANEL 25 that my husband surprised me with last weekend, because apparently he’s a mindreader and an angel.

‘Shit.’

‘What?’ Ewan asks, refilling my glass from the bottle of Evian on the island. He takes my hydration levels seriously, does this one.

‘Ben messaged me… three hours ago.’ Fuck. I open WhatsApp to read it in full.

Hey princess. Hope it’s going well over there. Can I swing by the press event tomorrow? I’d like to support my wife xox

It is difficult to overstate the maelstrom of emotions that immediately sweeps me up.

‘Is there a problem?’ Ewan asks.

‘No, it’s not that; it’s just—’ I pause. What I want to say will sound unhinged, even to my best friend.

I don’t like that he got in touch and I didn’t realise for so long. It makes me feel anxious.

I’m worried that he doesn’t really want to come.

I’m worried that he’ll come and be bored or underwhelmed.

I’m worried that our sex life is the only real thing about our marriage and he’s just faking an interest because he thinks he should.

‘It’s just what?’

I read the message aloud.

‘Bloody hell,’ he says. ‘He’s just as perfect outside the bedroom as he is in it. Revolting.’

I stare down at my screen. ‘He really is.’

He sighs. ‘Spill it, Wentworth.’

‘It’s de Vere. And it’ll sound stupid.’ I’m already judging myself through Ewan’s eyes, and I haven’t even spilt.

‘The world is a more relatable place for the rest of us when you sound stupid for the occasional millisecond. Come on. I won’t judge.’

‘You’re literally the most judgmental person I know.’

‘Okay, well, then just assume I’m being me and shrug it off.’

I relent, but only because it might help me get the maelstrom out of my head if I say it out loud. ‘I left him hanging for, like, three hours. He’s going to think I’m a shitty wife.’

He barks out a laugh. ‘Jesus Christ, woman. Yesterday you were freaking out because he left you on read for an hour. Today you’re worried about bruising his ego. I’m telling you, that guy’s ego is probably wrapped in rhino hide.’ He’s possibly not wrong. Still, I glare at him. He leans forward. ‘He doesn’t care. He doesn’t strike me as an overthinker.’ Subtext: not like you.