Page 36 of The Spare

‘I know, but⁠—’

‘And he knows you’re busy today. He’s not expecting you to stand around, waiting for his call.’ He dabs at a fleck of French mustard at the side of his mouth with his finger.

‘That’s true. But what if he doesn’t actually want to come tomorrow? What if he’s just being nice?’ What if he gets bored, or finds it all a bit parochial, or…

Even my anxiety is running out of things to invent and spiral over.

‘He’s being your husband, love. That’s what spouses do. He’s making an effort, showing an interest. For fuck’s sake, let him and just enjoy it.’

CHAPTER 17

Benedict

When we next return to Christchurch Cathedral, my bride is wearing black, and funeral bells are tolling.

My father is given a rousing send-off, heavy on Victorian hymns and stirring eulogies by a couple of senior members of the British aristocracy, before we adjourn to Belvedere. We bury Pa by the small fourteenth-century chapel on the estate, according to his wishes. Not for him a tomb in Christchurch: he wanted to be buried in the place he deemed the centre of his world.

The Duke of Kent is in attendance. The Percys travel down for the event from the family seat in Alnwick on the Scottish Borders, which is decent of them, and the Grosvenors, the Howards, and the Seymours all attend, too. If anyone finds the whole de Vere succession issue distasteful or my succession a horrifying prospect, no one is impolite enough to say so.

Ivy, of course, stays away. Not only would it blow our cover story wide open to have Xav rock up with a hot blonde on his arm so soon after I ‘begged’ him to stand down from his engagement, but, by the sounds of it, her poor stepmum isn’t well at all. Apparently, she has a horrific cough and persistent fever, which, in her state, doesn’t sound good at all. Xav is distracted, that’s for sure, but it doesn’t stop him from greeting all the dignitaries at the post-funeral reception with far more patience than I can muster.

It reminds me that Ma and Pa prepared him for this role from his earliest years. This title was his birthright, not mine, and I’ve felt extra shitty about assuming it since Pa died and it’s become a reality. In typical Xav style, as it turns out, he opted to formally disclaim the peerage rather than forcing our dying father to issue a formal deed. He—Xav—hammered it out with the estate’s lawyers in those crazy few days before the wedding, and it turned out to be not only a generous gesture but a practical one, clearing the way for me to inherit by default.

What a heavy price for him to pay for his own happiness.

And now all that duty weighs equally heavily on my shoulders.

‘We should get away for a few days,’ I tell Slinky a week after the funeral. ‘It’ll do us good.’

In theory, I have a big job awaiting me, but none of that is as important as investing in my marriage. The start we’ve had to our sex life aside, it’s been a rocky first few weeks, with the prospect of Pa’s death and then funeral clouding every day, not to mention that Slinks probably has serious trauma from the speed with which we catapulted ourselves into this union.

I know I do.

A few days alone together will do us good, especially as we’re now fucking almost every night. No longer do we have to worry about an awkwardly non-dirty weekend away with pillows stuffed down the middle of the bed. Not to mention, she’s been crazy busy with this Wentworth House launch. From my visit there on press day, and what I’ve read in the papers, and what little I’ve heard from her, it’s been an unqualified success. I’m ridiculously proud of my overachieving wife, even if she seems intent on rationing the amount of time she spends talking about it when we’re together.

So many times, I’ve tried to coax details out of her over dinner. She’ll start off apologetic in tone, almost as if she’s worried about boring me, before her passion for this project gets the better of her and she hits her stride. Then she’ll basically info-dump on me at an incredible pace until she catches herself, goes bright red, and apologises again for boring me.

What she’s definitely failing to appreciate is just how much I adore seeing her like this: lit up and animated, her ice-queen armour melted and the warm, passionate woman I now know her to be unleashed.

Whatever. We’ll get there. I’ll keep asking her about her job, keep encouraging her and showing (genuine) interest until she feels comfortable enough to show me her real self.

She nods. ‘Can you get the time off?’

‘I’ll make sure of it. Can you?’

‘Given the circumstances, yes. Where should we go?’

I ponder. ‘I dunno. Don’t really care. Do you want to rebook Paris?’

‘Possibly,’ she says in a carefully noncommittal tone that means not really.

I’m musing on our options when she says, ‘You know, the snow’s supposed to be great at the moment.’

I perk up immediately. ‘You want to go skiing?’ I fucking love skiing.

She gives me a slow smile I know is genuine. ‘I mean, I haven’t been this season.’

‘Me neither. Let’s do it. As long as you promise not to cry when I whip your lovely little arse off-piste.’