Page 47 of The Spare

‘He totally is. He’s the best.’ Flora stuffs one of the last remaining chocolates in her mouth.

‘Flora.’ Ivy’s voice is stern. ‘Do we need to have one of our little chats?’

‘Absolutely not,’ Flora says, her mouth still full. I frown. I have no idea what could be going on here.

‘I don’t know if you realise,’ Ewan says, sliding off the sofa to join her and the comatose dogs on the floor, ‘but I’m like a truffle hound, but with subtext. And that reeked of subtext. Ivy, Flora, spill. Because I’m crashing hard after that ending and I need another dopamine hit, quick smart.’

‘Well, I’m sorry,’ Ivy says, ‘but it’s not my issue to discuss. It’s Flora’s.’

‘Yeah, you’re just making it worse,’ Ewan says. ‘I will not be thwarted.’ He slaps his thigh. ‘Come on, you’re among friends here. At least, I feel like we are after we both got Selena through the Great Groom Swap. So tell Auntie Ewan and all these lovely girls what the problem is with the lovely Harry.’

Flora lets out a dramatic sigh. She might have drunk even more champagne than I have. ‘Fine. It’s all perfect, except for in the bedroom. And I’m sure Ivy has a lot to say about that.’

‘Oh, hon.’ Ivy scrambles down onto the floor too and puts her arms around my sister-in-law. ‘That’s shit. I’m so sorry. I was hoping I was wrong.’

I eye her curiously as she hugs Flora. It’s so strange, being here with this woman who’s caused so much upheaval in this family, who’s changed the course of my entire life, and whom I don’t know at all. But clearly, there’s a strong bond between her and Flora.

That said, I’m not sure we really need to get into my little sister-in-law’s sex life with my little cousin. Not here, anyway.

It seems I’m alone in that opinion, because Ewan pounces on this nugget as though it’s a nice, juicy truffle. ‘Can he not get it up?’

‘Oh my God!’ Flora shouts, shoving a hand through her hair, which is a few shades lighter than mine and shot through with beautifully done caramel highlights. ‘Of course he can get it up! Jesus!’

Okay, then.

‘So he’s having a good time, but you’re… not?’ Ivy guesses in a soft voice. Even through my champagne haze, it feels surreal to be having a conversation about sex with the woman who lured my fiancé away with, presumably, that very weapon.

Flora deflates. She looks so young suddenly, and my heart goes out to her. She’s coming up on twenty, and she looks every inch the anguished teen right now. ‘Kind of,’ she mumbles. ‘I mean it’s nice and everything, but…’ She trails off. ‘You know what? It’s fine.’

‘Fine,’ Ewan, who seems determined to tag-team with Ivy on this one, says. ‘The cornerstone of healthy relationships everywhere.’

Ivy sighs. ‘I know we’ve danced around this conversation before, love, but what we need to work out is whether the issue is his performance in bed, or whether you fancy him enough, or whether it’s your own issues holding you back.’

That’s pretty blunt and unnecessarily graphic, but it strikes me as a surprisingly good précis of the situation. I love a road map for a problem: something with structure and checklists. Before I can think it through, I blurt out, ‘That’s a sensible approach.’ I must be tipsy. Usually, any group conversations around sex would have me running for the hills.

Ivy gives me a surprised nod of acknowledgement. ‘Thanks.’

But it’s true. It seems a helpful summary of the problems I’ve faced in bed in the past. (Not with Ben. God knows, never with Ben.) Sometimes, it’s that the guy doesn’t know what you want, or they’re not exactly skilled.

Sometimes, you think they’re absolutely gorgeous, and being naked with them is lovely, but when they touch you, it doesn’t actually make you want to come.

And sometimes, you just can’t get your head in the game.

I remember when I was dating this guy called Stefan. Wentworth Home was taking off, and I had a lot to prove. One night, I was in bed on my laptop, catching up on a few last bits of admin while he brushed his teeth. One minute, I’m poring over the home division’s P&L; the next, he’s jumping on me. I remember I wanted to just scream at him. Like, What is wrong with you? Don’t you realise I have different modes? I can’t just go from wondering why our gross margin isn’t higher to putting out like a porn star, for fuck’s sake. I don’t have a switch you can just flick—and no, my clit is not a switch.

I’ve always had that changing-gears problem. When I’m super-focused on one thing, it’s really hard—and very painful—for me to transition. There were a few times like that with Stefan where I faked an orgasm just to shut him up and then cried tears of frustration—at myself and at him—after he’d fallen asleep.

So yeah, Ivy’s right. Bed problems can stem from all of those things.

‘It’s true,’ I tell Flora. ‘I’ve definitely had all of those issues in the past.’

‘But not with Benedict,’ Ewan, who is well aware of how swimmingly the physical side of my marriage is going, singsongs. Indiscreet little turd.

I shoot him a death stare. ‘Quiet. Flora does not want to hear about that.’ Although a childish part of me is kind of glad he dropped it into the conversation. I don’t want to give Ivy any reason to pity me. I kind of want her to know that, in this respect at least, I married the right de Vere brother.

‘I don’t blame you,’ Cait says to me. ‘I’ve had a crush on Ben my whole life. I asked him to marry me when I was eight and he was eighteen.’ She shrugs. ‘He let me down very gently.’

I smile.