Page 64 of The Spare

‘I can definitely fix that later.’

He pulls away and smiles at me. It’s goofy, and it softens into something approaching awe as his gaze trails over my face.

He looks at you like he can’t believe you’re real.

‘Fuck, you’re so beautiful,’ he says. ‘You actually hurt my eyes.’

I’m sure my smile is just as goofy as his. Feel-good chemicals course through my bloodstream. He may be an outrageous flirt. Charming the literal pants off women may be second nature to him. But, when he’s standing in front of me and wearing my ring and giving me all his attention, I want to believe it’s more than that.

I really, really want to.

‘My gorgeous wife,’ he whispers, closing the gap between our mouths. His lips touch mine, and he sways on the spot as he tightens his arms around me. We’re dancing far too slowly for the Weeknd, which is who’s playing now, but I don’t care. I melt against his body and I allow him to set the pace as I rake my fingertips through his hair.

As usual, there are so many Selenas participating in this scene.

There’s the version who’s right here in the kiss, marvelling at how unutterably perfect it can be to touch tongues with someone you’re crazy about, how safe and warm the cocoon of Ben’s body feels. She’s giddy with it.

There’s the version who can’t believe she finally got her guy—the guy she could never take her eyes off, not the guy she was promised to for so long. She feels weak with relief whenever she thinks of it.

And, always hovering and scanning the crowd and overanalysing, is the exhausted, hypervigilant version who’s wondering what everyone thinks, wondering if this little PDA will do away with any lingering rumours that this marriage isn’t the real deal, wondering if anyone here doubts that it can last the course.

But even she has to admit, when she looks over in the distance, that there’s an undeniable glimmer of light, right at the edge of the woods.

CHAPTER 29

Benedict

When I head up to bed after catching a midweek West Ham versus Fulham match on the TV and indulging in the post-show analysis, I find Slinky sitting up and scowling at her laptop as if it’s personally offended her.

‘You okay?’ I ask her, tugging my hoodie up over my head and chucking it on the chaise longue that sits between the two windows.

‘Yeah.’ It’s less a word than a sigh.

Doesn’t sound like she is, but I don’t necessarily want to poke the bear. ‘Cool.’ I wander into the bathroom in search of my toothbrush. As I brush my teeth, my eyes travel over the mystifyingly broad collection of bottles and tubes crowded together on Slinky’s side of the vanity. All I know is, my wife is naturally beautiful and has great skin. So why she needs all this shit, I have no clue. And she keeps apologising for cluttering up the bathroom, which I couldn’t care less about. I’m sure she’ll rectify that with whatever grand plans she puts in place to renovate. I have no interest in interior design, but some of the bathrooms in this place are pretty tired, and I’m very much on board with porn-ing up our en suite with a huge walk-in shower and mood lighting.

Anything that increases my chances of shower sex on any given day gets the green light from me.

I set the electric toothbrush back on its charger, thanking my lucky stars that I’m not a woman and don’t require a beauty routine, and saunter back into the bedroom. Slinks has the bedside lamps on, the blue light of her laptop screen projecting onto her face—which still looks like a slapped arse, such is the expression of mutinous displeasure on it. That and the fact that she’s wearing another of my hoodies in bed puts my mental calculations of the likelihood of getting laid tonight at less than fifty percent.

Way less. Probably, like, twenty.

Still, I’m nothing if not an optimist.

I make quick work of the rest of my clothes, tugging down my boxers before putting on my pyjama bottoms and giving whoever may be looking a nice glimpse of my cock… I glance over at my wife.

Nothing.

Right, then.

‘If there’s anything you want to talk about, let me know,’ I say, pulling back the covers on my side and slipping into bed. The problem with having fucked a tonne of women instead of indulging in several long-term relationships in my twenties is that I am now a married twenty-nine-year-old man who has no clue how to actually be with a woman, day in, day out. But it strikes me that this is a good thing to say. You know, it’s a gesture of support without being needy. I’m not saying tell me what’s wrong; I’m saying I’m here for you.

To my pleasant surprise, she engages, slamming her MacBook shut with a huff. ‘It’s this bloody interior designer. I’ve sent her a million mood boards and have told her at length what my vision is, and the shit she’s sent me is nowhere close. I wish I could just download my entire creative vision out of my head and onto a USB and, I don’t know, stick it up her arse. Why are people so incompetent?’

I chuckle. ‘Fuck knows, sweetheart. The problem is that when you’re as competent as you, everyone’s going to seem incompetent, you know?’ Belatedly, it clicks that I’ve just told her she’s the problem, but it doesn’t seem to land, thank fuck.

‘That’s sweet, but at the fees she’s charging, she should bloody well be able to read my mind. I might have to get Ewan more involved. Outnumber her. Two against one.’

‘So, bully her?’