Page 70 of The Spare

‘That’s kind of you to say, thank you.’

‘I thought my heart was going to actually stop,’ she continues. ‘I saw that photo of you two in here with the long table, and all the candles… and I thought that’s who he’s going to end up with. You looked so perfect.’

I smile at her, and it’s mirthless, but it’s not bitter. Just tired, I think. ‘It wasn’t enough. None of it was. He wanted you all along.’

‘I’m sorry,’ she says. ‘I don’t think I’ll ever stop being sorry.’

‘I think we were both victims, don’t you? It was a shitty situation all around. And look at us now.’ As I say it, it strikes me that, on the surface of it, Ben and Ivy would have been the more obvious match, just as Xavier and I should have been perfect on paper.

The universe has a funny sense of humour.

She gives me a small, grateful smile.

‘So,’ I say to break the tension. ‘What are we going to do about Flora?’

‘Support her. Let her know we think she made the right decision. Encourage her to fuck around until she finds someone she hits it off with in bed.’

‘Hmm,’ I say to hide the fact that I’m not sure I’m fully on board with Flora ‘fucking around’. It doesn’t feel like the right thing to push back on, no matter what my opinion is. Ivy’s right; Flora’s an adult, and her brothers have always been overprotective of her. ‘I’m sure she’ll find a nice boy on her course.’ Surely there are some soft, cultured souls studying sculpture?

Ivy’s smile turns wicked. ‘She ate up that series I recommended to her. I’m not sure a “nice boy” is what she wants.’

CHAPTER 32

Selena

‘Isn’t this lovely?’ Mum says with a broad smile. ‘All the girls together.’

She means, of course, all the girls except for Ivy, who I’m sure will be NFI to my parents’ home for evermore.

It’s a Saturday, and my sister Octavia is home from school for the weekend. Flora, as it happens, is also staying at Belvedere this weekend, so I’ve dragged her along to the lunch Mum has insisted on hosting for me, Octavia, and Charlotte. According to Ivy, Flora’s been moping around London ever since her breakup with Harry, so I’m glad she’s come home for a couple of days.

Dad has gone for a round of golf with Ben and Xavier, who I’m gradually getting used to calling Xav. (Funny how much more relaxed we’re becoming in each other’s company now that we don’t actually have to marry one another.) He thought it would be beneficial to take them out and see how they’re getting on. Creepy, outdated marriage alliances aside, our families are less close than they were when we were little, but I know Dad wants to keep an eye on them in the wake of John’s death. I suppose inheriting a dukedom and a fashion empire aren’t all that dissimilar in terms of pressure.

The dining room at Millbrook may as well be one of the showrooms at our Wentworth House concept store, dressed as it is to the gills with the brand’s green-and-white lily-of-the-valley china. And table linen. And glassware. It’s full-on, but it’s lovely, even if it’s still a few weeks too early to enjoy actual lily of the valley. We dine on sea trout, new potatoes, and new season asparagus with a nice, light Italian white, and it’s all very civilised—until, that is, the conversation turns to Xav and Ivy.

You’d better believe that Charlotte detests Ivy every bit as much as Mum does. More likely, she’s threatened by her and what she represents. Mum brings up the topic innocuously enough, even if it’s inevitable enough that it may as well have been debossed across the top of the floral-sprigged invitations she sent us in the post: WHAT SHALL WE DO ABOUT YOUR DISRESPECTFUL, CAVALIER ELDEST SON AND HIS VULGAR LITTLE GIRLFRIEND?

‘How are you finding life in Woodstock?’ Mum asks.

‘Very jolly indeed,’ Charlotte says, dabbing at the edges of her mouth with her lily-of-the-valley-embroidered napkin. ‘Although it is a bit of a trek to see the horses each morning, I must say.’

Mum hums sympathetically. ‘And I hear Xavier and that girl have taken up residence in the dower house?’ The way she says it suggests she’s equating their status with squatters, both legally and morally. ‘How do you bear it?’

Flora and I exchange a look across the table. She looks very pretty today in a blue-and-white striped cotton maxi dress, even if her general vibe feels as lacklustre as Ivy reported.

Who should intercept this one? her raised eyebrow says.

Give them enough rope to hang themselves with, I telegraph silently and grimly, smearing a touch of delicious sauce onto my trout. It has exactly the right amount of fresh tarragon in it. Usually, I’m deferential, but today, I’m spoiling for a fight. John’s death notwithstanding, there’s been a low-key smugness about Mum and Charlotte since Arranged Marriage 2.0 went through. I may have done their bidding, but I’m not above extracting my pound of flesh in return in any number of opaque ways.

‘Both of those women would still be licking their wounds of social annihilation if it weren’t for you and me, sweetheart,’ Ben reminded me cheerfully before kissing me (very slowly, deeply, and erotically) goodbye as he left for golf. ‘Don’t let them forget who’s boss today, you hear me?’

Loud and clear.

Charlotte purses her mouth until it’s as puckered as an arsehole. She’s really not doing her wrinkles any favours. (God, what is wrong with me today?) ‘It’s quite intolerable,’ she says. ‘That girl, of course, has no idea of how things are done. But Xavier should know better. I’m disgusted with him. Disgusted. To just show up and rub your noses in it is quite inexcusable.’

‘Please don’t worry, Charlotte,’ I say. ‘After all, it’s not your concern anymore, is it? Ben and I are perfectly capable of handling it. And, honestly, I’m enjoying having them so close. It’s all worked out for the best.’

She looks at me now—really looks at me—and I know my message, polite and opaque and steeped in niceties as it is, has hit home as she goes perfectly still.