Page 82 of The Spare

‘Mmm-hmm.’ She nods weakly, and I cock my head. She still looks emotionally beaten up beyond all measure.

‘What do you think it will take,’ I ask as gently as I can, ‘for you to believe me? I’m getting the sense that you’re not really buying it.’

She lets her head drop forward. ‘I don’t know.’

‘That’s okay, that’s okay. I just—I understand that you can’t help worrying about all the publicity. I get that. But I need you to know that you and I are okay. In fact, we’re great. I love you, and I won’t let you make up stories where I don’t. No one is trapped. You want rid of me, you’ll have to put me in a body bag. All right?’

That gets me some eye contact and a tiny smile. ‘All right.’

‘Good. Now, please have another stab at telling me you love me, because frankly that effort was underwhelming.’

Her eyes roam over me, questioning. It feels as if she’s trying to get a read on my sincerity before she puts herself out there any further. I raise an eyebrow—I’m waiting—and tuck a stray lock of hair behind her ear.

‘I love you, Ben.’ Her voice is soft but clear, and I grin broadly at the sweetness of her words and the sincerity on her beautiful face.

‘That’s more like it. I love you too.’ I help her to her feet and envelop her in a tight hug. Maybe if I hold her for long enough, her body will understand what her mind seems determined not to hear. Maybe I just need to keep on showing her, hour after hour, day after day, until she comprehends it viscerally.

But as I lead her out of the orangery by the hand and we wander out into the jubilantly green gardens once again, I have the distinct feeling that Slinky’s particular brand of demons is beyond my pay grade. I can love her, sure. I can tell her I love her. But loving someone and being able to help them aren’t necessarily the same thing. Before now, I’d have liked to think I could charm my way through anything, but I’d be doing Slinks a disservice if I didn’t call in the cavalry. She needs to hear, from someone who’s not me and whom she can’t possibly accuse of acting out of loyalty or guilt or pity, that this narrative she’s attached herself to is utter bullshit.

I’m as faithful as a golden retriever, but in this instance, she needs her very own pit bull.

And I know just the person for the job.

CHAPTER 38

Selena

‘In around, ooh, ten minutes,’ Ben says, ‘you’ll have a visitor. So I’m giving you fair warning because I know you don’t like being blindsided, and I’m scared you’ll yell at me.’

I sit bolt upright on the den’s sofa, where I’ve been pretending to catch up on correspondence with our interior designer but am actually watching ancient reruns of Project Runway (the shame of it). ‘Who?’ I ask in a panic.

‘You’ll see,’ he says far too cheerfully.

‘Ivy?’ I ask hopefully. She’s the only person I know who wouldn’t judge this… situation.

‘Nope. Go on. Ten minutes. What are you waiting for?’

‘I’ll kill you,’ I say, leaping to my feet and raking my hands through my hair. I’m showered, but I left my hair to dry naturally this morning, and it probably looks like a bird’s nest.

‘Go for it. It’s the only way you’ll get rid of me, remember?’ He’s been saying that constantly since our deep-and-meaningful a couple of days ago, and it’s very sweet, but right now he’s at risk of putting himself in danger, because I really will kill him. Who the actual fuck is coming to visit? Aside from Ewan, Xav, and Ivy, we’ve had no visitors at all. The gates of Belvedere are closed, and literally no one is welcome.

‘I mean it. Who’s coming?’

‘You’ll find out in about nine minutes, sweetheart.’

I shoot him a death stare and race up the stairs two at a time. My bathroom mirror confirms that I do indeed look a total mess. I grab my hairbrush and slick back my hair as much as I can before tying it back in a bun. My face is almost beyond redemption, but I whack on some coral-coloured cream blush and a sweep of bronzer. The under-eye situation can in no way be salvaged in the time I have, so I ignore it. I spritz on some perfume as a distraction tactic and am giving thanks that the quality of my athleisure wardrobe (I’m in head-to-toe Alo) elevates my look from couch potato to vaguely respectable when Ben calls my name from downstairs.

Once again: when I’ve dispatched whoever the hell this is in a timely fashion, I’m going to kill him.

I descend the grand staircase like a mutinous child and stop dead halfway down.

Because, standing in the middle of Belvedere’s hallway and looking like a spring fashion shoot come to life, are Athena and Sophia.

‘I was only expecting Athena,’ Ben says sheepishly.

As if that makes a curveball of this magnitude acceptable.

‘You can clear off now, babes,’ Soph tells my husband with a dazzling smile as she brandishes the bottle of Domaines Ott that the butler has brought out in a silver ice bucket featuring the de Vere crest. ‘We’ve got her.’