Page 83 of The Spare

I eye her and Athena warily from my spot on the sofa. We’re out on the terrace, the sun is shining (a fact I hadn’t appreciated for the duration of my blinds-down Project Runway marathon), and a spread has appeared before us on the coffee table. Clearly, Ben prepped the staff more fully than he prepped me.

More importantly, Sophia and Athena are sitting opposite me on the other sofa. Athena is pristine in an off-white linen jumpsuit, while Soph is a vision in a full-skirted Dolce sundress abundant with lemons. I’m mortified beyond belief that they’re seeing me at my most grim and exceedingly grateful for my oversized sunglasses, even if the gratitude is based less on protecting my optic lenses and more on protecting my paper-thin ego. I’m the small child covering her eyes and hoping no one can see her.

My girl crush on Athena never really waned after that gala, and I may or may not have reached out to connect with her on LinkedIn the next day. I read everything she posts with a mixture of awe and envy. I haven’t had a crush like this since my schooldays, but Athena’s combination of society polish, spectacular beauty, and head-girl energy is undeniably potent. (I’m even low-key jealous of my husband for having had a sexual experience with her, although I’ll take that secret to my grave.) Soph is fabulous too, in a flamboyant way I assume requires the kind of unshakeable self-belief that I can’t even conceive of, and together they positively radiate star power.

‘I’m so sorry,’ I mumble into my glass of chilled rosé as soon as Soph has sent Ben packing. ‘I look a total mess.’

‘Lesson number one of the day,’ Sophia chirps. ‘We’re here to see you, not your wardrobe. We couldn’t give a shit what you look like. Got it?’

I nod, chastened if not convinced.

‘What she said,’ Athena says. ‘God, this place is divine. I’ve been dying for a snoop.’

‘It’s definitely the real deal,’ Soph agrees. ‘Why the fuck we live in London, I don’t know.’

‘Er, thank you,’ I say. I suppose Belvedere is imposing the first time you see it. At least my home is looking fabulous, even if I’m not. I clear my throat as I ask the question that’s been ricocheting around my head like a ball around a squash court since I came downstairs. ‘To what do I owe this pleasure?’

They glance at each other. ‘Your lovely husband called me yesterday,’ Athena said. ‘He’s worried about you.’

I stiffen, aghast on so many levels. I barely know these women. ‘Oh my God, I’m so sorry. Jesus, that’s embarrassing. And he asked you to come up here?’ I can’t believe Ben would overstep like that.

‘He asked me if I’d give you a call and have a chat with you,’ Athena clarifies. ‘Which I was delighted to do, naturally. But I know it’s been a tough few weeks, and I thought a little face-to-face might not hurt. I very much enjoyed meeting you at the gala. Besides.’ She smiles, catlike, and I’m transfixed. ‘Like I said, I was dying to see the ancestral pad. Gabe’s family may be minted, but no amount of construction money buys this.’ She shrugs prettily and jerks her head in the direction of the house. ‘Oh, and I asked Soph to come because she has her uses, believe it or not, in ways that will become clear when we chat.’

‘But…’ My mind is racing. ‘Why on earth would Ben ask you to come? We barely know each other. I’m so sorry for the inconvenience.’ I may be asking the question, but my brain is already filling in the blanks for me. Because you have no friends. Because he was desperate. He was at his wits’ end, and he had to call some random acquaintance for help because he didn’t know what to do with his broken wife.

‘Not an inconvenience at all.’ She raises her glass of chilled rosé as if in evidence. ‘And he asked me to talk to you because I narrowly managed to avoid a similar fate to yours a few years ago—except that it would have been far worse for me, had it got out.’

I narrowly avoid scoffing. ‘Right. So Gabe married you to protect your reputation, did he?’

Another glance between them that I can’t decipher.

‘No,’ she says slowly, ‘but he did pay me for sex, and some old twat tried to make that public knowledge. So at least you’re not a hooker.’

It takes a moment for her words to land. ‘Not a—’ I splutter. ‘What?’

Athena looks quietly triumphant. ‘Told you it was worse.’

I look between them, searching for an explanation for this insanity. ‘I don’t understand.’

Soph sighs and leans forward. ‘We both worked for an agency, very discreet, that pairs extremely highly educated executive assistants with powerful guys who don’t have the time or inclination to have relationships or go looking for sex. And when I tell you we bent over backwards for these guys, we bent over.’

She winks at me, but it does nothing to halt the scorching-hot tide of red that’s creeping up my neck. I’m so embarrassed, and I don’t know what to do with this information—or with my own face. But they don’t look anything other than quietly amused.

‘We’ve shocked you,’ Athena says, cocking her head as she surveys me. She’s so cool, so collected: the epitome of class in her linen jumpsuit. There’s no way! How could she be a—Julia Roberts looked the epitome of class at the polo, my brain screams at me. Doesn’t mean she didn’t sell her goods on Hollywood Boulevard. But both of them? Both of them were prostitutes? I mean, getting my head around Ivy having been a sex worker was one thing, but these women are every single thing I aspire to be. And I know from my (prolonged) LinkedIn stalking of Athena that she went to Cheltenham Ladies’ College. Cheltenham Ladies’ now breeds hookers?

Nothing has ever shocked me more in my entire life. Even when Ben went down on one knee, it was less sensational than this.

‘No,’ I protest, my good breeding kicking in a beat too late. ‘Of course not. I—’ I hold a finger up as I drink desperately from my wineglass, and Athena chuckles. ‘So, Gabe—’ I begin, and then find I don’t have the cognitive wherewithal to complete that sentence.

‘Was struggling with returning to secular life after leaving the priesthood and hired me at vast expense to fuck his brains out at work, yes,’ Athena completes without missing a beat.

‘And Ethan hired me so he could spend his time fucking rather than working on his unresolved trauma,’ Soph adds.

I grow aware that I am gaping, which is as ill-mannered as it must be unflattering, and close my mouth.

‘Marlowe worked with us, too,’ Athena says, and my jaw promptly gives up the fight and drops agape once again.

‘To be fair, she only did it for a few weeks to raise money to save her daughter’s life,’ Soph adds. ‘Not like us dirty bitches.’