Page 43 of The Spare

Besides, it gives me the chance to hire or promote someone who will be Team Selena.

‘Well, that’s settled, then,’ Ben says cheerfully. He takes a sip of his Chablis. ‘In which case, I’ve been thinking Xav, Ivy and the girls can have the dower house. Apparently, they’re keen to make a break from London now that Dawn’s passed away.’

At this, Charlotte and I are equally gobsmacked.

‘You’ll do nothing of the sort,’ she says shrilly. ‘You can’t have that little tart gallivanting around the estate like she owns the place.’

My thoughts exactly, Charlotte.

‘She’s not a tart,’ Ben insists, ‘and you’d better believe Xav’s going to marry her. So if you want to know your grandchildren, Ma, I’d suggest a little more accommodation than you’re currently making. Besides, I already told Xav he could have it, just as I suspect you’ve already offered Mrs Dale her new job, so let’s all stop pretending this is a consultation, shall we?’

‘Wait a minute,’ I say before stopping. Even if Charlotte seems on the same page as me where Ivy is concerned, I don’t want to make a fuss in front of her. I don’t want her thinking I’m getting too big for my boots, too soon, and I also don’t want Ben thinking I’m going to be an uptight pain in the arse about stuff. Outside of the bedroom, I’m still trying to charm him, still trying to prove to him that he hasn’t signed himself up for a lifelong ball ache by stepping up to marry me.

But I’m pissed off.

First, I’m his wife. We should discuss this stuff together. This isn’t the nineteen hundreds. We’re a partnership, not a patriarchy.

Second—hello? Xavier almost succeeded in ruining my life a couple of short months ago. Am I the only one who thinks it’s a bit unseemly that he and his new girlfriend should shack up right next door when I’m trying my best to adjust to a new reality and a new marriage that he gave me no choice but to acquiesce to?

And third, shouldn’t my fucking husband have enough fucking emotional intelligence to work this out for himself without my having to spell it out for him?

Jesus Christ.

‘Problem, sweetheart?’ Ben asks.

I sit back in my seat, deflated, as he and his mum turn to look at me with matching politely blank faces that are honestly creepy. I’m supposed to be an insider here. I’ve been a promised member of the de Vere clan my whole life. Fuck knows how Ivy will survive in this family if this is the way they close ranks on me. My eyes have begun to sting as if I’m a little girl who’s been denied her needs as the old, familiar conflict begins to pull me apart inside.

I want him to know what I need.

And I don’t want to have to tell him, because that’s too scary.

I should advocate for myself. Set an early precedent. It’s important.

No. It’s too confronting. I don’t want to make a fuss or have Ben think badly of me.

In the end, I settle on a middle ground I know is lame even as I utter the words. ‘It’s a little close for comfort, don’t you think?’ I ask as evenly as I can manage. Under the table, my hands are shaking.

His lips purse as if he’s genuinely perplexed. ‘It’s practical, really. I want my brother around. He has dependents to look after now, whether Ma likes it or not. They’re a package deal. Apparently, Ivy’s sisters want to give boarding school a try, and nothing’s keeping them in London now, so it makes sense for them to move here.’ He gives me a little wink. ‘Don’t overthink it.’

Don’t overthink it.

Oh no, he didn’t.

What a male fucking thing to say: to instantly shoot down any concerns I may have without even giving me the space and security to voice them. I overthink everything, and just because my husband appears not to think anything through at all, he doesn’t get to negate my way of processing the world around me—especially since I braved voicing my concerns over that lunch in Courchevel.

Fine use of time and courage that was.

Does he think I enjoy overthinking everything? Ruminating, obsessing, seeking out hidden meanings when there aren’t actually any, spiralling over the vaguest perceived slight and inventing endless nasty thoughts that another party may possibly be having about me?

No. I do not. It runs my life, and it ruins my life. It wrecks me. But the one thing I do know, Benedict, you dismissive arsehole, is that my weird, exhausting brain won’t be able to stop doing it just because you’ve suggested it.

Don’t overthink it.

Did my husband seriously just try to mansplain my mental fuckedupness to me in three words?

CHAPTER 20

Selena