Page 76 of The Spare

this woman would marry a labrador if it had a coat of arms

she’s stunning but in a scary way?? like you know she’d step over your body to get to the last jar of la mer

i used to follow wentworth home but honestly now it just feels so fake knowing the woman behind it is basically a professional liar

am i the only one who thinks she looks miserable in literally every photo with xavier. like GIRL the signs were there

The Reddit thread has amassed thousands upon thousands of new upvotes and comments, too.

devils_advocate_here: Genuinely asking—what was Selena supposed to do? Her fiancé dumped her days before the wedding. She had two choices: public humiliation or marry his brother. I'd probably have done the same thing tbh

groomswap_truther: yeah but she didn't just marry him. she actively participated in a fake press release designed to deceive the entire country. that's not survival that's PR

Action is my habitual ally against spiralling, but I can’t think of a single thing to do in this instance. If I go into the office, I’ll get papped. If I stage some PDA with Ben, it’ll get called out for being exactly that: staged. Commenting publicly is out of the question; I know that. Even if I could, there’s nothing I can say to make this situation better.

Ben keeps telling me that no one is entitled to an explanation, that we and the royals never complain, never explain. He says we should sit tight and let it all blow over, but I like closure. I like things wrapped up in big, tidy bows. The idea of just sitting with the chaos and not trying to wrangle it into some sort of narrative, some sort of shape, is like an itch in my brain that I can’t scratch. It’s insanely melodramatic to say, but I don’t just feel humiliated. I actually feel like I’m in the middle of an existential crisis. I’m completely disoriented; I no longer know which way is up. I want to check into some hospital and ask them to restore my factory settings and start again from a nice, clean slate—like a wiped iPad.

I would really like to be a wiped Selena right now, stripped of all the stuff she got wrong and ready and waiting for the download of Selena 2.0.

CHAPTER 35

Benedict

My wife is disappearing before my eyes, and it’s freaking me the hell out. I don’t mean physically—although she’s eating nowhere near enough—but spiritually, if you like. The woman I’ve fallen for is imploding on herself, and the woman sharing my bed is a hollowed-out shell of herself.

I remember being struck, the morning I went over to propose to her, by her composure. I remember marvelling at how she could be fully made up and functioning after the blow my brother had dealt her, and I’ve been marvelling at her ever since.

Slinks is an over-functioner by anyone’s standards, and while I don’t think it’s necessarily a healthy characteristic, I’ve found it more comforting than I realised. Slinky is the grown-up in the room, and seeing her like this feels as scary and wrong as being a little boy and having your mum take to her bed for days on end in a darkened room. It’s like the bottom falling out of your world.

My wife is always on—doing, working, socialising—and I suppose I’ve taken that for granted. This past week, she has been off. As in, turned off. The lights are on but nobody’s home. She’s refusing to go into work and she’s not answering work emails. She won’t take any of the calls from her mum or dad. Not that I blame her, but she’s someone who will usually go to any lengths not to fall short of others’ expectations. Like I mentioned, she’s been eating very little. Not wearing makeup. Not styling her hair. Obviously, I don’t give a shit whether my wife wears makeup or has a blow-dry, but every ounce of experience I have with her tells me that she does. She gives a lot of shits about that stuff, usually.

As far as I can tell, I have two kinds of weapons in my arsenal here, both of which are proving equally useless: distraction (which also takes the form of entertainment, staying positive, goofing around, and trying my damnedest to raise a smile from her) and throwing my weight around. You’d better believe the De Vere Estate’s PR and legal teams are on the case, though their hands are tied. Legal can’t get anywhere with either the press or the Reddit article, and our PR strategy of never complain, never explain is proving disastrous beyond all imagining. A dignified silence only works when the press cycle moves on, and with new ‘evidence’ and commentary coming out of the woodwork every fucking day, it seems that won’t happen anytime soon.

The relevant experts have slapped down several of my suggestions: suing the care home (sorely tempting but an exercise in shutting the door after the horse has bolted and not great for optics); a carefully worded statement asking for privacy (an outright admission of guilt, apparently); briefing a friendly journalist (useless unless I can get Slinks on board, which is proving impossible); throwing Xav and Ivy under the bus and persuading them to do a warm and fuzzy interview (Slinks and Xav have both put their feet down on that one).

From where I’m surveying the chessboard, that only leaves one move left to make.

It’s beautiful early May weather, and I’ve dragged Slinky outside for a drink. We’re sitting on the terrace outside the drawing room, on one of the long rattan sofas. It’s chilly now, so I’ve tucked her against my side and covered her with a rug. Xav and Ivy are on their way over for the lowest of low-key suppers—asparagus omelettes and sourdough. While Slinks claims not to feel up to socialising, I’ve gently suggested it’ll do her good for us to have a bit of company. It’s only partly true—in fact, I feel totally out of my depth with this pale little shadow pretending to be my wife and could do with some moral support. I’d like to see what Xav and Ivy make of it all.

‘I want to put out a statement,’ I tell Slinks as we drink our aperitifs. Her Chablis is going down quickly, but she won’t touch the insanely good truffled nuts I brought out.

She turns her head so she’s nuzzling her face into the crook of my neck. It’s a sensation I like a lot. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean like the one I put out during the wedding. I want to reiterate to all those dickheads that I married you because I love you. Whatever happened between Xav and Ivy, people should know how happy we are. I want them to know it’s real.’

She shifts abruptly away and sets her wineglass on the table before standing up. The throw pools at her feet. ‘Let’s not rewrite history, shall we? That press release stank of bullshit, and nothing you attempt to say now will get rid of that stink. It’ll only make it worse.’

‘Then let’s be seen out in public together,’ I plead, pushing myself up to standing, too. ‘Let’s just be us. No one who sees us together will doubt that it’s real.’

‘You’re wrong if you think celebrities haven’t faked emotions for as long as there’s been tabloid press,’ she says, staring out at the lake. ‘That proves nothing.’

‘It’s worth a try. Please, sweetheart.’ I know I sound desperate, but I don’t care. I’m positive I can show the world how crazy I am about my wife. We may have fudged the truth in that press release, but I’ve fallen hard for Slinky over the intervening four months—very hard—and there’s no way our chemistry doesn’t radiate out of us when we’re together.

Besides, I have to do something. I’m scared out of my wits here.

‘There’s no point.’ Her voice is flat; her entire being is flat. There’s no spark there, no energy, none of that charge I love about her.

‘There is a point. My fucking family got you into this—not that I’m exonerating your parents; not for a second—and I’m damned if I’m not going to get you out of it.’ They’re dragging her through the mud, for God’s sake. They’ve metaphorically put her in stocks in the town fucking square and are pelting her with rotten vegetables, and I won’t stand for it. Slinks is the victim here. She didn’t ask for this; on the contrary, she did every last thing our families asked of her, and she’s been hung out to dry.