Page 81 of The Spare

I press my lips together grimly as I give her a few more moments to get whatever the hell this is off her chest, to rattle through this pitch, where divorce is the matrimonial equivalent to dissolving a bad transaction made in good faith. I mean, it’s probably not a bad analogy for some couples, but she and I are not some couples. And I can’t take this crap anymore.

When she pauses for breath, I step back in closer to her. ‘Slinks. Slinks. Stop it.’ I grip her shoulders, not aggressively, but in an attempt to ground her or at least snap her out of it.

‘I’m sorry to say this pitch of yours has two massive flaws,’ I tell her. I’ve been trying to give her space, trying to pussyfoot around her and not come on too strong, but that stops now. I need to talk some sense into her, and quick. I need to supplant whatever fucked-up narrative this is with some actual truth.

‘What flaws?’ she asks, curling both her hands into fists and attempting to wipe away her tears. It’s a piteous, childlike gesture, and it slays me.

‘One,’ I say, ‘not one of those factors you’ve just thrown at me is a measure of your actual value to me. Not one.’ I pause to let that sink in. ‘And two, I love you, sweetheart. I’m madly in love with you, and I know I should have said it before now, but Jesus Christ. Can’t you tell I’m fucking crazy about you?’

For a moment, her brows knit together with something that looks like wonder, as if she genuinely wants to believe my words, before her expression darkens. ‘I think you were into the version of me that you couldn’t have, yes, but not the real me. It’s not like I ever let you see her until I fell apart in spectacular style, so⁠—’

Nope. Not having that at all. ‘Bollocks. Yes, I always thought you were hot. I always wanted to bone you. That’s not love. This is love. I love you. Slinks, Jesus.’ I scramble to my knees in a panic and look up at her. I need to fucking make her understand. I’m terrified that she’s turning what is basically a PR crisis into a crisis of our marriage, and I’m kicking myself that I’ve let her spiral this far, that I haven’t been whispering these words in her ear every second of the day for as long as she’s needed to hear them.

Because it’s very clear she’s needed to hear them, and I’ve failed her. And in the absence of my reassurance, she’s constructed this delusional conspiracy theory, and it’s taken root in the most menacing way.

‘You’re very persuasive,’ she says eventually, her voice so low I can barely hear it. ‘You issued that press release, and the whole world bought it. You stood in that wedding marquee and told hundreds of people that you loved me, and everyone ate it up. You were so convincing, and so bloody charming, and I always told myself not to be fooled. How do I know you’re not just saying the right thing now?’

Shit. I’ve always been a hell of a bullshitter. I pride myself on charming the pants off anyone, and it’s served me equally well with teachers and women and business associates—and now it’s well and truly come to bite me on the arse.

‘Sweetheart,’ I say desperately, sliding my hands around her waist so I can pin her in place. ‘I know I’m a major blagger. It’s what I do. We’re both fantastic performers, in our own way. But this is real. This is just you and me. I’m in love with you. I’m in love with the woman I fall asleep with and the woman I wake up next to. I’m in love with every single version of you. Did I burst with pride when I went to your PR showcase? Yes, of course I did, but that’s not why I love you. You’re gorgeous and smart and successful, and I love all those things about you, but I’ll say it again, they’re not why I love you. And even if every single dipshit out there on fucking Reddit and TikTok hates your guts, I’ll still love you. And frankly, that’s all that matters.’

She stares down at me, worrying her lower lip between her teeth, and I stare back, watching for some glimmer, some sign that she’s hearing and understanding and believing my words in that soft, fragile place where it truly counts. ‘But—’ she says finally.

‘But what, sweetheart?’

She frowns. ‘Hang on. I’m thinking.’

Despite my terror, I have to hide a smile. If my wife’s mighty brain is scrambling and failing to come up with a counterargument to my declaration of unconditional love, surely that’s a good sign?

I have no intention of letting her carry on with this thinking malarkey a moment longer—it’s caused far too much damage already—so I press my advantage. ‘Want to know what my most treasured memory is of us so far?’

She eyes me with thinly veiled suspicion as I clamber painfully to my feet. Kneeling on a stone slab is not to be recommended. ‘What?’

‘Remember the night I pissed you off by trying to jump on you when your head wasn’t in the game?’ I say gently, sliding my hands over her jaw again.

‘Yeess?’ It still reeks of suspicion.

‘That was the night I knew for sure I was in love with you.’ I smile down at her unguarded expression of shock.

‘Why?’ She looks genuinely staggered. ‘I was all stroppy and weird.’

‘I love you all stroppy and weird. And the reason I knew was because you finally let me see you, and I thought she trusts me. And it felt incredible. So, you see, I do know the real you. You’re kidding yourself if you don’t think so. And every single time you allow me to know you better,’ I whisper, lowering my face to hers, ‘I fall a little bit more in love with you.’ I press a slow, tender kiss to her forehead, because I don’t want to push her any further right now. ‘And I kind of hoped you were falling for me, too,’ I murmur against her skin before kissing it again.

Beneath my lips, against my hands, she begins to shake, tiny tremors that swell into real sobs, her narrow shoulders shaking.

‘Oh, sweetheart,’ I say, pulling back in horror. ‘It’s okay, it’s okay. I didn’t— You don’t have to say anything, obviously. I’m an idiot. The important thing is that you know I love you. I love you so much. I’m so fucking ecstatic to be your husband, and the rest of the world can go fuck itself up the arse with a toilet brush, for all I care.’

A little whine of what I think is amused horror escapes her, but she’s still sobbing, wiping her tears away furiously and refusing to look at me. ‘Of course I love you, you idiot,’ she manages to get out. ‘Why the hell do you think I’m offering you a get-out-of-jail-free card? I can’t bear losing you, but knowing you feel trapped would be even worse.’

The stark vulnerability on her face may be killing me, but relief is a sweet, sharp hit to my system. I can work with this. As long as she loves me, I can work at unravelling all the other toxic shit in her head.

‘Well, I can’t bear losing you,’ I tell her. ‘And trapped, my arse. There’s no fucking way you’re getting out of this marriage unless it’s in a body bag.’ I backtrack rapidly. ‘That sounded dodgy. You know what I mean.’

She’s looking at me not like I might be an axe murderer, but with the first tentative green shoots of hope in her watery eyes. I like that. I want to see more of it. I want to cultivate those fragile little shoots.

‘Yeah,’ she says as if she’s ceding a point contested and lost. ‘I know what you mean.’

‘Good.’ I hesitate. ‘Nothing’s changed for me, you know. I realise this has all been really hard on you, but for me it’s an external crisis, and that’s it. I don’t really give a shit what people say about me, and I don’t feel like I owe anyone an explanation. And it certainly hasn’t made me feel differently about you, sweetheart.’