Chapter 33
Ivy
I’ve seen Xav four more times since The Great Fuck-Up.
He’s been yo-yoing up and down to London as much as he can.
We meet here, or he grabs me from the caff and walks me back here, so we can rip each other’s clothes off and fuck each other silly until I have to go and confront my still-secret ‘family commitments’ or my shift with Flora is about to start.
Even more dangerously, sometimes we blow each other’s sex organs up within the first few minutes and then spend our time entwined, talking about safe, unimportant, never-going-to-happen stuff like where in the world I’d most like to go (Venice, by a country mile) or our all-time favourite TV shows (Grosvenor for me and Succession for him. Go figure).
It’s not like I had any spare time before I started up with him, so I feel endlessly guilty about taking time out from Dawn and the caff and the twins to spend my hours wrapped around a beautiful god in his zillion-thread-count sheets, but it’s amazing how efficient you can be with your time when you’re motivated—and the prospect of being with Xav provides insane amounts of motivation.
I’ve trimmed my hours at the caff to make it work, but I tell myself the money I’m making from all the lovely commuting and grocery shopping and cooking lessons with Flora makes up for those lost hours many times over.
Xav and I don’t really talk much about our situation.
There isn’t much to say, is there? His mum hates me, I have problems of my own that I won’t share with a guy who is, by definition, a highly temporary fixture in my life, and I’ve now graduated from counting down to his wedding in days rather than weeks.
Thirty-five days, to be precise.
Neither have we discussed what’s going to happen once he’s walked down the aisle.
Again, we don’t have to. There’s nothing to say.
Xavier is not a guy who would ever cheat on his wife, no matter that it’s not a love match, and I’m not a girl who would agree to be his bit on the side in any case.
You don’t fuck someone else’s husband, and anyway, my sense of self-preservation isn’t quite that bad.
But when I’m with him, words aren’t necessary.
Our bodies say it all. Our hands. Our mouths.
Our reactions to each other. They all speak in volumes so deafening inside my head that I’m constantly trying to outrun my own thoughts.
I really, really can’t bear to listen to what they’re trying to tell me.
I make myself a cup of tea as I wait for Flora to finish getting ready so I can accompany her to uni.
There’s a stack of lovely, glossy magazines on the counter—all thick Christmas editions—that remind me of Dawn’s tradition of buying the December issue of Good Housekeeping every year to get in the mood for Christmas.
I bought this year’s for her last week, in the hope that it might trigger some happy memories, and it does seem to have worked.
We sat side by side on the sofa in the big communal visiting area and spread it over her lap as I turned the pages for her, because her hands are all gnarly and her fine motor skills are pretty nonexistent.
Fern Britton, whom Dawn loves, was on the front, and we had a bit of a natter about her.
It was a very good day.
Anyway, there’s no sign of Good Housekeeping here.
That would be far too middle-aged for Flora, though I quite like it.
They have some great, affordable recipes, though I only read the free bits online.
I pull out the big drawer that houses the bin under the island so I can dump my teabag, when I spot another magazine, covered in eggshell bits and residual porridge.
Naughty Flora, not recycling properly. I tug it out and brush it off.
Oh fuck.
I stare at Tatler, because who should be on the front cover in a sparkling gold dress, looking like a human glass of champagne, but Selena bloody Wentworth. Shit. Flora must have thrown it out for my benefit.
The magazine is damp on the corners, and the congealed porridge on the cover looks exactly like vomit.
It’s a new low, picking magazines out of the bin, but I already know I’m going to hate-read every last word of the article.
Using a dampened sponge, I carefully remove most of the globs of food and take my seat at the island, staring at the cover as though it’s my worst nightmare come to life (which, basically, it is).
It’s not the headline that gets me—THE FUTURE DUCHESS OF OXFORD ON HOW TO CELEbrATE CHRISTMAS IN STYLE—even though it strikes me as in seriously bad taste when Xav’s dad is basically on his deathbed.
Nope. It’s the fact that she’s standing in the drawing room at Belvedere, the Constable just visible between a couple of beautifully decorated Christmas trees, and it’s a punch to the gut, even if I have no idea why.
It’s so weird. She’s objectively supermodel-level gorgeous, but I’m not jealous of her in a sexual way.
How could I be, when Xav so obviously has zero feelings for her and is so clearly very into my body?
Weirdly, I’m way more jealous of the fact that she’s standing shamelessly in Belvedere like she’s already lady of the manor. It seriously gives me the ick.
With a quick glance behind me to make sure Flora isn’t incoming, I crack the magazine open, prising the stuck-together pages apart with impatient fingers until I get to the main article.
Fuck.
I don’t know who scrubs up better, her or the house.
The drawing room is decorated to the nines, although I’m sure this must have been shot months ago—probably in the middle of summer.
The deep green silk of the walls is an incredible backdrop for the gold-themed decorations on the tree and, much as I hate to admit it, for Selena’s gold dress.
The three adorable spaniels, Sean, Roger, and Pierce, sit obediently by her side wearing tartan bow ties.
I take a deep breath and lean in closer to study Selena.
Even if this article feels a bit cuckoo in the nest, she looks the part of the lady of the manor, for sure, in a way I could never, ever hope to achieve.
You can just tell she has good breeding.
Her skin is impeccable, her posture is ramrod straight, and her dark hair is in gorgeously sleek, Gone with the Wind curls.
The gold dress is strapless and covered with sequins and is the most elegant thing I’ve ever seen.
She looks like a present that every posh bloke in the country will want to unwrap.
And one day very soon, Xavier will be that bloke.
It makes me feel sick to my stomach.
I force myself to read the words of the article, which are far less interesting than the photos, before I’m allowed to turn to the next page.
Bloody hell. I knew that Selena was heavily involved in her family’s business, and was the face of the Wentworth brand, basically, but I didn’t realise she was in charge of their entire lifestyle division, or that she’d spearheaded its creation.
It’s impressive and intimidating at the same time.
The double-page spread overleaf actually makes me want to barf in my mouth. I’m not exaggerating. I blow out a slow breath through my nostrils. I feel a bit like a pissed-off dragon. I swear I could breathe fire.
The photo is undeniably stunning. Like, drop-dead gorgeous, which obviously makes it all the worse. Let me set the scene:
It’s in the fucking orangery, of all places, the one location on the estate (aside from that den of sin, the lilac bedroom) that feels sacred to me and Xav.
It’s nighttime, and a stupidly long dining table has been placed across what feels like the entire length of the space.
There are gold-and-glass hurricane lanterns everywhere. Everywhere. They’re clustered behind the table on the stone ledge where I sat when Xav went down on me and came on my tits, thick, creamy-white candles flickering inside them and crimson baubles scattered around them.
They’re beautiful.
As is the table. It’s incredible, really.
The entire thing has been laid—or dressed, I suppose—with so many details that my creative soul is singing at the magic of it all as my poor heart is breaking at what this photoshoot means.
The colour scheme is white and clear and crimson and gold, and the table is heaped high with candles and china and crystal and greenery and ribbons and nutcrackers and baubles and everything else you’d want on a festive table (though God knows where you’d put the actual serving dishes—it’s crammed).
The effect is spectacular, and part of me wants to grab a magnifying glass and study every tiny detail, work out how they put it all together in such a dazzling way.
In the corner, it says: All table decorations are available to buy from Wentworth Home.
Worst of all, though, Selena looks perfect in a crimson column dress—again strapless—while her dashing beau, the beautiful Lord Xavier de Vere, is in white tie.
When I say he looks dashing, I mean that every woman in the country is probably wanking off to that image of him while stubbing out their ciggies on Selena’s face.
If he’s Prince Charming, he hasn’t opted to spend his Happy Ever After with poor old Cinders.
God, no.
He’s chosen his very own Queen of Hearts.
That’s when the tears come, and I’m thoroughly ashamed of myself, especially when I have the awful thought that I should sneak the magazine into my tote bag—stuck-on bits of porridge and all—and weep over it in the crappy comfort of my bedroom, where I can really let rip. But I don’t, obviously.