Chapter 52
Xavier
To my absolute shock, my brother’s madcap scheme worked.
I’ll never know exactly what transpired between him and Selena the other morning, and I don’t particularly want to, but what I do know is that Benedict came home that afternoon a conquering hero, having, somehow and by the skin of his teeth, got Selena and her parents on board.
He put our family ring back on her finger, and the four of them sat down over brunch to thrash out a new plan.
He’s told me that said plan is ‘none of your fucking business’, which is Benedict-speak for ‘I’ve got this.’
All I know is this:
The wedding—both ceremony and reception—will go ahead almost exactly as planned, with the exception of the Great Groom Switch, of course.
No one has been informed of this minor alteration to the running order except for our immediate families, the Bishop of Oxford, who’s marrying us, our mate Pieter, who will now be best man to an entirely different brother, and Selena’s bridesmaids, upon whom I’m sure she’ll want to lean this week.
No one.
That means the four hundred guests who think they are turning up to watch me wed Selena will be in for a hell of a surprise. One can only hope the more senior among them are up to date with their heart meds.
At four o’clock on New Year’s Eve, once all the guests are seated, the bishop will read out a pithy and intentionally dry statement announcing, basically, that the lead in the day’s festivities has buggered off and that the role of groom will be played by his very capable understudy.
At which point, my brother will take his place at the top of the aisle and the organist will strike up the opening chords of Mendelssohn’s ‘Wedding March’ in anticipation of the bride’s arrival.
Fifteen minutes later, a far more dramatic statement, penned by my dear brother to underpin his aforementioned madcap plan, will be released to the nation’s press.
My sister says she can’t decide if the entire farce resembles a soap opera or an actual opera. I’m with her on that.
Oh.
One more thing.
I’ve not only been unceremoniously relieved of my best man duties but banned from attending at all.
Not only has Selena claimed never to want to see me again, which seems fair, but Ben has argued that my presence will only act as a distraction for absolutely everybody and a threat to the smooth execution of his plan.
So there we have it.
I’m shut out, redundant, oscillating between crushing guilt and borderline hysterical glee that this entire circus is marching on, and without me. Being sidelined has never felt so surreal or dramatic or liberating.
The week between Christmas and New Year should be a lethargic blur of old movies and carb fog, of near-constant grazing and having no idea what day of the week it is.
Instead, Belvedere and its inhabitants find ourselves wound up in a relentless march as we count down to New Year’s Eve.
I’m stuck here, in wedding hell, feeling almost like a ghost as I sidle past florists and catering companies and furniture deliveries and erectors of marquees.
Not only am I persona non grata, especially where Ma is concerned, but there’s a veil between me and the proceedings, as if they’re all unfolding in a parallel universe.
If all these people and chairs and flower sculptures were here for my wedding, I can scarcely fathom what my mental state would be right now.
Abject despair, I’d imagine. Instead, my brother is walking around with an amused grin on his face: a grin that tells me he has not in the slightest processed the fact of the inescapable black hole into which he’s willingly pole-vaulting himself.
The days drag on and race by in equal measure.
I may be impatient to get to London and see Ivy, I may be heartbroken, contemplating the kind of Christmas she’s likely had, and I may be desperate to set the record straight and show her that I didn’t, couldn’t, choose anyone who’s not her, but I can’t leave my brother in the lurch. Not this week.
I avoid my parents as much as possible. Obviously, it’s easier to avoid poor old Pa.
If he dies with this ill will between us, I’m certain it will take years of therapy to get over my guilt, but I tell myself that seeing me will only distress him further.
And as for Ma: she’s all over her shiny, compliant new heir like a rash, leaving me to rattle guiltily around.
I’m not even the spare. I’m far more defunct than that, and rightly so.
When the chips were down, I chose a woman over my family.
I’ll go down in the history books as the Edward VIII-level black sheep.
New Year’s Eve arrives, and my brother seems once again in good spirits. He’s treating this radical act of loyalty and sacrifice as a game. A lark. A grand adventure.
After breakfast, Flora heads off for Millbrook. She’s one of Selena’s bridesmaids and will spend the rest of the day with the bridal party. She gives me a huge hug.
‘Go get her, and tell her I can’t wait to see her,’ she whispers. ‘I hope she appreciates what you’ve done for her.’
I do too. I’m just unsure if she will, or if she’ll see it as too little, too late.
For the rest of the day, I stick to my brother’s side like glue.
I share a toast with him and Pieter, who is cheerfully poleaxed by the Great Groom Switch, but I don’t have more than a couple of sips of champagne.
I’ll soon be undertaking the most important journey of my life.
I’m itching to be out of here, to be free of the wedding fever and the growing excitement of all the staff members who have no clue that something is seriously amiss.
Most of all, I long to be near Ivy. It’s been too fucking long, and the fact that she still believes me to be walking down the aisle today is physically agonising.
I have to go to her.
When the time comes, I slap my cheeks to my brother’s face and look him in the eye.
‘I can never repay you. Never.’
‘Luckily, you don’t have to. I’m repaying you, remember?’
‘I’m serious, Ben.’
‘So am I. I’ll be fine. Looking forward to my wedding night already.’ He gives me a wink, and I shake my head in amused disbelief.
‘There’s no way Selena will put out this quickly. I’d rein your expectations right in.’
‘Maybe not for you, but for me, she will. Now go on, get out of here. Go get your girl.’
I get him in a headlock and hug him hard. We stand there for a moment, our arms around each other, before I plant a smacker on his cheek.
‘Seriously. Thank you.’
‘You can thank me by not fucking this up. Now, clear off.’
The roads are clear and the drive to London relatively painless.
My brain insists on looping between fantasies of my ecstatic reunion with Ivy and visions of my brother walking down the aisle to a sacrifice that should have been mine.
A sacrifice he doesn’t seem to be taking nearly seriously enough.
I park the Jag on a back street, which is pretty bloody risky in this area, and hotfoot it over to Jan’s Caff. The caff itself is closed up, which makes sense—can’t imagine it would bring in much on New Year’s Eve—but the windows of Ivy’s flat show the lights on.
Excellent. I bang on the front door to the flat and wonder why my stomach is doing somersaults. God, I hope she won’t be too pissed off to see me.
Behind the door, heavy footsteps thud down the stairs and the door is wrenched open. It’s a painter—a big fella in white-streaked overalls.
‘Hi,’ I say. ‘Is Ivy in?’
‘Ivy?’ He looks blank. ‘No one lives ’ere, mate. It’s been empty since before Christmas. We’re just in giving it a refresh.’
‘But—’ A swell of panic rises from nowhere. This is categorically not part of the plan. Ivy told me she was spending Christmas at home. She told me. Where on earth could they be staying? ‘You’re wrong, surely? A woman lives here with two girls? Twins?’
I’m over-explaining, and he looks at me as if I’m barmy. ‘Like I said, no one lives ’ere. Maybe they moved ’ouse? This lot hired me.’ He jerks his thumb towards the caff. ‘Said they needed to improve it a bit before they got new tenants.’
What the actual fuck? I had no idea Bill and Jan owned Ivy’s flat. Why the fuck didn’t they do renovations when she and the girls were living here, then? That place is a shithole.
‘Do you know when they reopen?’ I ask him.
‘Monday, I fink.’
‘Thanks, mate,’ I say, forcing myself to back away. He gives me a good-natured nod and shuts the door.
Shit, shit, shit.
Think, Xav, think. Where can she be? Who the hell moves house the week before Christmas, and, more importantly, who the hell can help me find her?
The care home. It comes to me in a flash. I google it up and call the number. Thank fuck, someone answers immediately.
‘Hi. My name’s Xavier de Vere. I’m the account holder for Dawn Cooper? I wonder if you can just check something for me, please? What’s the current contact address on the account? I’m wondering if it’s up to date.’
The woman reels off an address. Flat 1223, Victoria Block, St Helen’s Estate. I repeat it carefully back to her, committing it to memory, then type it into my maps app. It pulls up an estate less than a mile from here. I don’t know it, and I like the sound of it even less.
Five minutes later, I’m pulling up in front of three looming tower blocks. Jesus fucking Christ. If I was scared to leave the Jag back near the caff, I’m terrified now. The chances of it lasting more than five minutes here are close to nil, but I have few options and only one priority.
Finding Ivy.
This looks like the very worst kind of British sink estate: covered in pebble dash and utterly devoid of hope.
It’s the anti-Belvedere, a place that sucks the very marrow from your soul, and it’s no place for my beautiful, soft, creative Ivy.
What the utter fucking hell are she and the girls doing here, and how could Bill and Jan stand for it?