Chapter 21
Selena
‘Of course I bloody well mind,’ I tell Ewan as I crossly stuff another bottle of Ruinart Blanc de Blancs into the already full champagne bucket.
‘Can I not have a single evening of pure, unadulterated escapism without fucking Ivy turning up? Is this how it’s going to be from now on: everyone hanging out together all the time as if this isn’t the cringiest, most incestuous setup ever? ’
‘Well, I, for one, am thrilled,’ Ewan says. ‘I am dying to see her in the flesh.’
I level him with a look. ‘Et tu, Brute?’
Tonight’s a big deal. For six seasons, Grosvenor has captivated the world with its steamy love stories, insane aesthetics, and pure escapism.
While none of the seasons quite managed to pull off the fireworks of Season One, where the duke and duchess in question were played by two bitter exes who got back together in spectacularly public style while filming—think nationwide scandals and public declarations of love on The Gordon Kaye Show—the storylines, based on the Grosvenor series of romance books by Nicola Marchant, kept us all in their thrall.
The best bit? It felt as though the budget got cranked up after each season broke new viewer records, which has meant the costumes and sets have grown more and more lavish.
It’s the best interior porn in the world and has provided me and Ewan with all manner of creative inspiration over the past few years.
And tonight, with the streaming platform Azure dropping the finale of Season Six at nine o’clock, the curtain is set to close on this world, these characters, we’ve all fallen so hard for. I honestly don’t know what I’m going to do with myself when it’s done.
Rewatch it all from the beginning, I suppose.
Ewan, who lives in the centre of Oxford, has driven out to Belvedere for a light early supper so we have space to enjoy nibbles while we watch the show.
I see him most days at work, but he’s someone I could never get tired of hanging out with, and I know his acerbic commentary will only make tonight’s watch more enjoyable.
He’s one of the few people whose interruptions I can tolerate when watching TV (Ben is still on probation on that front—his witticisms while watching Landman haven’t quite won me over yet).
By the time Flora and Ivy rock up around eight thirty, Ewan and I are a bottle of champagne down.
I’ve been drinking to insulate myself against the inevitable nerves and irritation and God knows what else I’d feel when Ivy arrived.
I suppose it’s good that our first prolonged period of time together is like this, with a great TV show to break the ice, minimal conversation required, and Ewan’s moral support—unless he, like Flora, dubs himself Team Ivy, of course.
Flora has also dragged her friend Cait along.
She’s a sweet blonde whose willowy figure belies her stellar equestrian skills.
Then again, she’s been riding since she could walk.
She’s lived on the Belvedere Estate her entire life and is almost exactly the same age as Flora.
It’s a good thing they had each other when they were little; with Flora nine years younger than me and Ben and over a decade younger than Xavier, I’m afraid we rather left her out of our gang when we were kids.
The family’s hunting dogs, three working cockers named Sean, Pierce, and Roger, traipse in after them.
They adore Cait, given that their kennels are down at the stables, next to the small cottage where Cait grew up and where her mum still lives.
I’m fond of the dogs but thrilled I haven’t had to inherit them along with the house.
Ivy is still in the same clothes she was in earlier but has added a little more makeup, I note. Just some blush and bronzer, but she looks extremely pretty. We eye each other warily. Happily, Ewan has no such inhibitions.
‘You must be Ivy!’ he exclaims, practically prancing over to her and giving her a theatrical hug. ‘I’ve heard so much about you.’
‘Yeah, I can imagine,’ Ivy says, looking down as he releases her.
‘I don’t even know why I said that. I actually haven’t heard nearly enough, and I have many questions.’
‘Ewan,’ I say warningly. ‘Leave her alone.’
This is code for don’t poke the hornet’s nest now, for the love of God, but it can’t hurt that I’m perceived to be taking the moral high ground.
‘You’re very pretty,’ he tells her, ignoring me. ‘How’s the dower house? Can I come by in the morning and get a peek? I’m staying here tonight.’
‘Of course you can.’ She seems flustered. ‘And it’s beautiful, obviously. Just like this place.’
I know she had moved into a council flat right before Xavier called off our wedding, in a tower block, of all things. I shudder internally. I can’t imagine how grim those places must be, and I don’t want to. She must feel like she’s won the lottery.
‘This room could do with a little spruce-up, though, don’t you think?
’ he asks, looking around what the de Veres call the den.
It’s more of a medium-sized living room, devoid of any of the Old Masters or Chippendale pieces that feature in the more public-facing rooms, and perfectly comfortable, but there’s no doubt Ewan’s right.
It’s tired, the sofas saggy from decades of having been sat on by humans and dogs alike.
They’ve had the same sofas for as long as I’ve been coming here.
While I’m itching to give the entire house a once-over, this would be a good place to start.
And Ewan, damn him, knows full well of my secret, evil plans for a good overhaul.
But it doesn’t mean he needs to drop me in it in front of Flora and Ivy.
I frown at him by way of answer, and he grins. ‘What do you think, Ivy? Should Selena give the old girl a glow-up?’
‘I think it’s really nice,’ she says carefully, bending to fondle Sean, who wags his tail so hard that his entire arse bumps against her leg. ‘But also, Xav’s mum hates me enough already without deciding that I’m too common to appreciate her historic interiors, so…’
‘She’s not finding out anything,’ Flora promises.
‘But remember, it’s not her decision anymore.
And also, Selena, if you did want to work your magic on the place, you definitely married the right brother.
Xav wants to preserve every single teacup for generations to come.
I’d say Ben’s attitude is a bit more fluid, if he thinks about it at all. ’
I cock my head in thought. ‘Hmm. Interesting.’ She has a point. ‘What do you think?’
She shrugs. ‘It’s my home. And we can’t tear the whole thing down.
We have an estate to preserve—I get that.
But when our ancestors Walter and Alice pulled the old house down, they did it ’cause it was dark and old-fashioned.
When they built this place, it was the height of coolness.
There was nothing outdated about it. You’re Alice now. Do what you like.’
In my peripheral vision, Ivy flinches, and I pounce on the gesture as Ewan makes himself useful, filling everyone’s champagne flutes. ‘You think Xavier would freak?’
‘No, it’s not that,’ she says quickly. ‘It’s just…
he’s told me a lot about Alice and Walter.
’ She pauses for a second, something wistful passing over her face.
‘I can’t imagine he’ll love it. But I think Flora’s right.
It’s your house now, yours and Benedict’s, and I’m sure you don’t want to live in a museum. ’
I stare at her. ‘Quite.’ Belvedere should be a fluid thing.
There’s a difference between honouring the past while stewarding for the future and celebrating the time we live in now.
It should be a home, not a museum, and Ben and I deserve to make our marks now that we’ve got our hands on it.
God knows, we’ve both prostituted ourselves enough to land it.
The Grosvenor finale is everything we could have wanted: a sumptuous, indulgent romp that’s heavy on growth arcs and full-circle moments and swoony emotion.
The champagne flows, we work our way through the cheeseboard I had the staff put together, and we put away a lot of chocolate as the hot viscount, who has been an insufferable arse the whole way through the season, finally mans up and returns home to prove his devotion to the young lady he’s wronged.
After their—gratifyingly steamy—reunion, Flora, who’s lying on the floor with the dogs, pauses the show and twists around.
‘I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. You know what this reminds me of?’
‘Stop it,’ Cait says through gritted teeth.
Ewan, sensing gossip, perks up like a meerkat. ‘What?’
‘Can I tell them?’ Flora asks Cait, who sighs.
‘Whatever. It’s not like I have any dignity left to preserve.’
I have no idea where this is going.
‘You have nothing to be ashamed of, hon,’ Flora says. ‘A couple of years ago, Cait had a bit of a… thing with our cousin Eddie. And he was an absolute wanker to her.’
Cait sighs. ‘I’d like to say I was young and na?ve. And I was. But I knew exactly what he was like, and I still let him’—she waves her hand around—‘pop my cherry.’
On cue, we all make a face or a noise of sympathy.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say. Eddie really is a colossal twat, but there’s no doubt he has the de Vere good looks, so I get it.
‘He must be a lot older than you, no?’ He was in Xav’s year at school, which must make him a good ten years older than Cait. Creepy git.
She grimaces. ‘Yep.’
‘That’s unacceptable,’ I say. ‘On his part, I mean. Not yours, obviously.’
I like Cait. She’s come from humble beginnings and now she’s reading law at Edinburgh. Drive is a characteristic I always admire.
‘We’ve all fallen foul of a nice face and a big dick, duckie,’ Ewan tells her. ‘Don’t be too hard on yourself. You weren’t the first—look at Violet.’ He gestures at the paused TV.