Chapter 21 #2
‘That’s why it reminded me of you guys,’ Flora says. ‘Except, sadly, this is real life, and most twats don’t come to their senses in spectacular style—or turn into decent human beings.’
‘Let’s keep watching,’ Cait says through gritted teeth. ‘At least Violet knows her worth.’
We resume the programme and are rewarded with the main reason we’ve all shown up tonight: the much-touted cameos by Dominic and Georgiana, a.k.a. the Duke and Duchess of Coventry from Season One, who show up with three adorable, golden-haired children.
‘Are they their real kids, do you think?’ Flora asks from the carpet.
‘Definitely not,’ I say. ‘They’re super protective of their children. Makes sense, given Josh’s past.’ Josh Lander, who plays Dominic, was a star from a young age and it seriously fucked him up. His rift with his now-wife, the Oscar-winning actor Ellery Hart, was caused by chronic addiction issues.
It was all so tragic.
That said, the world got a front-row seat to the spectacle that was watching them fall in love again, on and off screen. The chemistry these two had in Season One proved a tough act for the rest of Grosvenor’s stars to follow. You can’t fake that stuff, no matter how skilled an actor you are.
I watch in a blissed-out state as Dominic and Georgiana sit together on a gilded sofa, their sweet children playing at their feet. Dominic has his arm around his wife as if it’s the most natural state in the world. Their hotness levels are insane. They’re both so golden.
Every woman on the planet is in love with Josh Lander, that gorgeous American whose patrician looks translate so well to Regency England (and don’t even get me started on how incredible his ducal accent is), but I’ve crushed hard for years and years on his wife, Ellery, the poster child for cerebral actors who know their worth and are vocal about their values.
I admire her so much, not least because it seems to me that she’s never compromised on her integrity.
There aren’t many people operating at her level about whom you can claim that.
The aesthetics in this scene are also off the charts.
Ellery-slash-Georgiana is in a pale green gown I’d call pistachio with intricate platinum embroidery, and the room itself is done in a mixture of blush tones and raspberry.
I’m going to have to rewatch this with Ewan and dissect the interior motifs to death, I think, but he’s one step ahead, as usual.
‘Why do these colours make me want to have an orgasm?’ he asks no one in particular.
‘I’ve been trying to work this out,’ Ivy says quietly.
She’s been pretty silent all evening. ‘I think it’s the pistachio and the raspberry together with that pale pink on the wall panels—the interplay is incredible.
If that pink was any more sickly, it wouldn’t work, but it’s so pale, almost like plaster.
It’s really, I don’t know—austere? Is that the right word? That’s why it works—I think, anyway.’
She finishes her little speech with a self-deprecating shrug and hastily takes a gulp of her champagne as I stare at her and then back at the screen.
Fuck. She’s right. It’s totally that plaster-toned pink that pulls the green and the raspberry together without being garish.
I recall Ben telling me she was an extraordinarily talented artist and that she’d painted Xavier a beautiful little oil of Belvedere for Christmas. Clearly, she knows her colours.
‘Ten out of ten,’ Ewan tells her with an I told you she’d be worth getting to know look in my direction. ‘Smashed it, darling. Any time you want to come and play with our colour swatches, you give me a bell.’
I roll my eyes. That’s another bloke she’s won over, and this one isn’t even straight.
The finale comes to a gorgeous, grandiose end, and we keep drinking.
‘How’s it going with Harry, Flor?’ Ivy asks at one point. I’ve been texting with Minty and Annabel about the epicness of the finale, but I look up for Flora’s answer. I have to say, she and Harry were so sweet together at the wedding reception.
‘It’s good, yeah,’ Flora squeaks, but it’s more of an embarrassed squeak than an excited one.
‘I thought things were great,’ Cait protests. ‘You were saying earlier how well he was treating you.’
‘He totally is. He’s the best.’ Flora stuffs one of the last remaining chocolates in her mouth.
‘Flora.’ Ivy’s voice is stern. ‘Do we need to have one of our little chats?’
‘Absolutely not,’ Flora says, her mouth still full. I frown. I have no idea what could be going on here.
‘I don’t know if you realise,’ Ewan says, sliding off the sofa to join her and the comatose dogs on the floor, ‘but I’m like a truffle hound, but with subtext. And that reeked of subtext. Ivy, Flora, spill. Because I’m crashing hard after that ending and I need another dopamine hit, quick smart.’
‘Well, I’m sorry,’ Ivy says, ‘but it’s not my issue to discuss. It’s Flora’s.’
‘Yeah, you’re just making it worse,’ Ewan says.
‘I will not be thwarted.’ He slaps his thigh.
‘Come on, you’re among friends here. At least, I feel like we are after we both got Selena through the Great Groom Swap.
So tell Auntie Ewan and all these lovely girls what the problem is with the lovely Harry. ’
Flora lets out a dramatic sigh. She might have drunk even more champagne than I have. ‘Fine. It’s all perfect, except for in the bedroom. And I’m sure Ivy has a lot to say about that.’
‘Oh, hon.’ Ivy scrambles down onto the floor too and puts her arms around my sister-in-law. ‘That’s shit. I’m so sorry. I was hoping I was wrong.’
I eye her curiously as she hugs Flora. It’s so strange, being here with this woman who’s caused so much upheaval in this family, who’s changed the course of my entire life, and whom I don’t know at all. But clearly, there’s a strong bond between her and Flora.
That said, I’m not sure we really need to get into my little sister-in-law’s sex life with my little cousin. Not here, anyway.
It seems I’m alone in that opinion, because Ewan pounces on this nugget as though it’s a nice, juicy truffle. ‘Can he not get it up?’
‘Oh my God!’ Flora shouts, shoving a hand through her hair, which is a few shades lighter than mine and shot through with beautifully done caramel highlights. ‘Of course he can get it up! Jesus!’
Okay, then.
‘So he’s having a good time, but you’re… not?’ Ivy guesses in a soft voice. Even through my champagne haze, it feels surreal to be having a conversation about sex with the woman who lured my fiancé away with, presumably, that very weapon.
Flora deflates. She looks so young suddenly, and my heart goes out to her. She’s coming up on twenty, and she looks every inch the anguished teen right now. ‘Kind of,’ she mumbles. ‘I mean it’s nice and everything, but…’ She trails off. ‘You know what? It’s fine.’
‘Fine,’ Ewan, who seems determined to tag-team with Ivy on this one, says. ‘The cornerstone of healthy relationships everywhere.’
Ivy sighs. ‘I know we’ve danced around this conversation before, love, but what we need to work out is whether the issue is his performance in bed, or whether you fancy him enough, or whether it’s your own issues holding you back.’
That’s pretty blunt and unnecessarily graphic, but it strikes me as a surprisingly good précis of the situation.
I love a road map for a problem: something with structure and checklists.
Before I can think it through, I blurt out, ‘That’s a sensible approach.
’ I must be tipsy. Usually, any group conversations around sex would have me running for the hills.
Ivy gives me a surprised nod of acknowledgement. ‘Thanks.’
But it’s true. It seems a helpful summary of the problems I’ve faced in bed in the past. (Not with Ben. God knows, never with Ben.) Sometimes, it’s that the guy doesn’t know what you want, or they’re not exactly skilled.
Sometimes, you think they’re absolutely gorgeous, and being naked with them is lovely, but when they touch you, it doesn’t actually make you want to come.
And sometimes, you just can’t get your head in the game.
I remember when I was dating this guy called Stefan.
Wentworth Home was taking off, and I had a lot to prove.
One night, I was in bed on my laptop, catching up on a few last bits of admin while he brushed his teeth.
One minute, I’m poring over the home division’s P the next, he’s jumping on me.
I remember I wanted to just scream at him.
Like, What is wrong with you? Don’t you realise I have different modes?
I can’t just go from wondering why our gross margin isn’t higher to putting out like a porn star, for fuck’s sake.
I don’t have a switch you can just flick—and no, my clit is not a switch.
I’ve always had that changing-gears problem.
When I’m super-focused on one thing, it’s really hard—and very painful—for me to transition.
There were a few times like that with Stefan where I faked an orgasm just to shut him up and then cried tears of frustration—at myself and at him—after he’d fallen asleep.
So yeah, Ivy’s right. Bed problems can stem from all of those things.
‘It’s true,’ I tell Flora. ‘I’ve definitely had all of those issues in the past.’
‘But not with Benedict,’ Ewan, who is well aware of how swimmingly the physical side of my marriage is going, singsongs. Indiscreet little turd.
I shoot him a death stare. ‘Quiet. Flora does not want to hear about that.’ Although a childish part of me is kind of glad he dropped it into the conversation.
I don’t want to give Ivy any reason to pity me.
I kind of want her to know that, in this respect at least, I married the right de Vere brother.
‘I don’t blame you,’ Cait says to me. ‘I’ve had a crush on Ben my whole life. I asked him to marry me when I was eight and he was eighteen.’ She shrugs. ‘He let me down very gently.’
I smile.
He’s a cutie.
And I got him.