Famous Last, page 13
“Fudge me. Marshall Highlander. What the heck are you doing…oooh?”
“It’s not what you’re thinking,” said Spencer, coming up the stairs behind her.
“You don’t know what I’m thinking.”
“Maybe not, but I can hazard a pretty good guess.”
“He’s wearing your clothes. What am I supposed to think?”
“That he’s keeping a low profile in my flat.”
“With your clothes on.”
“In comfort.”
“And he’s the reason you pulled your first ever sickie?”
“He—he needed somewhere to stay for the night—”
“For the night? He slept here? In your bed?”
“Yes, but we didn’t—it wasn’t—”
By now, Marshall, standing with Tiger between his legs, had begun to chuckle at the back-and-forth between them.
“You two are like an old married couple,” he said eventually.
“He wishes,” said Bev, a quip he had heard many times before, as she stopped at the entrance and held out her free hand. “Beverley Salvatore. We met at Muriel Moresby’s charity event, but you probably don’t remember me. An honour to meet you again, Mr Highlander.”
“Marshall, please. And I do remember you, Beverley. Although Spencer has told me a lot more about you since.”
“Don’t believe a word. He’s got a very creative mind. I’m guessing you’re not going to say no to a glass of bubbly? Bearing in mind the media shitstorm you’ve been dodging?”
Spencer followed Bev into the flat, and a bemused Marshall shut the door behind them. She had already thrown down her bag and coat onto the table, and went over to Spencer’s cupboards, opening one after the other, obviously looking for glasses. He only had tumblers, but she already knew that.
“Top shelf, above the sink. What are we celebrating?”
Once she had the glasses lined up on a countertop, she took a moment to compose herself before turning her full attention to Spencer.
“Hell in a handbag, Spence. Everything went to the dogs today. No coffee for the Monday morning meeting, and lots of frayed tempers. I wasn’t there at the beginning, but I heard that Muriel blamed you, blamed the fact that you didn’t have a contingency plan in place for when you might be sick. Apparently she said something like ‘we have a plan in place for Covid, why don’t we have one for morning coffee?’ I didn’t get there until almost nine-thirty and by then they’d sent Kimberley out to get the drinks. Also, Prince wasn’t there at the beginning of the meeting—he said he sent you a text message at eight, but you didn’t respond—so they had to figure out the laptop setup themselves. And Muriel announced during the meeting that Evelyn, the events manager, is on long-term sick leave and won’t be returning to the office this side of Christmas, so the client party is hanging by a thread. She wants me to take over, as if I haven’t got enough to do already. Surely she realises that getting something decent arranged with such a short deadline is virtually impossible—”
“Or virtually possible,” said Marshall cryptically, which tripped Bev up for a second before she ignored him and carried on.
“On the plus side, Killian finally sent through his December article—hot off the press—which is apparently awesome. But he adamantly refuses to let anyone but you touch it, because, according to him and much to Muriel’s annoyance, ‘Spencer is the only one who understands the subtleties of my prose and my blend of humour—’”
“You get to proofread Killian’s work?” asked Marshall. “That’s pretty impressive.”
“Do you know him?” asked Spencer.
“We’ve met at a couple of benefits. He’s very particular.”
“Excuse me, I’m holding the talking stick!” said Bev, asserting herself, apparently wholly over the fact that the Marshall Highlander stood next to her. “You two have had all day to talk and I am pretty much bursting at the seams. So, final thing, Spence, just so you know, Clarissa missed three important deadlines today, something she attributed to you. Told Muriel she’d asked you to finish them up on Friday before you left for your parents’—”
“That’s a barefaced lie!”
“Yes, and Clarissa knows that. I tried to back you up, told Muriel you wouldn’t sit on something that important, but I’ve no idea if she believed me or not. If only you’d been there to defend yourself.”
“If I’d been there, none of that would have happened. I’d have ended up doing Clarissa’s work over lunch as usual and no deadlines would have been missed. For fuck’s sake, I take one day off. One.”
“Spence, I’m so sorry—” began Marshall, who appeared crestfallen.
“No, Marshall. You have nothing to apologise for. This has nothing to do with you. I told you, I’m tired of being treated like the office whipping boy. It’s time I took my mother’s advice and started looking around for another job. Well past time, actually.”
“Which is exactly what I thought you might say, Spence,” said Bev. “But I came because I wanted you to be forewarned. Are you coming back to work tomorrow?”
“I am. And I appreciate the heads-up. At least I won’t be blindsided.”
“And a glass of bubbly can’t do any harm, can it?”
Spencer mugged at her and was about to reply when his front-door buzzer went off again.
“Bloody hell,” said Beverley as Spencer headed for the intercom “It’s like Paddington station in here. Did you invite someone else to the party?”
When he stared at the video, he only saw a pair of beautifully painted Asian eyes poking out from beneath a fur-lined hood, the rest of the face covered by a black scarf like a ninja assassin. The woman peered around herself as though she expected to be attacked at any moment.
“Hello?”
“Good evening. This is Darcy Fraser-Chong. Not sure if I have the right address, but is Marshall Highlander there, by any chance?” came a clipped, flawless British middle-class voice that oozed expensive elocution lessons.
“Marshall,” said Spencer, wanting to make sure. “Can you check before I let her in?”
Marshall came over, peered at the intercom display, and nodded.
“Hang on a moment, Darcy,” said Spencer. “I’ll need to come down and let you in.”
“Hurry up, then. I’m freezing my fucking tits off out here. Much longer and I swear, my nipples will fall off from frostbite.”
“Yes,” said Marshall, grinning at Bev’s shocked face. “That’s definitely Darcy.”
Standing inside, assessing his flat, Darcy Fraser-Chong looked like one of the fashionable side characters in the movie Crazy Rich Asians. Tall, slim, immaculately turned out, and with her Eurasian features and confidence, she could easily have been mistaken for a high fashion model or a refined movie star.
Until she opened her mouth.
“Well, isn’t this fucking cosy? Very cloak and dagger, Marshall, darling,” said Darcy, starting at the device in her hand. “And why the fuck, may I ask, is my phone not working?”
“We’re in a big black hole here,” said Spencer. “No Wi-Fi, no satellite coverage—”
“And no champagne flutes, I see,” she asked, staring at the bottle and the waiting tumblers. “This reminds me of my bastard father recalling his life in the eighties. So what’s the score? Is the lack of facilities by design?”
“I’m sorry?”
“I mean, is this some kind of halfway house for those who wish to stay off the grid? Criminals, spies, terrorists? Fallen-from-grace royalty?”
“This is Spencer’s home, Darcy. He lives here.”
Eventually, Darcy’s full attention came to rest on Spencer.
“Ah, yes. And here he is at last, Marshall’s elusive protector—”
“Darce, be nice,” said Marshall. “Spencer’s been absolutely incredible.”
“If you say so, dear,” she said, then brought her attention back to the kitchenette. “Is anyone going to open that Perrier fucking Jouët? And, if so, what are we celebrating?”
Bev, who had been staring open-mouthed at Darcy, suddenly sprang to life. She dashed over to the counter and put her considerable skills to use popping open the bottle, pouring glasses of bubbly and handing them to Spencer.
“We’re celebrating the fact that I’m probably going to get the sack tomorrow—” began Spencer, handing the first tumbler to Darcy.
“For having a sick day?” asked Darcy after taking an appreciative sip.
“Spencer,” said Marshall, placing a warm hand on Spencer’s shoulder, “if you want me to call Muriel and explain to her why you weren’t in—”
“Don’t you dare!” said Spencer, handing the next drink to him.
“No fucking way,” said Darcy, at the same time.
Both of them chuckled at their similar responses, while Marshall rolled his eyes.
“I guess that’s decided, then,” he said.
For the next hour, they chatted like old friends. When pushed, Darcy spoke sparingly about developments over the weekend. Spencer felt sure she heavily edited the truth. Even so, she gave them a pretty harrowing picture of the pandemonium the story had caused, especially for the people close to Marshall.
Marshall inspired Bev when he elaborated on his earlier comment—virtually possible—about holding the client event virtually, not with guests in a room but with them attending online. At first Spencer doubted whether an online event could generate the same interest or fun as its physical equivalent, but Marshall enthused about a hugely successful virtual client event he had attended in September. The party for the launch of a new car by a world-class manufacturer had been organised by a company catering virtual parties and had included a link to a screen interface made to look like a racing track. Pavilions bordering the racetrack had represented different aspects of the launch, such as talks about engine specifications, video demonstrations and even computer driving games, all things happening simultaneously. Bev listened without speaking or interrupting—which Spencer had rarely seen—and guessed the seeds of an idea had already been sown.
Eventually Darcy checked the time and announced they had to leave. Beverley offered to wash glasses, while Marshall expressed his need to use the bathroom before they departed. Darcy invited Spencer to show her around the rest of the flat, an odd request and not difficult bearing in mind the single-bedroom affair. Once inside the bedroom, however, her real intention became clear.
“Okay, Spencer K Wyrrell,” she said in a lowered voice. “I want the truth. Are you playing him? Do you have an angle here?”
“An angle?”
“Don’t act dumb, dear. Are you playing Marshall? Are you snuggling up because you want an exclusive for one of Moresby’s magazines? Because if that’s the reason you’ve taken him in and why you’re being so nice, you had better be well-armed. Capiche? I play a mean fucking game, and I take no prisoners.”
“No, I—I just like him. There’s no ulterior motive, no angle, I promise. I don’t want an interview or a story. I’m a junior copy editor at the magazine, nobody important.”
“In which case, what’s this he just whispered to me about interviewing Muriel Moresby? At her magazine’s client event?”
Spencer’s mouth dropped open.
“That was his idea, not mine. If you’d rather he didn’t do it, that’s fine by me. As long as he’s okay. And honestly, if you need me to sign an NDA or something about him being here today, then I would be more than happy to do so.”
“You’d really do that?”
“If it makes you both feel more comfortable, then yes.”
She studied him for a long moment before visibly relaxing. Without taking her eyes from him, she unclasped her bag and put a slender hand inside.
“I’m sorry for being a bitch, but he’s been let down a lot lately. By people he thought he could trust. You’re the one on the roof, aren’t you?” she said, handing over her business card. “The one who talked sense into him that night?”
“I’m not sure you’d call it sense, but I did make him laugh.”
“Whatever you did, he’s a little smitten. But be careful with him. He has a fragile heart.”
“Something we have in common.”
Darcy appeared to be warming to him. She didn’t apologise again for her harsh words, but her tone softened. He didn’t blame her. Somebody needed to be firmly in Marshall’s corner.
“He needs his friends around him right now, Spencer.”
“I know, and I’m glad he has you. I’m also here, Darcy. Whenever he needs me. No angles, I promise.”
“Yes, I think I believe you. And, trust me, that does not happen often. There are a lot of ruthless bastards out there. That’s my personal number on the card. If you need to call me, for any reason, do so.”
“Thank you.”
“Not from inside this cave, of course.”
“Of course,” said Spencer, grinning.
When they returned to the main room, Beverley was putting on her coat just as Marshall emerged from the bathroom.
“Okay, Beverley,” said Darcy. “Where do you live?”
“Mornington Crescent. But you can drop me at the Tube station. I’ll take the train.”
“Not in this weather, you won’t. We’ll drop you home. I told my driver to pick me up at seven-thirty from outside here. We’ll drop you off first, and then I’m bringing Marshall back to my place. Don’t worry, Marshall, we can avoid the bastards by going in through the underground car park.”
They descended the stairs in single file to the front door, with Spencer bringing up the rear. A gust of frozen air wafted in when Beverley opened the door. Since they had arrived, the weather had become noticeably colder, signs of frost already on the pavement, and while Darcy and Beverley waved a quick farewell before running to get into the waiting car, Marshall stayed back.
“Good luck tomorrow morning, Spence. Don’t let Muriel give you any shit. You’re worth far more than they’re giving you credit for. I can tell that from your portfolio, and the fact that Killian trusts you. And don’t forget about my offer to do the client-party interview for Muriel. Darcy is completely on board. Use those things as leverage if you have to, and, if push comes to shove, just call me and I will talk to Muriel—”
“You don’t have to do that, Marshall. I can look after myself.”
“I’m sure you can, but the offer’s still there. And is it okay if I ask you to keep Friday free?” asked Marshall. “I hope things might have improved by then and I would love to see you again, to say thank you. I’ll send you details via a text message, if that’s okay?”
“I would love that.”
Spencer felt sure he would turn away then to avoid being seen outside. But instead, he pulled down his mask, leant forward and kissed Spencer full on the lips before grinning and turning away, heading towards the waiting Tesla.
Spencer remained there in the doorway, grinning despite the freezing air, the kiss fresh on his lips, feeling weatherproofed against any coming storms.
Chapter Eleven
Spencer read the same line for the third time. His brain would not take a step back and view the words on the page objectively. Thorough editing required objectivity. Even from the first hasty read-through, he knew Killian’s article was good. No, scratch that, brilliant. Savagely witty and beautifully observed, he had managed to paint the various royal engagement guests as vividly as characters from a novel by Dickens, complete with colourful descriptions of the more outrageous fashion faux pas, together with the unique quirks and mannerisms of some in attendance. That he had also eavesdropped on various conversations and peppered the column with wonderful malapropisms had been a masterstroke—The Right Honourable Lady Jenkins talking about her brother’s battle with ‘prostrate cancer’ or a former Tory minister decrying the Chinese authorities for banning the people of Hong Kong from enjoying ‘universal suffering’ like the rest of the civilised world.
Eventually, he put his head in his hands. Arriving early to the office had seemed propitious, but all he had succeeded in doing was to sit there waiting for the hammer to fall. In anticipation, he had worn a funereal ensemble of black trousers, white shirt, black mask, and black- and mauve-striped bow tie. The idea had been to arrive before anyone else, and keep his head down, keep himself busy with emails and other admin items, before getting stuck into the article by Killian. And when, by ten, Clarissa had still not arrived for work, Spencer had started to think that maybe he’d had a reprieve—until his phone rang and Alice’s name popped up on the display. Alice was Muriel’s personal assistant.
A shimmer of coldness passed through him. After letting the phone ring three times, he picked up.
“Hello, Alice.”
“Morning, Spencer. Hope you’re feeling better. Muriel wants to see you in her office at ten-thirty. Is that going to be a problem?”
Alice always asked if the meeting time would be okay, even though nobody ever dared decline. Spencer liked Alice. Everyone did. Being so close to her tyrannical boss, she let people know what kind of mood Muriel was in, and, where possible, gave them a heads-up about why she wanted to see them.
“That’s fine. Did she say what it’s about?” he asked.
“Not exactly. But I think it may be about what happened yesterday.”
“I see.”
“For what it’s worth, she doesn’t appear to be in a bad mood this morning.”
“I’m sure I can fix that,” he replied.
Alice giggled.
Of course, the next twenty minutes dragged like the run-up to an election. After restarting Killian’s piece, he finally threw in the towel and decided to wait until after the meeting—if there was going to be an ‘after’.
Alice gave a sympathetic smile before ushering him in.
Muriel’s corner office took up a big chunk of the southern side of the floor and, during the winter months, saw the brief rising and sinking of the sun. A line of award plaques sat pride of place above a long settee of plum-coloured leather, adorned with small throw cushions in pink and violet. In front, a crystal coffee table—gifted by a renowned furniture designer—sat on a jet-black sheepskin rug. On the few occasions he had visited Muriel’s office, he had come to hate the colour combination, which would not have looked out of place in the garden outside his parents’ bungalow. Only a piece of modernist artwork appeared new, fixed to the inside of the square column separating the floor-to-ceiling windows and breaking the panorama outside the office.
