Famous Last, page 26
“That may well be the case. But, contractually, I don’t have that role. I am acting senior editing manager. You never elevated me officially or got me to sign anything, although you did offer a small compensation for—what is it you called it—oh yes, caretaking the role. I agreed to take on the duties out of a sense of duty. Anyway, I’ve already checked with the Human Resources department and, contractually, I am still a junior editor. My notice period is one month from today. With the twelve days annual leave I have outstanding, that allows me to leave here at the end of the year and take up my new position at the Herald on the fourth of January. I’ve done my homework, Muriel, and if nothing else, you must know by now that I am thorough.”
The blood had drained from her face. Bev had suggested bringing in his mobile phone to videotape the meeting covertly, and he was beginning to regret not having done so.
“That’s going to put me and the rest of the staff—your colleagues—in a very difficult position at one of our busiest times of the year. Do you consider that’s fair, Spencer, after everything we’ve done for you?”
Had she simply accepted his resignation and left things there, he might have gone quietly. But to dare play a sympathy card pushed him well and truly over the edge.
“Fair? How can you preach to me about fairness? And what the hell have you done for me? Lumbered me with menial tasks, left me to clean up other people’s messes, given me an insult of a financial incentive to assume a managerial role, and worse still, given me no credit for doing a damn good job since I did take over. And where is the promised bonus for me landing the final interview for Collective? Don’t even think about lecturing me about fairness, when you have never shown me any.”
“I see. Well, if that’s the way you feel—”
“It is. And for the remaining days, I’ll be reverting to my junior editor duties. Don’t worry. I don’t expect you to pay me the one per cent bonus incentive you promised at the beginning of November when I took on the additional duties. But I do recommend you get someone to step into the manager role as a matter of urgency. Have you considered calling Madeleine Morrison from Peerpoint?”
“I think I know more than enough about this industry to manage without a third-rate recruitment agency. Thank you, anyway. If that’s all, Spencer, may I suggest you get back to work and allow me to return to mine.”
But Spencer hadn’t finished. Muriel had begun to reach the lid of her laptop.
“And that’s it?” he asked.
“That’s what?” asked Muriel. “I thought you’d made your position perfectly clear?”
“Two years, I’ve worked for you. Can I ask you something, Muriel?”
“I can hardly stop you now, can I?”
“Why have you never liked me?”
Muriel snapped the laptop lid back down. She leant back in her chair, her hands together beneath her chin, the trademark moue forming.
“Until you came along, my son had been completely focused and driven. And then somehow or another, not a few weeks after you joined, all he seemed to be able to talk about was this new junior recruit, who openly flaunted his sexuality around the office. And when you eventually foisted yourself upon him—”
“Is that what he told you?
“He didn’t need to. I know my son. He changed a few months after we took you on—”
“If you had bothered to ask him—and if he’d been in the rare mood to tell the truth—he would have confessed that he propositioned me. Not the other way around—”
“My son would never waste his time and energy—” A red-faced Muriel had come the closest Spencer had ever seen to losing her temper. Instead, she caught herself and drew in a breath before continuing. “After that, I sensed you might be trouble. I should have listened to my instincts before you infected those around you. But I left things too late and was strongly advised against ridding myself of you by an employment law specialist—yes, I did consult one. Had I known the trouble you would cause, I would have terminated you during your three-month probationary period.”
Spencer had heard enough. He pushed away from the table and stood up.
“I never stood a chance, did I? My mother said as much. You were never going to acknowledge my worth. What an absolute waste of my life, you dreadful woman.”
“Be careful what you say, Spencer. Have you never heard about burning bridges? I’ve no doubt you will be expecting a favourable reference from the magazine.”
“Muriel, if I received a favourable reference from you, Ed Coleman would probably withdraw my offer of employment. And a good friend once told me that every now and again a person has to burn a few bridges in order to stop the undesirables from following. I think that applies perfectly in this case.”
“And I think you should tidy your desk and leave.”
Spencer had to take a moment to let the words sink in.
“You want me to leave right away?”
“If you’re not prepared to help with the transition of a senior editor, I would rather not have you in my office. We’ll pay you until your official departure date, but I think it would be for the best for everyone if you leave today, don’t you?”
“Suits me fine.”
Muriel lifted the lid of her laptop and began typing, her attention back on the screen. Her voice came across annoyingly calm.
“Human Resources will be in touch with you regarding your final salary and other details. I trust I won’t need to call security, trust you know how to find your way safely out of the building.”
After staring in disbelief for a moment, Spencer turned and marched out of Muriel’s office. On the way back to his desk, he snatched up an empty box from the floor. Hardly anyone was around to witness him. First of all, he stood over his desk and replied to a couple of emails before shutting down the computer. Fuming still, he began throwing things into the box, a bulky thesaurus paperback his father had bought him that he rarely used, photos of his family, a couple more textbooks, pens and a paperweight—barely enough to fill half the box. Two years’ worth of his working life.
“I’m guessing things didn’t go so well?” came Bev’s voice. She had appeared at the end of his desk without him noticing.
“Depends,” said Spencer, still seething. “If you’re asking whether she kicked me out of the office, then the answer is yes.”
“She can’t do that,” said Bev quietly.
“Well, guess what?” said Spencer. “She just did.”
“Without pay?”
“Well, no. I’ll still get paid until my official leaving date.”
“You’re on garden leave, then? You lucky thing. Any chance we could swap places?”
Spencer stopped what he was doing and peered quizzically at Bev, processing what she had just said. She was right. Despite what Muriel had said, he would have been prepared to come in and work until his last day, to help train up the new person and hand over tasks. But now he had been given a couple of weeks’ extra leave on full pay. With a sigh, he collapsed into his seat and swivelled towards her.
“You’re right. I’m just pissed off at not getting any credit for anything I’ve done.”
“Which is perfectly natural, Squirrel,” said Bev. “Come on. Let me take you to my local cafe haunt and get you a coffee and a muffin. I want to hear everything and I’m guessing you need to let off steam.”
Spencer stood back up, pulling his coat on from the back of the chair.
“I’ll need to hand my security pass to Kim on the way out.”
Once he had lifted the cardboard box from his desk, he turned back to Bev. He found her staring at the container, then at him, shocked.
“You have to go straight away? You can’t leave at the end of the day?”
“I asked her if she wanted me to go straight away and she said yes. Honestly, Bev, I need to get out of this place. Before I do something I regret.”
“You don’t even get to say goodbye to people? How is that fair?”
“For a start, there aren’t many people around today. But don’t worry, we’ll sort something out. Come on, let’s get out of here.”
* * * *
Forty-five minutes, a large mug of coffee and a chocolate chip muffin later, Spencer felt as though a huge weight had been lifted from his shoulders.
Bev listened patiently to the retelling of his meeting. Like a good friend, she nodded or shook her head in all the right places. When Spencer explained how Muriel claimed he had foisted himself upon Blake and how she had tried to find a way to get rid of him, Bev finally lost her cool. She insisted he phone the Human Resources department and report her behaviour. He would not though, because, even in the short time since the interview, he knew he had moved on. Besides, he told her, with no record of the meeting, a grievance would come down to Spencer’s word against Muriel’s—and any fool could guess whose side people would take. Ultimately, he wanted to put his time at Blackmore Magazine Group behind him and concentrate on the future.
“Honestly, Bev,” he said, hoping to put her concerns to rest, “Muriel’s constant scrutiny and badgering has worked in my favour to give me the push I needed to move on.”
“I think you should talk to Marshall,” said Bev, her arms crossed.
As though on cue, his ringtone sounded. He pulled the phone from the inside jacket pocket, stared at the display and chuckled.
“Not Marshall,” said Spencer, showing Bev the name on the display. “My mother. I swear she’s psychic.”
He pushed the accept button and thrust the phone to his ear, rolling his eyes at Bev.
“Hello, Mum. Let me guess? You’re checking to see if I’m still coming for Christmas?”
Garrett could never be relied upon to keep a secret, like the one about Spencer bringing a friend—Marshall—home with him and must have spilt the beans.
“Spencer,” said his mother. From the strained tone of her voice, Spencer knew something was wrong. “Garrett’s been in a road accident. Came off that blasted motorcycle of his. I told him not to go out in this weather, but he never did listen to me. The policeman your father spoke to said he hit a patch of black ice somewhere outside Branksome—”
“Oh my God, Mum. Slow down. Is he okay?”
Bev, noticing his anxious tone, reached across and held onto his free hand.
“No, no. Yes, I mean, he’s fine. Well, he’s not fine, of course, he’s in the hospital. His right leg is broken in two places—the femur and the tibia—and he managed to fracture his wrist in the fall, a Colles fracture and, from what they tell me, not serious. When they got to him, he was unconscious. Thank heavens he always wears that helmet, otherwise I don’t want to think what might have happened. He’s awake now, though, and seems alert. I spoke to him over the phone an hour ago. It all happened early this morning.”
“Was Dad with him?”
“No, he was alone. Thankfully, a police car was coming from the other direction and saw the accident happen. Called an ambulance and everything. They said he was lucky to get off so lightly.”
“I’ll come back this weekend.”
Bev, who was clearly trying to pick up the gist of the conversation, nodded her agreement. Spencer knew Marshall would understand.
“No, don’t come home, Spencer. I’m only calling to let you know. There’s little point coming back. He’s at Bournemouth General but nobody’s allowed to go and see him at the moment, because of health restrictions. They’ll be keeping him in for at least three days. Your father and Peony are in touch with the hospital and getting updates from the doctors. But the ward is closed to visitors, to guard against anyone infecting patients with the virus.”
“Is there anything I can do?”
“Not really, love. Sorry, I didn’t want to worry you, but I thought you ought to hear the news from me. No doubt when you’re back in a couple of weeks, he’ll still be on crutches.”
“Soaking up the sympathy. Playing it for all it’s worth. Can’t wait to see that.”
“I know,” said his mother, chuckling half-heartedly. “He’s going to be a handful. Hopefully, he’ll rethink the bike once he’s better, especially after Peony gives him a piece of her mind. Anyway, son. How are you? Are things going well? Garrett says you’re bringing someone home for Christmas. Did he get that right?”
Spencer considered telling her his news—all of it—but decided she had enough to worry about with her eldest son laid up in hospital.
“Everything’s fine, Mum. And yes, I’m hoping to bring someone back. But I’ll let you know more later. Send everyone my best and tell my brother he’s a jerk. Love you.”
After ringing off, they headed back to the office, while Spencer gave Bev the full download about his brother. They stopped outside the main doors to the office block, Spencer still lugging his box. He felt strange, standing outside a place that had been his second home for the past two years, somewhere he was no longer welcome.
“Better get back to work,” said Bev. “And you’d better go home and put your feet up. Have you got anything to keep you busy?”
“Not really. Although maybe I should start my search for a new flat.”
“There you go. Give yourself a project. You’ve got all the time in the world now.”
“Feels weird, having no real work. Don’t think it’s really sunk in yet.”
“Enjoy it while you can, Squirrel. You’ll soon be rushed off your feet at the Herald.”
Uncharacteristically, she stepped forward and pulled him into a tight hug.
“I’m going to miss having you around,” she said, squeezing hard before letting him go. “It’s not going to be the same. Promise me we’ll stay in touch?”
“Promise.”
* * * *
Spencer woke at the usual hour on Friday morning, and only after he had showered, picked out his daily outfit, slipped on his shoes and jacket, and had already hurried down the stairs to brave the cold morning, did he realise he had no office to go to. Outside on the street, with the front door closed behind him, he giggled at his stupidity, into the sunny but frosty morning air and checked his watch—eight o’clock.
Fortunately, a couple of pings on his phone alerted him to messages that had arrived overnight, so he decided to head to the coffee shop along the arcade. After getting a morning takeaway fix—the largest coffee they made in a cardboard cup together with a cream cheese bagel—he strolled to the local park, putting in his earbuds and playing Marshall’s message.
“Hello, sexy,” came Marshall’s hushed, but warmly familiar voice. “Just thinking about you. You’re probably still asleep, so I won’t call and wake you. I’ve had to sneak away to record this, because the ceremony is about to start. Probably means I’m going to be tied up until after the dinner. I hope you’re listening to this privately, and not where anyone else can hear, because I had this amazing sex dream about you last night. Baby, you were on fire, taking charge and riding me cowboy style, wearing only your pink-and-black polka dot bow tie. Hot doesn’t even begin to describe it. Fuck, Spence, when I woke up I’d messed my pyjama bottoms, if you know what I mean? I kid you not. Don’t think I’ve had a nocturnal emission like that since the age of fifteen. Look what you do to me? We’re definitely going to have to act that particular fantasy out, baby. Ooh, and by the way, I managed to book the red-eye out of here tonight at midnight. There’ll be a short layover in Amsterdam, so I won’t land in London until midnight local time. I’ll text you first to see if you’re still awake. If not, I’ll bring over breakfast at seven. Hope that sounds okay. Take care, Spencer. I hope you realise how much I love you. See you Saturday.”
Between finishing the bagel and checking other messages—one containing a photo of his toothy smiling brother with his arm in a sling and his leg in plaster, probably taken by a nurse—Spencer played the recording back repeatedly. Each time, his heart tugged at hearing how Marshall felt about him—the same way he felt about Marshall.
Coffee in hand, he sauntered along the pavement, taking the detour into the public gardens and plonking himself down on an empty bench. Despite the chill and residual frost, the air felt wonderfully clean. Commuters on their way to work hurried by, their heads down. Relaxed and feeling an extraordinary lightness, he stretched out his legs and tilted his face to the sun. Warmth bathed his skin, and a smile bloomed on his face. Of all the things that had happened to him in the past month, having Marshall in his life had been the best.
Deciding to keep moving, he got to his feet and began strolling across the park, enjoying letting people hurry past. Interrupting his thoughts, the phone in his hand started ringing and, for a second, he wondered if Marshall might be calling from abroad, even though the caller ID came up as unknown.
“Spencer Wyrrell,” he answered.
“Spencer. Thank fuck you’re answering. Where are you?” Darcy’s usually confident voice sounded on edge.
“I’m in the park near my flat. Why are you calling, Darcy? Has something happened?”
“Listen. You mustn’t freak out, okay?”
Why was she telling him not to freak out? She had to be calling about Marshall. For some reason, his thoughts went straight to Joey having done something stupid.
“Darcy! What the hell’s happened?”
“Look, I’m calling now because this is going to be all over the news in the next few hours. During the inauguration ceremony in Kryszytonia, someone made an attempt on the president’s life. A suicide bomber managed to get past security and infiltrate the section in front of the presidential stage. A bomb went off. Horrific, by all accounts. The president’s been rushed to hospital and it’s thought he survived, although we don’t yet know the extent of his injuries. The point is, Spence, that cordoned-off section housed the press corps and—”
Spencer heard no more. He stopped walking, feeling unable or unwilling to breathe. He knew Marshall had been honoured to be in the presence of the new president,, to be near him during the ceremony. Did he imagine the sudden cold wind that swept across the park? For a crazy moment, he wanted Darcy to tell him not to worry, that everything was fine. But instinctively, he knew. By a sheer effort of will, he managed to croak out one word.
