Famous Last, page 4
The thing was, sitting there on his own, seeing the man’s well-proportioned frame, observing his careful mannerisms and lithe body movement, together with that smile—and those eyes—Spencer had found his own body reacting in ways that generally only happened when he clicked onto one of his NSFW bookmark folders.
As the murmured updates from around the table came to an end, Muriel’s commanding voice brought him out of his reverie.
“A noble suggestion, Melanie, but I think approaching the Duchess of Cambridge might be aiming a tad too high. So if that’s all you have for me, it’s back to the drawing board, I’m afraid,” continued Muriel. “If anyone does have any ideas, let Judith know. If all else fails we have the game show host Nobby Nobson waiting in the wings for December, but quite frankly he’s not really Collective calibre. If anyone can land a top-notch interview for the Christmas and January editions, that person will get an additional twenty per cent incentive on top of their usual Christmas bonus. Now, where’s Evelyn?”
“Not feeling well and working from home, Muriel.”
“Again?” huffed Muriel, followed by a world-weary roll of the eyes. “Can somebody from HR please give her a call after this meeting and see when she’ll be back in the office? I don’t suppose, in the absence of our event planner, that anyone else can give us an update on the main event of the calendar year, the Blackmore Magazine Group Client Christmas Party? And how on earth is this going to work, given current restrictions?”
“As far as I know,” said Beverley, who had always been friendly with Evelyn, “email invites were sent out a month ago and online responses are already starting to come back. Evelyn booked the same venue as last year and the deposit has been paid, but if things get worse, the money is refundable. The venue owners are organising the catering, too, as far as I’m aware. Although I heard the quartet Evelyn booked cancelled due to illness. As for the finer details of the night, such as who the speakers are going to be and the actual programme running order, I’m afraid I have no idea.”
Muriel’s gaze went dramatically heavenwards once again, as though the whole world was collapsing around her. In his favour, Blake had not inherited the same dramatic facial expressions. Understandable for Muriel, because the Christmas party for clients tended to be the firm’s most important media event of the year.
“If things get worse, will you consider cancelling?” said someone from around the table.
“Don’t be ridiculous! We rely on the client party to generate interest and sponsorship for the forthcoming year. Without that we may as well close our doors.”
“I’ll call Evelyn and find out what she knows,” said Bev.
“Thank you, Beverley. In which case, I think we should all get back to work. Unless there’s anything else?”
Maybe Spencer should have picked a better moment, but his inner voice had already started working his mouth.
“What’s happening about the staff Christmas party? I mean, are we still having one? And what’s the budget this year? I’m happy to help organise again, if you want.”
“Apart from the fact that nobody really cares, Spencer, social gatherings are discouraged,” said Muriel. The thing was, people did care, especially knowing the client event would most likely go ahead. Members of the team had already approached him about the staff event, something they could enjoy without having the pressure of networking politely with clients. “There are more important issues at stake. I’ll be providing mulled wine and mince pies at lunch on the Wednesday before we break for the Christmas holidays. Whatever you decide to do, leave me out of the loop. And the finance department will be able to let you know if we have any budget. Now, if there’s nothing of real importance, let’s get back to our desks.”
As everyone started to rise and everyday chatter settled around the room, Spencer stayed back, waiting to head to the front of the room and unplug Muriel’s laptop, but noticed Prince standing in the doorway. He winked at Spencer and pointed to himself with his thumb, before moving over to where Muriel packed her bag. As Spencer left the room, he heard Muriel’s voice rise with pleasure.
“There you are, Prince,” she cooed. “You are such a dear for doing this.”
“No problem, Muriel. That’s me job.”
“Yes, but I do hope you know how much we all appreciate you around here.”
Spencer let out a soft sigh as he squeezed past them and headed for his desk. He decided not to let any minor irritations get to him today. After all, he had managed to get a free lunch out of the dreadful woman.
Chapter Three
“You’re not going anywhere, Spencer,” said Clarissa, his boss, tapping her long scarlet fingernail on the sheets of paper in front of him. “Beverley will have to find someone else. The deadline for these is three o’clock today, after which you’ll need to do a final review of Hash Hag online, which, as you know, goes live after midnight, tonight. I’m sorry but you’ll have to work through your lunch break.”
Like Muriel, Clarissa’s apologies were as hollow as her occasional praise, but she, too, had to be obeyed. To do otherwise might mean being deprived of the good stuff, like being the first to read and, on the rare occasion, give feedback and suggested edits for the latest column by Killian Pinkerton, or being given an afternoon to sift through and collate comments for specific hot topics in Virago. Despite what people might think, he loved his job, loved tightening stories to make them eminently readable and, although nobody except Bev had ever said so, he knew he was bloody good at what he did.
What irked him was that he had seen the stories Clarissa wanted him to edit sitting in her in-tray the previous week. Of all the team at Blackmore, she printed off paper copies of articles for editing—so much for being environmentally friendly—and manually marked them up. The previous Friday, having pondered whether she would find the time to complete them, he was going to offer to help her out. But then everybody had been scooped up in the rush to get things ready for Muriel’s socially distanced charity event.
“Are you sure, Squirrel?” said Bev, turning up just before eleven-thirty in her tan Burberry overcoat. Prince stood silently a few paces behind her, peering over her shoulder at Spencer. “Do you want me to have a word with Muriel?”
“What’s the point. She’ll only side with Clarissa. She always does.”
“That’s so unfair. They’re Clarissa’s deadlines, not yours.”
“I know, but with no interruptions I’ll get them done in no time. You’re still going for the lunch though, aren’t you?”
“I’m taking Prince.”
“You’re taking our IT guy to a client meeting?” said Spencer, grinning at Prince.
“Oi, mate! That’s Regional Head of IT to you,” said Prince, unhooking his mask and grinning with an impressive set of pearly whites.
“Nice title considering we don’t have a region, and you’re the only person in the office who deals with IT,” said Spencer, enjoying the banter.
“Muriel said it’s fine to bring Prince. Said he’d make a good replacement,” said Bev, giving him her sympathetic smile.
“Yeah, I bet she did,” said Spencer, remembering Muriel’s words to Prince only that morning. Then again, none of this was their fault. “Go on, you two. Go and enjoy. Maybe we can pop to the Cork and Bottle for a drink after work.”
“Sounds good to me, Squirrel,” said Beverley. “Long as they’re open.”
“Can’t, I’m afraid, Spence,” said Prince. “I got me pirates session after work.”
“Pirates? Does he mean Pilates?” Spencer said to Bev, carefully enunciating the word as ‘purr-lah-tees’. Beverley offered up a shrug.
“No, mate, pirates. I’m in the local church production of Treasure Island at Christmas. We’re rehearsing all the pirate scenes tonight, trying to make sure we’re all safely distanced from each other.”
“Are people actually booking tickets? Bearing in mind what’s going on out there?”
“They had been. Now? I’ve no idea. Guess we’ll find out tonight.”
Spencer cracked on as the office slowly emptied of colleagues. Without any interruptions, he knew he could knock out the work quickly. By one-fifty, he had everything but the website review completed and placed back on Clarissa’s desk, so he donned his mask and decided to grab something to eat. Lunchtimes tended to be flexible on the side of generous at the magazine, and he wasn’t surprised to note the empty office. While waiting for the lift, he chatted to Kimberley, the pretty young newbie on reception, because most people ignored her.
After waiting in line for over fifteen minutes at the ground floor food stall, playing a mindless app game to distract himself, he picked out a rather tired-looking tomato and mozzarella baguette and a lukewarm seasonal mushroom soup. As the lift doors to his floor opened, Kimberley stood up from behind her desk, her eyes beaming at him.
“So romantic,” she said cryptically, her hands clasped beneath her pink-masked chin.
“I’m sorry?” said Spencer, looking at the contents in his hands. “It’s only soup and a sandwich, Kim.”
“Not saying another word,” she said, folding her arms and using a frankly sickly-sweet tone. “Except to say that she must love you loads.”
Did she mean Clarissa? Because he felt anything but love from his boss, especially after she had robbed him of a champagne lunch. Not stopping to talk, he smiled back sweetly from behind his mask. At some point he would need to get around to telling Kim about his orientation, but not today. Maybe when she was in a more stable mood. Spencer’s puzzlement seemed to amuse her even more, as her adoring gaze trailed him all the way to the frosted office door. Shaking his head, he flashed his access card at the panel and re-entered. And turned the corner towards his open-plan desk.
“What. The. Fuck.”
A vast arrangement of long-stemmed roses—around three dozen—in pink and classic red sat to one side of his desk, the blooms artistically arranged inside an elegant glass vase. Propped against the front, in a wrapping of golden foil tied with a scarlet ribbon, someone had positioned an enormous box of chocolates.
When he got closer, the sound of the mechanical click of the office door startled him. Other staff members were returning from lunch. Checking closer, he saw a small white envelope buried among the blooms, something he plucked out and stuffed into his trouser pocket. He had a pretty good idea which bastard had hijacked him with this embarrassing display but wanted to check first.
He snatched up his desk phone and called reception. Before he could say a word, the giggling voice of Kimberley answered immediately.
“Told you, Spencer. So romantic.”
“Um, Kim,” he asked, “who brought these?”
“A delivery boy, of course, silly. From the florists, I suppose.”
“Yes, but,” he asked, trying to remain calm, “who are they from?”
“You don’t know? The boy gave your name. Isn’t there a card with them?”
Behind him, a couple of ‘oohs’ and ‘aahs’ and other mortifying noises began to fill the air. Someone had been evil enough to turn him into a Hallmark moment on a day that was neither his birthday nor Valentine’s Day. Shaming him at work could be the ploy of only one or two people—his older brother, Garrett, who was frankly too cheap to fork out on a stunt like this, or his ex, Blake.
“No, there’s not. Did you see one when they were delivered?”
“No, I can’t say I did,” she said. “But surely you know who they’re from?”
Spencer breathed a sigh of relief. If she hadn’t seen a card, then he could pretend someone had sent them anonymously. This was the kind of embarrassing stunt Blake might pull in an attempt at an apology for his appalling behaviour. Had he done so eighteen months ago, then the gesture might have meant something.
Bastard.
“I have no idea who they’re from,” said Spencer, louder than he needed to for the sake of the gathering, then pretended to look for a card. “And I’m looking right now, but I definitely can’t see a card. Thanks anyway, Kim.”
After he had taken a few breaths and put the phone down, people immediately began asking questions. Somewhat theatrically, he inspected the chocolate box thoroughly, turned the vase around and even checked on the bottom, all the time shaking his head. By now the small crowd had grown, holding out phones, taking photos of him with his prize, probably posting straight onto social media sites. Fortunately he only usually socialised with Bev outside work, so he would not see any of their posts. Nonetheless, he began to feel overwhelmed with the attention and excused himself to use the bathroom.
Blakemore Group rented the whole of the eighteenth floor, which meant they had exclusive use of the bathrooms. For Spencer, Prince and Blake—and any occasional male visitor to their office—having their own dedicated, always clean male bathroom had become a company perk. After work once, he had given Blake a blow job in one of the cubicles. Happier times. As soon as he had used his key to get inside, Spencer felt tempted to rip the small greeting card in half and flush the remains away. Instead he locked himself in a cubicle, sat on the toilet lid and pulled out the small envelope. After all, with his long dry spell, any attention felt good. Slipping a fingernail beneath the flap, he took a steadying breath before prising out the card and reading the neat handwriting.
To my bushy-tailed superhero,
Thank you for saving me with kind words, a big heart, and a warm hug on Friday night, a day when I was feeling at my lowest.
MJH xxx
Marshall Highlander. And just like that, warmth rose in his cheeks. The welcome surprise melted his pissed-off mood. When he reread the words, pleasure curled in his stomach. Of its own volition, a smile pushed its way to the surface and fixed itself on his face. Looking into space, he fanned himself with the card.
Of course. Chocolate-covered nuts. Nuts for the squirrel. How had he not made the connection? Twisting around, he flushed the toilet and began to stand, wanting to rush to find Beverley and tell her. But when his hand touched the cold lock of the cubicle door, he froze, remembering he had told her nothing. What would she think if he confided now? Besides, what parts could he reveal without betraying Marshall’s trust? Perhaps he could edit out some details. He would have to think of something fast because he needed someone to confide in and, when she saw the display, she would hound him relentlessly until he confessed.
When he got back to his desk there she stood, her face planted in the buds as though searching for something. When she pulled back and turned around, her hands went straight to the golden belt around her hips.
“Been having fun while I’ve been gone?” she asked.
“Not really. While I popped out to get a sandwich, these landed on my desk.”
When she looked again then returned his gaze, her mouth turned down in dismay.
“These had better not be from him,” she said. Firmly on his side after ‘the Blake incident’, she barely tolerated his ex’s presence in the office. Spencer noticed her cheeks appeared a little flushed, and not from too much rouge, he guessed. Even her eyes had the slightly glazed look he knew all too well after she’d had a couple of drinks. “Because if they are, I will stuff them into the bin at his desk and make sure you Instagram the moment. And then I will personally go round to his penthouse flat and ball him out.”
“They’re not from him, Bev,” said Spencer, keeping his voice low. “Calm down. The truth is…well, it’s a little more complicated.”
Spencer looked around to see if one of the small soundproofed cubicles was unoccupied. Fortunately, he spotted one in the centre of the room.
“I have a confession to make,” he said, standing and leading her away. As an afterthought, he grabbed his sandwich and soup, although his appetite had all but evaporated. The moment he had closed the door and they had each taken a seat, she pounced on him.
“Before you say anything, I need you to come to a Halloween party this Saturday as my plus-one. My friend tells me there’ll be some of your people going. And I’m not going alone. So you’d better have a costume in that closet of yours.”
“Parties are banned. Surely you’ve seen the news about social gatherings?”
“This is different, Spence. The house is in the middle of nowhere and provides digs for a bunch of medical students who all live together. It’s all fine. And more importantly, I need you to accompany me because there’s someone special I need to meet.”
“I’m not sure, Bev—”
“It’s not optional, Squirrel. You can’t stay at home sulking forever. You’re coming, end of story. You are never going to shake off Blake the Flake until you put yourself out there.” Spencer had no reason not to go, but he hadn’t felt sociable for months. “Now, what’s that lovey-dovey delivery all about? I know you didn’t meet someone over the weekend, because you would have called me. Tell me you didn’t send them to yourself to make Blake jealous.”
“No! They’re from a person I met on Friday night. At Muriel’s party.”
He plucked the card from his pocket and showed her. She read the words and smiled to herself but then her expression became understandably baffled. He took a deep breath because he needed to confess to somebody before he exploded. And he knew Bev well enough to know that if he asked her to say nothing, the way he’d done during his clandestine affair with Blake, he could rely on her complete discretion. Closing his eyes for courage, he began to explain.
“While I was waiting for you in Muriel’s rooftop garden, Marshall Highlander—MJH,” he said, tapping the card, “came outside to take a private call. Except he didn’t know I was sitting there. The long and the short of it is that he was not terribly happy with the caller. When he’d finished, he realised I’d been there the whole time. We had a long chat and, in my usual clumsy way, I think I must have helped because he laughed, and then gave me a hug. After that, we shared a glass of bubbly before he left. End of story.”
Not quite the whole story, but enough to sound believable. Bev sat there, waiting, staring at him, her mouth hanging open.
