Famous Last, page 6
“Are they a part of your costume, Blake?” asked Ambika, nodding to the slumbering mummies. Spencer liked her, someone he thought he could happily get to know. Perhaps she was a family friend. “And are they both drunk, or have you had them embalmed?”
Despite himself, Spencer hissed out a chuckle.
“How do you know my Blake?” asked Ambika.
My Blake? Spencer stared hard at his ex. Beverley had once asked him if the rumours about Blake being bisexual were true. Right now he appeared unwilling or unable to offer an explanation. Spencer wondered how he should reply but then went for the easy out.
“We’re work colleagues,” said Spencer, who wasn’t surprised Blake hadn’t mentioned him. “Well, we work in the same office on occasion.”
“Oh, really?” said Ambika, smiling. She had a friendly smile of bright white teeth, a smile that seemed entirely authentic. “Blake doesn’t talk about his work.”
“Probably because it’s not that interesting. Everyone thinks working in the magazine business is glamorous, but we spend most of our time bored to tears staring at computer screens, like everyone else in the world.”
“You can say that again,” added Blake.
“Are we inviting Spencer? To the party?” asked Ambika to Blake.
“Firstly, I’m not sure if we’ll be able to go ahead, Bika, given everything that’s going on. And I certainly hadn’t considered inviting work colleague—”
“But you must. I want to meet all the people who are a part of your life. Look, Spencer, Blake and I are hoping to host an engagement party in December. If you’re free, we would love for you to come.”
“Engagement party? Who’s getting engaged?” asked Spencer, not quite catching on.
“We are, of course,” said Ambika happily. “Blake and I.”
Spencer swung his gaze to Blake for his reaction and saw only a blank expression before the terrible truth sank in. Almost two years ago they had been in the same bed pretty much every weekend, with Blake pummelling him into the mattress and both dissolving into a pool of sweat. Spencer had been blissfully unaware that Blake had wanted something different. Once again—a personality flaw perhaps—he had realigned everything to absorb Blake into his life, only to have been left with nothing over a tweet. And in the months that followed, he had consoled himself with the thought that Blake was simply not long-term relationship material. To hear now that he planned to marry this woman had Spencer momentarily lost for words.
“That’s fantastic. I’m really pleased for you,” Spencer heard himself say, unable to look directly at Blake. Peripherally, at least, Blake had the decency to look slightly abashed.
“I’ll—uh—give you the details of the party next week at work. Now where is it you live, Ambika?” asked Blake. “I keep forgetting. I told Spencer we might be able to drop him off on the way to your house. Wasn’t it somewhere in Surrey?”
“Epping, silly. I live in Essex.”
“Nowhere near Morden, then?”
If he hadn’t felt as though someone had ripped out his stomach, he might have laughed. Typical Blake, always being driven around by his mother’s driver or by friends. The man probably got lost in his own back garden.
“Epping is in the opposite direction,” said Spencer, grateful for the mix-up. “Look, it’s no problem. Thank you anyway, but I can quite easily find my way home. Congratulations on your engagement.”
A sense of relief escaped him once he had said goodbye and made a beeline for the front door. He didn’t even bother looking for Beverley, who had probably hooked up. Even before they’d arrived, he’d had the feeling she was seeking someone in particular. As soon as he hit the pavement and the chill air, feeling utterly clearheaded after only two glasses of watery wine, he dug out his phone and checked directions to the nearest station.
Somewhere in the universe, a celestial being must have finally noticed his plight and felt a sprinkling of compassion because the TfL line train for Stratford came almost immediately. As soon as he seated himself in the nearly empty carriage, he texted Beverley to say he had departed. After that, he switched his phone to silent mode and glared at his vampiric reflection in the dark glass of the train window while mulling over his life.
Was he going to spend the rest of his days alone? Because as dating track records went, his was appalling. Why could he never hold on to anybody? Why was he never enough? Before Blake, his previous relationship had been four years ago. And that had ended the same way—except the brush-off had been in person, not by a tweet. Was there a stamp on his forehead that read ‘reject’?
At midnight, after a couple of connections, the train finally pulled into the Tube terminus at Morden. Spencer felt tired, empty, and ready to fall into bed. As he used his travel card to pass through the barrier, the phone in his pocket buzzed urgently with an incoming call. Not difficult to guess who that would be, probably to berate him for deserting her at the party.
Except when he bought out his phone the name on the display read Marshall.
“Hello?” said Spencer tentatively.
“Spencer? Is that you?” came the distinctive baritone voice.
So maybe the celestial being hadn’t finished with him entirely.
“Yes! I mean yes, it’s me. How are you?”
“I’m fine. Well, I landed back this afternoon and I’m now settled at home. I know it’s late. Is this a good time to talk, or should I call back tomorrow?”
Spencer stepped out onto the freezing street where a gust of arctic wind nudged a couple of fast-food cartons along the pavement. Pulling up his collar, he headed for the pedestrian crossing with the phone clamped to his ear. Just after midnight and the roads were deserted, with only a huddle of people around the minicab stand.
“Actually, this is a perfect time to talk. I’m just leaving Morden station and I’ve got a fifteen-minute walk to my front door. I live in a flat above a pizza shop, so you can talk to me and keep me company on the way, if you like?”
Marshall’s deep chuckle came down the phone, lifting Spencer’s spirits.
“Where have you been tonight?” asked Marshall. Before beginning his tale of woe, Spencer let out an overly dramatic sigh.
“Let’s just say that I’m coming home from the absolute worst Halloween party ever, full of unimaginative costumes worn by straight, horny students, where they served watered down booze. And during which I lost my best friend, bumped into my ex-boyfriend of six months, who in turn introduced me to his girlfriend slash soon-to-be fiancée before inviting me to their upcoming engagement party and, to add insult to injury, I had to make my own way home from the other side of the universe. Bet you can’t beat that?”
“Well, let’s see. I’ve just returned from Afghanistan where me and the film crew narrowly escaped an attack by the Taliban. If we’d hit the checkpoint ten minutes later, we’d have been caught right in the middle of the gunfire and I doubt we’d be talking right now.”
And just like that, Spencer’s woes of the night paled into insignificance.
“Marshall. Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. Comes with the job. Heaven knows what will happen if the US ever decides to pull out of Afghanistan like they’ve been threatening to. Anyway, I think you had things a lot worse. This ex of yours doesn’t sound like a particularly nice person. Did you know he dated women as well as men?”
“No. But then I’m not surprised. Blake was never one for sharing.”
“Blake? As in Blake Moresby, Muriel’s son?”
Spencer stumbled to a halt.
“Oops. Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything. I keep forgetting you know people.”
“Come on, Spencer. You know a lot more about me than I do about you. But I had heard from a very close friend that Muriel’s son is a self-absorbed, egotistical prick.”
“Hoi! That’s my bastard ex-boyfriend who dumped me by tweet you’re dissing,” said Spencer, chuckling.
“Not my words,” said Marshall, laughing along. “But those of a good friend. Who is now living in Papua, New Guinea. And no, before you ask. The two things are not related.”
“What were you doing in Afghanistan to almost get killed? I didn’t think people could travel right now.”
“Strictly speaking, they can’t. But, let’s just say, our producer managed to pull a few strings. Officially we were there to cover a human-interest story about the Afghanistan national cricket team, how they’re persevering and succeeding in spite of adversity. And all of this against the backdrop of strained peace talks.”
Spencer strolled down the lamplit pavement towards home and looked at the darkened windows of the terraced houses that lined the way. Maybe the bitterly cold weather was to blame, but nobody else had braved the streets that night.
“Tell me about this cricket team. And when will the programme be aired?”
From the lighter tone of his voice, Marshall appeared to enjoy talking about his trip, about chatting to the captain and most of the players, asking about their lives in the sport and how they coped at home. Many of them had experienced hardships and lost loved ones in various conflicts. Absently, Spencer wondered why they couldn’t have simply done the interviews via an online conferencing system, why they’d needed to actually be there in person, which would have been much safer. But he didn’t voice the concern.
“We take so much for granted in this country, don’t we?” said Spencer instead, when Marshall paused. “Things like the relative peace, safety and security. I imagine that kind of experience grounds you every time you land back from a hot spot.”
“In a way, it does. But I still love what I do and I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
“Just as well. Because you’re bloody brilliant at what you do.”
Once again Marshall’s deep laughter came down the phone.
“Thanks for those flowers and chocolates, by the way,” said Spencer. “Caused quite a stir in the office.”
“Yes, I did worry a little about that. But I needed to say thank you and the only thing I knew about you was your name and the fact you worked for Muriel’s magazine company. What did they say when they found out I’d sent them?”
“They didn’t, because I didn’t tell them. Only my best friend, Bev, knows the truth. Everyone else thinks they were sent to me by a secret admirer.”
“Which is a fairly accurate assessment, actually.”
Spencer smiled into the phone. Marshall’s voice was doing all sorts of wonderful things to his insides.
“Hey, look,” Marshall continued. “I’m sorry it’s taken so long to get back to you. It’s because of the phones I use. I have a personal number that I keep constant track of, one I only give to a few people, like family and Darcy. But I have another that I use for business contacts, the number I would have given to Muriel Moresby. When I’m away on an assignment, I rarely check that phone, so I’m really sorry I missed your message. But as you’ll see, I’m sending you my private number.”
And just like that, a message with a contact file popped up on his screen.
“I’m honoured.”
“And I wondered if you might want to grab dinner with me sometime. I’m going to be flat-out next week, recording a couple of shows, but wondered how you’re fixed next weekend.”
Spencer stopped walking.
“You want to have dinner with me?”
“Yes.”
“You want to have dinner with me?”
Marshall laughed, and Spencer grinned into his phone.
“You sound surprised.”
“No. Well, yes. I am, I suppose.”
He began walking again, taking the long way around the main road instead of the shortcut through the darkened alleyway, the one he would happily take in daylight. On a night when things had finally begun to look up, he was not about to tempt fate.
“You shouldn’t be. You’re a really nice chap, Spencer. And I like that you treated me as an ordinary person, and the fact I knew I could trust you—”
“You can.”
“I know. I also like your sense of humour and the sound of your voice. So what do you say about dinner?”
“Next weekend?”
“If you’re free.”
Something nagged at Spencer. An earlier text message from his brother.
“Bugger. It’s Guy Fawkes Night next weekend, isn’t it? I have to do the dutiful son thing and stay at my parents’ place in Bournemouth. Guy Fawkes is kind of a family tradition.”
“Is your mother cooking?”
Spencer puffed out steamy laughter into the early morning air.
“You remembered. That’s the first thing I asked. My brother tells me they’re planning to order takeaway from the local Chinese restaurant on Friday night. And on the Saturday, traditionally, my dad takes us all out to a decent restaurant for lunch or dinner. So I think I should be safe. And I’ll be home Sunday evening. Could we do dinner the weekend after? Or any weekday after next weekend?”
“Absolutely. Let me check my schedule and text you. Do you mind if I pick the venue?”
“Of course not. Hey, how is everything else? That problem you were having? Did your friend Darcy manage to get everything resolved?”
“If you’re talking about that bloody newspaper hack, then yes. We threatened them with court action. I’m just hoping they know what’s good for them.”
Spencer approached the row of shops where he lived. To the right of the darkened window of Romano’s Pizzeria stood the chipped black door that led up to his flat.
“Well, I’m home,” said Spencer, fishing the keys out of his pocket with one hand. “Thank you for keeping me company and cheering up an otherwise dreadful evening.”
“You’re welcome,” said Marshall, his warm voice making Spencer tremble with pleasure. “I just wish I was there with you right now.”
“Yeah, me too.”
“Goodnight, Spencer. Sleep well. And I hope you know how special you are.”
By the time Spencer reached the top step to his flat, he had almost forgotten about his depressing night out. Until he unlocked the upstairs door because there, sitting beside an empty bowl and amid a box of ripped-up jasmine-scented tissues knocked down from his kitchen table, sat his ginger tabby, Tiger, glaring with feline petulance.
Chapter Five
On the two-hour rail journey from Waterloo to Bournemouth station, where his father waited to pick him up, Spencer had plenty of time to reflect on the week just gone. As soon as he had stowed his luggage and taken his seat, he removed today’s choice of navy bow tie with white polka dots—but left his matching mask on—and undid the top button of his light blue shirt. With many commuters still working from home, he was happy to get a seat by the window, plug in his ear pods, and settle in for the ride.
Work had been strangely less manic than usual, but Spencer guessed the lull to be the quiet before the Christmas snowstorm. Clarissa had been as lax as ever with her work, because he’d noticed a pile of deadlines as he left to get his train, editorial columns she needed to review and complete before the Monday afternoon deadline. No doubt they would end up getting dumped on his desk Monday morning and he would have to work through lunch again to make sure they met the cut-off point.
Being able to text Marshall’s private line a couple of times had been a highlight, although he had received only the occasional response, very formal, and usually apologising because being the show host, he had been confined to the studio where use of mobile devices was strictly controlled. On the upside, they had agreed to have dinner the following Friday, the venue a surprise but with them meeting in a small private bar around the back of Liverpool Street station. At least Spencer had something to look forward to the following week.
At Bournemouth station, he met his father at the agreed meeting point. They performed their usual greeting ritual of an awkward hug followed by his dad insisting on carrying his small wheelie luggage, and, as usual, Spencer refusing, telling him he could manage.
Right now, he relaxed in the passenger seat of his dad’s toasty-warm Volvo, his head lolling against the cold window as they wove their way through the lamplit streets from the station to their home near the seafront. The radio played soft American acoustic rock. What with the gentle tunes and the overheated interior, Spencer almost dropped off. Except he couldn’t help noticing that something had changed about his father, something he could not determine at first. Only when he glanced sideways at his father’s profile did he spot the diamond stud in his left ear and his long brown and grey hair—salt and pepper, his mother called it—tied back by what appeared to be a couple of black hair bands. During a phone call a few weeks ago, his mother had mentioned his father going through the male menopause.
“How’s Garrett doing?” asked Spencer, causing his father to smile.
“While the rest of the world is falling to pieces, your brother’s website development business has had a bumper year. Three hundred per cent up on last. Don’t know how he does it. He always seems to fall on his feet.”
“So can you now—finally and legitimately—kick him out of the house?” asked Spencer.
His father’s shoulders rose and fell in silent laughter. They had the same conversation every time Spencer came to visit.
“That boy knows when he’s onto a good thing.”
“That boy is thirty-three years old next February. You and Mum had already had both of us by that age.”
“True enough. He’s been courting a new lady. Penny. Or Jenny. Could be Jodie, I wasn’t really paying attention. She’s coming over for dinner tonight, so you’ll get to meet her. Maybe this one’ll stick around longer than summer. Although I wouldn’t, you know—”
“Hold my breath.”
“Precisely. He tends to shy away from commitment and responsibility. Talking of which, who’s looking after the mog while you’re here?”
“Gino’s wife again. She helps run the pizza shop downstairs, if you remember. They have the flat next to mine. She’s going to pop in and check up on Her Royal Highness a couple of times over the weekend.”
