Famous Last, page 11
“That’s brutal. You never saw your parents?”
“During the holidays. Every summer we’d fly off to the sun somewhere exclusive. Stay in the finest hotels and eat the most expensive food. Dad spent most of his time in the room on his phone, but Mother liked to get acquainted with the local neighbourhood. By the end of the holiday she’d be on first-name terms with all the shopkeepers. I think that’s where I get my love of talking to strangers.”
“She sounds lovely.”
“She is. She was my rock. Still is.”
“And what about you?”
“What about me?” asked Marshall, turning to Spencer.
“Tell me about the real you, not the television version.”
Marshall gave Spencer a withering smile.
“For all the celebrity bullshit that goes with the job, I’m a private person. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not complaining. I love the job, but I also cherish my privacy. Funny, really—when I was a news correspondent, I only got recognised in public now and then, which, at the time, was quite nice. Now with the regular television slot airing here and the US, I can’t go many places without being identified. I live in a flat in South Ken, which is my London base for when I’m working, and I own a converted coach house in the countryside on the outskirts of Cambridge. No doubt the bastards will be staking out both places. But if I’m going to be completely honest—and I feel I can be around you—I’m actually lonely a lot of the time. People say nice things about what I do and I get my fair share of fan mail, but none of it’s real. Sometimes I think my amazing job and being personally happy are different sides of the same coin, and you can only flip one, not both. My father definitely felt that way about his marriage.”
“That’s harsh,” said Spencer, nodding his understanding, even though he knew of many celebrities across the world who had found a perfect balance between the two. When he turned to check on Marshall, he found him lost in thought, staring blankly at the ceiling. “Don’t give up hope, Marshall.”
Marshall kept staring up but smiled at the words.
“Does your mother know about you?”
“That I’m gay?” Marshall laughed as though Spencer had said something hilarious—or naïve. “Of course she does. I think she suspected before I did, before I’d hit puberty. She never admitted as much, but I think she made the mistake of saying something to my father when I was around eight. That summer, instead of going abroad with them, my father shipped me off early to summer camp in the north of England. They ran the place like a military school with morning drills and assault courses and survival classes. And cold showers. Worst of all, the place was full of bullies. Not just among the other students, but the faculty members, too.”
“Sounds dreadful.”
“You have no idea. But I’m not the kind of person to back down from hard work, or to shy away from bullies. In fact I loved the outdoor activities, and quickly made friends. But, as usual, the few spoiled the stay for the many, constantly picking on us to do the tasks nobody else wanted, like cleaning the toilet block, or being on table kitchen duties after meals. They’d clearly singled out all of the new kids, the ones who hadn’t been there before. When my mother called to ask how things were going, I gave her a detailed account about what was happening. My father had booked me to stay for four weeks, but the next morning she came to pick me up. Honestly, I think she was more upset than me. Should have heard her screaming at the duty manager and then down the phone at my father.”
“Will she have read the papers?”
Marshall heaved out a deep sigh at that remark.
“Not sure they would have reached her yet. She will eventually, though. But she’s used to public scrutiny. My parents’ messy divorce was splashed all over the tabloids. I just hope I haven’t let her down.”
“Of course you haven’t. From what you tell me about her, she’ll see the article for the bullshit that it is.”
Marshall released a small laugh, then reached over and squeezed Spencer’s hand. Spencer held his breath and savoured the brief touch, and only breathed again when Marshall started talking.
“I should be used to this. In my field of work, I’ve been bombed, sworn at, shot at, spat at, hidden out in a school in Syria while a gang of terrorists passed nearby. You’d think I’d be immune to a bit of gutter press tittle-tattle.”
“None of those other things were personal.”
Marshall smiled gently again and softly shook his head.
“You can turn the light out now. I think I might be able to sleep.”
Spencer did as asked.
“I think I’m in good hands here. Although I want you to know the incredible restraint I’m exercising right at this moment, having you within such easy reach,” came the humoured voice in the darkness. Spencer almost rolled over and fell into his arms. He knew that one word from him and they would be doing things he had recently dreamt about. But apart from not wanting to be a rebound fling, Marshall deserved to be taken care of, deserved some rest.
And while over the next half-hour Spencer tried to keep his eyes closed, tried to slow his heartbeat despite having the world’s sexiest man next to him in his bed, he heard Marshall’s breathing slow to a soft, steady purr.
Finally, the poor guy had found some peace.
Chapter Nine
Around six, both of them finally gave up trying to sleep any longer and decided to get up and get dressed. Of the three times Spencer had awoken during the night, twice Marshall had lain awake beside him, and both times Spencer had reached out to give his hand a squeeze before falling back to sleep again. On the third, not only had Marshall slotted his body in behind Spencer’s, along the length of his spine—a wholly wonderful and warming experience—but his soft, even breathing could only have meant that he was sleeping. Add to that the arm slung protectively across Spencer’s waist, and he had soon fallen back into a deep slumber. Most embarrassing of all, he had awoken roasting hot, with a rock-hard stiffie poking into his backside, and his own tenting the front of his sweatpants. Gently lifting Marshall’s arm, Spencer had leapt out of bed and run into the bathroom.
* * * *
“Here. Put these on,” said Spencer, much later. Marshall had returned from a shower in a fresh change of clothing, except for the tracksuit bottoms, which he had donned again, and the thick white socks he had sensibly chosen to keep wearing. Spencer handed over a pair of light-brown-framed glasses with a slight tint in the lens.
“Are they prescription?”
“No,” said Spencer. “They’re kind of fake specs. Well, designer fake specs.”
Blake had left the frames behind after his last visit, and Spencer had never gotten around to returning them. Typical of Blake, he didn’t need glasses, the lenses being made of clear glass, but he thought the look made him appear more sophisticated in business meetings. Even at the time Spencer had found the oddity more pretentious than professional but had not voiced his opinion. Worst of all, Blake’s nose from bridge to tip was so thin the glasses always slipped down, and he was forever pushing them back up with his forefinger like a latter-day Clark Kent. Marshall, by comparison, rocked the look.
“Now put on your face mask and ski hat.”
Spencer enjoyed making Marshall do his bidding and with the hat, the glasses and the black mask, Marshall was pretty much unrecognisable.
“Go and look in the mirror.”
Marshall did as asked and chuckled at his reflection.
“The shades you wore yesterday were a bit much, by the way,” said Spencer. “Rather than make you look invisible, you came across as sinister, as though you were about to rob a bank or murder someone. But these make you look normal, and as the mask is mandatory right now, you’re not only being socially responsible, you’re also incognito and pretty hot.”
“Okay,” said Marshall, removing his mask and smiling at the last comment, but turning quizzically to Spencer. “What’s happening right now? Are you throwing me out?”
“Of course not. But at the end of the arcade of shops downstairs,” said Spencer, “there’s a locally run artisan coffee shop which also serves food. It’s doubtful anyone would recognise you in the twenty yards from here to there, but let’s not take any chances. They open at six-thirty, but I’m told the morning rush doesn’t start until around seven-thirty to eight. I’m usually gone by then. Dressed like this, both of us in glasses, we look like a couple of nerdy friends, or at a push you could be my older brother. I suggest we go down, get some decent coffee and a muffin or bagel while you check your phone and let Darcy know where you are. And I can phone in sick.”
Marshall turned quickly at that comment.
“You’re not going to work today?”
“You know what, Marshall? I have never taken a sickie in the two years I’ve worked for Blackmores. I think I’m due a bit of latitude to spend the day taking care of a special friend in need. I think they can do without me for just one day, don’t you?”
Marshall’s generous smile lit up his face, and Spencer felt his stomach turn to jelly.
“I do. And can I say how nice it feels to have you looking after me. Are we ready to go, best geek friend?”
As soon as he pushed open the door to the Morden Bean Sanctuary, pungent aromas enveloped them both. Spencer visited the place very occasionally, on Saturday or Sunday mornings to check his phone, and recognised neither of the young servers behind the counter. Monday morning and only two tables out of around twenty were occupied, probably by other insomniacs.
Spencer took Marshall’s order then pointed to the empty table at the far end of the shop, a private corner where two armchairs of battered brown leather sat around a low circular coffee table. As Marshall, quite rightly, took the seat with his back to the room, Spencer noticed him fish in his jacket pocket for his phone and make a call. Some minutes later he joined Marshall with a tray of drinks—an Americano and a caffè mocha for Marshall, and an extra-shot caffè latte for himself—together with a plate of assorted muffins. He’d also bought a couple of croissants, and slices of quiche and pies to take away, for lunch, and had packed those into his bag.
“Have you checked in?” asked Spencer, lowering the tray onto the table. Marshall had removed his mask but kept the hat and glasses on. Although Spencer would have still recognised him by his handsome smile, nobody from the road or the door could see his face.
“Just spoke with Darcy. Things are much as we expected. She’s been flooded with calls from the press and she’s handling them with her usual hard-nosed professionalism. But we’re going to need to talk later today. At least she knows where I am now, and she’s going to pick me up around seven this evening. Fortunately I’m not needed in the studio this week, but Darcy is adamant that I don’t stay off the radar for too long, doesn’t want me to appear as though I’ve got anything to hide. Look, Spence, if you need to go in to work today—”
“Marshall. I’m staying home with you,” said Spencer, ripping away his mask. “In fact, I’m going to call our HR team right now—they won’t be in the office yet, but I’ll leave a message—and then I’ll text Bev and my boss. Neither will be up yet, but for a change they can both cover for me.”
Without a moment of hesitation, Spencer made the calls. As anticipated the one to HR went straight to the department voicemail, so he left a message saying he’d woken with a fever—which wasn’t far from the truth—and thought he should be a good corporate citizen and stay home. After that he texted both Clarissa and Bev, saying he was unwell, knowing both of them checked their respective phones for messages first thing. In a final act of defiance and with a self-satisfied sigh, he thumbed the power off button on his device.
“Done. Now I’m all yours for the day, without fear of getting any disturbances.”
“I’m honoured. Thank you, Spence.”
Spencer had begun to enjoy Marshall using his shortened name.
“Have you checked any of the online tabloids yet?”
“Yes,” said Marshall, turning his phone around and showing Spencer the same photo on the homepage of a morning tabloid internet site. “The article has obviously spilled onto the dailies. The cheap rags are having a field day at my expense.”
Spencer’s stomach curdled when he read the headline, not so much at Marshall being gay, but at the insinuation about him being involved in underaged sex. Once again Spencer decided to digress to save Marshall’s feelings.
“I have to say that resort looks amazing. Private, I’m guessing?”
“It was—or should have been. Don’t know if you read the whole article, but that photograph was taken in St Cezaire sur Siagne on the French Riviera. I hired a villa with a tennis court and swimming pool for the two of us. About five years ago. It had been a busy year. Joey had a few weeks off from shooting the soap, and he’d bought this new camera drone he liked playing around with. Which is how he managed to get photos of him starkers with his backside on full view and the one with me leaning over to kiss him. Thank goodness I chose to maintain my modesty.”
“Have to say, you rock those Speedos.”
“Thank you. Maybe I can model them for you one day.”
Spencer enjoyed the gentle flirting.
“Maybe you can. What do they mean by the heading? How old was he?”
Marshall stopped drinking his coffee and sat back.
“In the photo? He’d have been around thirty, I guess.”
“Okay, so when did the law change?”
“I’m not with you?”
“Well, the last time I checked, the age of consent to any form of sexual activity in this country was sixteen for both men and women. How is Joey considered a minor?”
Marshall heaved a huge sigh.
“They’re selling newspapers, Spence, so they need a juicy headline. If you’d read the whole article, you’ll know the reporter goes on to say that I first met Joey when he was fourteen and I was twenty-one, which is correct. I was at university with his brother, Alex, and over the summer went to visit them in their family home in Dorset. What I don’t like is the insinuation that anything happened between us back then.”
“The tabloids love their fake news.”
“Don’t they just. On that brief visit, I barely said a word to Joey apart from a formal hello. They have a large family, six of them, Joey being the youngest and Alex the oldest.”
“Is Alex gay?”
“God, no. Single-mindedly heterosexual. Back in our uni days, he was intent on seducing as many of the world’s female population as he could, if you know the type.”
“You just described my brother.”
“He’s a changed man now he’s married, a doting husband and father of three.”
“Maybe there’s hope for Garrett, then. Are you still in touch?”
“Yes. But I’m not sure how he’s going to take all this. Or his parents, come to that. We used to get on so well together. I hope they don’t believe the underage sex inference.”
Marshall looked away, clearly lost in thought. Spencer noticed customers arriving in the cafe and looked about to check nobody was settling nearby before continuing the conversation.
“When did you and Joey get together?”
“Not until much later. We met again a few years after that first meeting, when Joey turned seventeen and came out to his parents. Knowing about me, they asked if I would have a chat with him—provide some wisdom, so to speak—about what it means to be gay.”
“And that’s what brought you together?”
“No, not at all. In fact, I think Joey didn’t particularly like me. It was years later that we met at the television studio Christmas party. He’d have been twenty-seven and had just landed his role in Waterloo Lane. Back then, my career was beginning to take off as well, so I spent a lot of time working abroad. But we managed to make things work and a couple of years later he’d moved. We were together around five years.”
“When did you break up, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“A year after those photos were taken. I can’t say I blame him. I spent most of my time travelling the world, so he was left alone far too much. Those were heady days for him, too. His first taste of the spotlight. Got invited to a lot of parties while I was away. And whenever I returned from anywhere, we spent the first couple of days fighting. He said I treated him like a fisherman’s wife, left at home to wait for the husband to return to port. But the heated arguments felt a lot like what my parents had gone through and I could feel him slipping away. I used to say there would always be collateral damage being in a relationship with someone who spends so much time away and often in combat zones. He used to tell me I’m a rank outsider bet in the love and relationship stakes.”
The admission sent a wave of sadness through Spencer, but then his natural optimism bounded back.
“Don’t sell yourself short, handsome. People have been known to win big on rank outsiders.”
For all of his melancholy mood, Marshall grinned at Spencer and even laughed a little.
“What are you planning to do about the article?” asked Spencer. “Did Darcy say?”
“That’s the first question I asked, one of the reasons she wants us to meet up later. There’s not much we can do about the Tribute now—”
