Famous Last, page 12
“How about suing the bastards for every penny they have?”
“That’s not going to make the article disappear, is it? It’s already out there.”
“Might feel good though. So what’s the plan, then?”
“Sometimes the best line of defence is attack. Darcy has a strategy. I think she’s going to arrange for me to do an exclusive with a more reputable Sunday paper, through a sympathetic journalist, and tell them my story, the real story. Let them take the Tribute to pieces for their shoddy journalism. And in the meantime, our legal team are working on getting the editor to publish an apology and take down the online photos.”
“But if you do another story, won’t you have to come out publicly?”
“Which is honestly such a joke. I’ve been out of the closet since the age of twenty. Everyone at university knew and so does everyone I work with. And I haven’t exactly been a monk since I graduated. There are plenty of men who can and will support my story, if I ask them.”
“Not Joey, though.”
“No, not Joey,” said Marshall a little harshly.
Spencer wanted to ask more about Joey, but sensed Marshall’s deep sadness and disappointment when he spoke about his ex. He did not understand how somebody could betray a person as pleasant and as genuine as Marshall.
“How will they cope without you there today?” asked Marshall.
“They’ll manage. But I know they’ll all be shitting bricks at the meeting this morning, what with no special entertainment slot for the client Christmas bash and the lack of a decent showpiece for the magazines during the holiday season. Muriel Moresby is on a mission to get a top-notch celebrity interview for the December issue of Collective. She’s even offering an incentive bonus to anyone who can land someone decent. Desperate or what? I think she approached you already at the charity event, the one where we first met.”
“I said no.”
“Of course you did. Quite right, too. Those interview articles tend to be a combination of fluff and personal intrusion, and that’s about the last thing you need right now. Somebody ought to bloody well interview her. Give her a taste of her own medicine.”
Spencer took another sip of his caffè latte and savoured another warm hit to his bloodstream. With a soft snort, he wondered who would sort out the coffee order for the morning meeting, but then shrugged the thought away. Somehow they would manage without him. Or not, he didn’t care.
“Wait,” said Marshall, his voice grabbing Spencer’s full attention. “Back up a moment. That’s actually a brilliant idea. How about you suggest to Muriel that I interview her and her husband live on stage at the client event? And they can get the whole thing filmed. As long as she’s happy to have me involved, what with everything that’s going on. That would be a great platform for people to get to know the couple, warts and all. And then they can use the material for the Christmas edition of Collective? We might even be able to get the station to air something, if Moresby will allow our crew in to record. That way I stay in the spotlight and Muriel gets her interview.”
Spencer sat stunned. An interview with the Moresbys, warts and all? What would the world make of the real Muriel Moresby? With Marshall asking the questions, no punches would be pulled. But would she even buy into the idea? After a few moments, he came back down to earth.
“I’m not sure how she would feel about that,” said Spencer.
“Not a good idea, then?”
“Are you kidding me! It’s a fantastic idea. But would you really do that?”
“Why not? Okay, so she’s not the usual kind of high-profile subject I might interview, but like I said, as long as she’s onboard, everybody wins. Muriel gets her interview, and I remain visible—”
“And I get a bonus.”
“And you get a bonus,” said Marshall, chuckling. “I’ll need to square things off with Darcy and the network, but I’m sure she’ll be up for the idea. I’ll ask her when she drops by to pick me up later.”
“Just so we’re clear, that’s not why I invited you in yesterday. To take advantage of your celebrity status.”
“I know that,” said Marshall, before becoming pensive. “But out of interest, why did you let me in? I wasn’t completely sure you would.”
Spencer’s words died in his mouth. How much should he tell Marshall about how much he liked him, really liked him? And how he only wanted the best for him. When Spencer looked up into his eyes to answer, he noticed the coffee shop had filled noticeably.
“You’re a complete arse if you need to ask. Have you finished yet? This place is beginning to get busy.”
Marshall smirked at Spencer before draining the last of his coffee. Readying to leave, he pulled his ski hat down around his ears and put on his black mask.
“How do I look?”
“Like a tourist who’s lost his way in the French Alps. Now, is there anyone you need to text or call before we leave? Remember we’re off the grid upstairs.”
“Nope, I’m good.”
“Excellent. I’ve bought pastries for lunch so we don’t go hungry. We need to walk back past my door, so I’ll give you the key and my phone and I’ll see you back upstairs. I’m going to stock up with extra food from the convenience store. It’ll be open by now.”
“You don’t need to give me your phone, Spence. I do trust you.”
“I know that,” said Spencer, handing over the items as they headed for the coffee shop door. “But I’ll have my hands full, so you’ll be doing me a favour.”
When Marshall stepped in front and opened the door, Spencer’s lenses immediately steamed up from the waft of icy air hitting his face. Removing them for a second to wipe them, he popped them back on and stepped out into the cold morning.
“Oh my God, it’s you, isn’t it?” came the shrill voice of a girl standing outside, her eyes wide, as Marshall followed him through the door. She stood across the pavement by a litter bin, a cigarette in one hand and her cardboard coffee cup in the other.
Spencer and Marshall froze, both staring at her. Spencer wondered if they could make a run for his front door. But then he noticed her attention was not on Marshall at all, but on him.
“I’m sorry, I think you’ve got mixed up—” began Spencer.
“Shut up, I know it’s you. Tom Holland. Spider-Man. The hair totally gives you away.”
“Actually, I’m not,” said Spencer, as Marshall moved behind him. To make his point, Spencer once again removed his mask and glasses, even though the girl became little more than a blur.
“Oh,” she said, the disappointment in her voice plain. “No. You’re not.”
“Don’t worry, he gets that all the time,” said Marshall, clearly enjoying himself.
“Yeah, no. My mistake,” said the girl, turning away to take a puff on her cigarette.
Spencer grabbed a chuckling Marshall’s arm and hauled him along the road.
“Not funny, Marshall.”
“I beg to differ.”
“Get up those stairs,” said Spencer, laughing along, enjoying the light-hearted camaraderie. “I’ll deal with you later.”
“Promises, promises,” said Marshall, stopping at the front door and winking at Spencer.
Chapter Ten
Figuring they would be spending time sitting around talking, Spencer stocked up on tea bags, instant coffee, bread, milk, butter, and a pack of assorted biscuits—including custard creams, bourbons, chocolate digestives and Jammie Dodgers—as well as buying a selection of canned soups he could heat up to go with the baked goods.
When he got upstairs, Marshall had already made himself at home on the sofa, his socked feet stretched out in front and crossed at the ankle, and Tiger once again curled up in his lap. One of the white socks had almost come off and hung limply over the right foot, while the left leg of his track bottoms rode up and showed a hairy shin. His gaze was focused in concentration, his head resting back against the sofa with his hair—freshly released from the hat he had been wearing—taking on an adorable life of its own, clumps sticking up at random. Apart from scratching the top of Tiger’s head with one hand, he waved the remote at the television with the other, changing stations until he reached a news channel.
Spencer understood the rare moment he was observing, an utterly relaxed version of Marshall Highlander that few people got to see, and the realisation filled him with an oddly potent mix of affection and desire.
“Making yourself at home?”
“I have to say, Spence, it’s a very comfortable flat. A bit chilly right now, but comfy.”
“Convenient for the commute to work, too,” said Spencer, putting things away into the fridge. “I always get a seat on the train into town, with Morden being the southbound Northern Line terminus. And the landlord is okay. Apart from redecorating the place before I moved in, he fitted out the bathroom and kitchen and put in a new bed. Many of the appliances are new. Shame he wants the place back in February.”
“Oh dear,” said Marshall.
“It’s fine. Not sure I’ll be able to get anywhere for the same price, but at least he’s given me plenty of notice. And the reason it’s so cold right now is because the ovens downstairs aren’t turned on until around ten. I’ve cranked up the central heating but I might drag in the cover from the bed.”
And that was how they spent their morning, sitting together beneath the bed quilt on the sofa, watching daytime television, avoiding any news channels and occasionally making hot drinks. At lunchtime, when Spencer went to use the bathroom, he came back into the room to find Marshall standing at his bookcase. Somehow he had found Spencer’s journalism portfolio tucked away in the corner.
“These are really good, Spencer,” he said without looking up.
“Thank you. Finally got a friend to help me create a website in my name and put them up online along with my CV—although not much has happened since. My mother thinks I need someone to kick my backside to get me moving. Some of them are from university, but others are pieces I sent off to various publications and managed to get published. I’m rather proud of my letter to the Guardian about the implications of leaving the European Union and about the misinformation going around at the time. They published that around three weeks before the Brexit vote. Fat lot of good it did.”
“Doesn’t matter, Spence. You stated your case. I’m sure there were plenty of others who took an educated, factual, but opposing view who also got published. And I take my hat off to them, too. The important thing is that you made your voice heard. The downfall of any democracy will be the day when apathy outweighs people needing their voices to be heard, when a tyrant gains power due to majority abstention.”
“Did you write that?”
“I don’t think so. But I’m sure I heard it somewhere.”
“In which case, I might steal it.”
They continued chatting while Spencer set about getting lunch for them. They decided on piping-hot chicken soup, a small slice of quiche each, and a mini chicken and leek pie to share, followed off by half a croissant each with marmalade and whipped cream—the filling courtesy of Marshall.
“What’s in these croissants?” asked Marshall. “I don’t usually do sweet, but these are delicious.”
“Marmalade, of course. But the Bean Sanctuary bakes their own chocolate croissants. I have a seriously sweet tooth and I’ve never found better.”
“They’re amazing. I’m usually a savoury person.”
“Come on! What about ice cream?”
“Yes, I like some ice cream.”
“Favourite flavour?”
“I’m a traditionalist. I prefer good old dependable vanilla.”
“Sacrilege. When there is such a huge range of flavours available. Including some unusual ones like avocado, red chilli, and even lobster.”
“Sounds awful,” said Marshall, pulling a face.
“Don’t knock what you’ve never tried.”
“Go on then. What’s your favourite?”
“As I said, I have a sweet tooth, and there are lots of runners-up. Salted caramel with cookie dough, Rocky Road, Cookies and Cream. But my all-time favourite?”
“Go on. I’m on the edge of my seat.”
“Strawberry cheesecake ice cream. I could happily sit here and eat a tub to myself.”
“Heavens. Sounds a little sickly for my taste.”
“Don’t be too quick to judge. I bet you’d have turned your nose up at chocolate croissants before today, wouldn’t you?”
“Point taken. They are darned good.”
* * * *
In the afternoon, back on the sofa, the apartment became noticeably warmer and, still beneath the quilt, Spencer fell asleep with his head on Marshall’s shoulder. Sometime later he woke to find Marshall gazing fondly down at him, his arm around Spencer’s shoulders. Up so close, he could see his irises were not merely a deep dark brown, as he had assumed, but predominantly cocoa-coloured, darkly rimmed around the outside edge, and with flecks of caramel and gold.
Beautiful.
“Hey, little fella. You nodded off there.”
“In your arms. Not sure if I ever want to wake up.”
Marshall drew his hand to the back of Spencer’s neck.
“Maybe I can persuade you?”
Before Spencer realised what was happening, Marshall had leant in farther. With a soft gasp at what was about to happen, Spencer closed his eyes and felt the light pressure from Marshall’s wonderfully soft lips. During those first few tentative moments, Spencer wasn’t sure whether to respond, or to sit still and allow Marshall to control the kiss. But then something inside him kicked in, molten lava rising from the depths, taking over his body’s responses and silencing all thought. He pushed into the kiss, deepening the embrace, tilting his head to one side to get a better taste and connection. Marshall’s body responded in kind and he pushed back, his hands cradling Spencer’s face. Their kissing became more frantic, more erratic and heated, hands travelling over bodies until Spencer switched positions and straddled Marshall’s lap. Only then did Spencer’s irritating common sense awaken and he pulled them apart.
“No, Marshall. This isn’t fair on you.”
“You don’t want to—?” came Marshall’s breathless response.
“Of course I want to,” said Spencer, pushing his hardened groin into Marshall’s. “I just don’t think, given everything that’s happened to you recently, that this is a good idea right now. I’m just being honest with you.”
Marshall’s dark gaze became unfocused as he stared past Spencer’s shoulder. After a few moments, he let out a deep, defeated sigh and nodded.
“Yes, you’re right. Of course you are. However much I want this.”
Spencer climbed out of his lap, adjusting himself and sitting back down next to him.
“Me too,” said Spencer. “And if you feel the same way when everything’s blown over, I’ll still be here.”
Marshall chuckled fondly and nudged Spencer’s shoulder.
“I will. Feel the same way. I just hope you will, too.”
Spencer had no doubt in his mind and smiled happily. As he watched the television, he noticed Marshall turn and observe him for a few moments before speaking up.
“You remember I told you I’d been in Afghanistan to interview the cricket team?”
“A human-interest story? Yes, of course I remember.”
“Well, that wasn’t the whole story. The reason we flew there rather than arrange a telephone interview was because—and I can’t give you specific details here—one of the officials who had been opposed to any peace deal had requested an interview to announce a change of heart. But in order to do so, this official insisted that the interview be in person, at a secret location in the Helmand Province, and that they would only speak to me. In order for our team to go, we needed agreements from our government, the UN and, of course, assurances from the Afghan National Security Services.”
Spencer shuddered to think of the kind of dangerous situations Marshall had to face in his line of work.
“And everything went okay?”
“We were in and out in four days. And everything was fine. More than fine.”
“Apart from almost getting killed in an attack at a checkpoint?”
“Well, yes. But we weren’t the target.”
“Not much comfort when the bullets are flying. But I’m glad you got what you wanted. And even happier that you’re here and in one piece.”
Spencer had begun to feel more than a simple friendship with Marshall, but this new piece of information niggled at him, bringing home the often dangerous nature of Marshall’s chosen profession. Once again, he kept the concern to himself.
* * * *
At just after six-thirty, there came an urgent buzzing on Spencer’s intercom. Both Spencer and Marshall looked quizzically at each other before Spencer jumped up to check the video panel.
“Is Darcy usually early?”
“Sometimes,” said Marshall, going to the bedroom to collect his things. “But not often.”
Meanwhile, Spencer picked up the phone and checked the display.
“Oh. My. God!” He didn’t mean to sound dramatic, but the sight had him all kinds of excited. Marshall must have heard his tone because he hurried in from the bedroom.
“Is it the press?”
“No, it’s my colleague Bev. And she’s holding a bottle of champagne up to the camera. Not sure what’s happened, but this must be worth hearing.”
“Are you going to let her in?” Marshall sounded hesitant.
“She knows I met you, Marshall. But she has no idea that you’re here right now. How could she? But she’s not going to be a problem, trust me. Can I let her in?”
“Go ahead. You know I trust you, otherwise I wouldn’t be here.”
When Spencer answered the front door, he barely managed to get out a hello before Beverley pushed past, swiping him with the large bag she clutched under her arm, and heading straight for the stairs.
“You are not going to be-lieve my day,” she muttered as she stomped out each syllable on the steps. When he looked up, he realised Marshall stood framed in the upstairs doorway, holding the door open. Bev must have been looking down because when she finally lifted her gaze, she clunked to a stop.
