Famous Last, page 14
“Sit down, Spencer. You’re making the room look untidy.”
Spencer’s attention swung to Muriel behind her desk as she snapped shut the lid of her large metallic purple laptop. Maybe fitting the occasion, she, too, wore black—a high-necked dress in charcoal cotton with a mauve silk scarf around her shoulders. He took the leather seat across from her, which appeared to sink three or four inches as his weight took hold until his eyes drew level with the top of her coffee mug.
“Do you want to explain to me what happened yesterday?”
She had the usual Muriel intimidation glare as she stared disapprovingly at him.
“I was sick—”
“Remove the mask. I feel like I’m talking to a highwayman.”
Spencer did as told and folded the black mask into his trouser pocket.
“I had a slight fever and thought it best to stay home. But I followed procedure, contacted the HR team and left a voice message. I also texted Clarissa.”
“I see.”
Spencer offered nothing more. In the past, he would have filled one of Muriel’s silences with a flustered explanation, and probably given away far too much. But not today. If Muriel wanted to see him, she could jolly well explain why. He wasn’t about to volunteer any information.
“Everybody knows you weren’t in. What I want to know is whether you’re aware of what happened here yesterday? In the office. Did anyone explain to you?”
“Clarissa’s not in yet.”
Another of Muriel’s silences while she processed his answer.
“Do you know why I chose to employ you, Spencer?”
“I have my suspicions,” he replied, without missing a beat.
Muriel narrowed her eyes at him. His heart started to speed up.
“And?”
A whole speech flashed up on autocue in his mind about her attempt to redress the male-to-female workforce ratio. If he got onto the fact that she had employed one of those, her son Blake, and segued into the subject of nepotism, there would be no stopping him.
“I heard other candidates turned the job down. I suppose I was sort of Hobson’s Choice.”
“Where did you hear that?”
Blake had told him about two other candidates being far better qualified for the role, both women. One had decided to pull her application, and the other had been offered a better-paid position at a rival magazine.
“I can’t remember who told me.”
“You shouldn’t listen to office tittle-tattle. You were chosen out of all the other candidates because I needed someone competent, reliable, and well-organised to assist Clarissa. I put a lot of pressure on her, and unfortunately, she doesn’t work well with other women.”
“I see.”
He didn’t see, at all. If that was indeed the case, why hadn’t anyone told him at the interview, or at least during his onboarding? And why would Blake have lied to him? In the two years he had worked with Clarissa, she’d appeared to take the job for granted—the kind of person his brother referred to as a vocational skiver—and relied on him to do the bulk of her tasks. Maybe a female colleague would have been less accommodating. Bev certainly wouldn’t have put up with the unequal distribution of work.
“Do you? A lot of things went wrong yesterday, and on each occasion the cause appeared to involve you—or, rather, your absence. To begin with, there was a complete lack of morning beverages and nobody to assist with the conference room equipment. During the day, apart from an important legal document going missing, and water damage in the small meeting room, your absence caused missed deadlines, and the icing on the slowly crumbling cake was Killian Pinkerton believing that you are the only person competent and trustworthy enough to give the final sign-off to his pieces of fluff. I would dearly like to hear what you think about all of this, to get your perspective.”
“Do you really want to hear what I think?”
“I encourage all of my staff to speak their minds. If you have something to say, I would like to hear it. And then I will tell you what I would like to happen in future.”
If Spencer had felt damned before, Muriel’s last remark pretty much sealed his fate. If she didn’t get rid of him during the meeting and expected him to continue being the office punch bag, he would walk anyway. Was there any point in stating his case? But then he thought back to Marshall’s parting words to him and decided to speak his mind.
“Okay, this is what I think. But let’s get a few things straight to begin with. Apart from taking my statutory annual holiday and public holidays, I haven’t had a day off sick in the two years that I’ve worked for you. I could point out a large number of your employees who have had more sick days than the annual leave allowance you grant them. And yet the first thing you want to whinge to me about is coffee and why there was none because I was sick for a day. Here’s a thought. Why don’t you invest in a coffee machine in the conference room? Or better still, if it’s a matter of cost savings, get those attending to buy their own beverages on the way into the office. I offered to get drinks once, because the receptionist whose job it was had resigned. What I did back then was a gesture of goodwill, something everyone has subsequently taken for granted.”
Muriel had begun to pout, her expression turning waspish, but once the dam walls had been breached, there was no stopping Spencer.
“As for the conference room setup. This is something you employ a perfectly competent IT person to deal with. Even then, in my opinion, it’s not really something that someone as highly qualified technically as Prince should have to deal with. Plugging a cable into a wall socket, for goodness’ sake. How difficult can it be? Prince spends evenings here sometimes, doing tests and making sure the network is working stably. That’s what you pay him to do. Once again, I made the mistake of helping out on one occasion when he had a problem getting here on time. Now the burden seems to have been transferred to me. What else was it? Oh yes, missed deadlines. If you had bothered to check, you’d have found those deadlines belonged to Clarissa, not to me. And if she had asked me to complete them for her on Friday, I would have done so before I left the office for the weekend, the way I always do, even if that had meant forfeiting my lunch break. She did not. I have no idea about the lost legal document or the water-damaged meeting room, and would suggest you get Alice to check with your legal team and the buildings technicians respectively. On a final note, because, after all, you’re encouraging me to speak my mind, I ask you to stop using me as an office lackey in future. Use me for the professional skills for which you employed me, such as editing other people’s work. And I include proofreading the pieces by Killian Pinkerton in that. His stories bring in a whole new raft of recognition and readership to Collective.”
Spencer sat back in his seat and folded his arms, feeling the heat that had risen in his cheeks. Muriel sat staring at him, her eyes wide.
“Do you have anything else to add?” she asked.
“Yes. Although you may not be aware, Marshall Highlander is a close friend of mine. I know he is going through some public difficulties at the moment, but he has offered to help us—help you—to kill two birds with one stone, so to speak. And he—”
“I have no idea how someone like you knows Marshall. But if this has anything to do with the Collective interview, I have already approached—”
“For goodness’ sake, Muriel, will you just let me finish for once?”
Now the blood had truly drained from her face and, to top everything, her hands came together beneath her chin as though she were Mother Superior praying for him to be struck by a carefully aimed bolt of lightning.
“Go on.”
“Marshall has offered to provide his services to formally interview you and Lord Moresby at our client Christmas party in early December. He said that a lot of what you do—privately and professionally—goes unnoticed, and having a candid interview with you both onstage would be a highlight of the evening. Following the interview, you could consider using selective material—maybe have some exclusive sections not used during the live interview—to fill the celebrity interview page of the Christmas edition of Collective. He feels the readers of Collective would be delighted to learn more about the lives of the owner and her husband, and I completely agree with him.”
As he watched Muriel process his words, he sat stiffly in his chair, and mulled over the idea of being fired and grovelling for a job working for Marshall. When she’d finally processed what he had said, and composed herself to declare her final judgement, he prepared himself for the worst.
“Clarissa called me at home last night to resign her position with immediate effect,” she said, taking him completely by surprise. “Were you aware?”
“No, I was not.”
“Well, I’m going to need you to step into her shoes.”
“You’re giving me her job?”
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, shall we? I’m asking you to take over the role while I decide how we are going to deal with the void she has left and consider her replacement. But if you do a good enough job, I see no reason not to offer you an opportunity to interview for the position.”
His mind tried to catch up with what was happening. Had Muriel hoodwinked him? He’d thought he had been brought there to defend his position in the company, only to find he was being expected to step up and replace Clarissa.
“How long?” he asked.
“I beg your pardon?”
“How long am I going to be filling the senior role? Is this going to mean an adjustment to my salary? And will I have anyone to assist me, in the same way that I assisted Clarissa?”
“This is all new, Spencer. I need to consult HR and talk this situation through with them. Right now we don’t have any spare resources to give you. But from what you say, you’ve been taking on her work in the past anyway, so it shouldn’t be too much of an adjustment, should it? In the meantime, I’ll make sure the menial duties you mentioned are redistributed. How does that sound?”
Spencer turned his head to look out of the window. Dirty grey clouds meant a possibility of rain, maybe even sleet or snow. Should he accept the chance to shine in Clarissa’s role? Or should he tell her to get somebody else? He needed somebody he trusted to talk to, someone impartial, outside the confines of the company.
“Can I think about it?”
“Why would you need to think about it?”
“You’re asking me to take on a lot of extra responsibilities that are above my pay grade. As you say there is no guarantee of a permanent position in the future, and very probably no monetary incentive, bearing in mind the cost-cutting we’ve been through recently. I would like some time to think about this.”
Muriel released a deep, world-weary sigh as though listening to the bellyaching of a twelve-year-old.
“Apart from the Friday deadlines, which Tamara’s team took over and completed, I don’t see that there’s anything urgent Clarissa was dealing with, so I’ll give you until tomorrow. As for the interview by Marshall—I will need to consult our office publicist to run the idea past her and decide whether this is good for us right now. I’ll call Marshall and let him know my decision. Although I do find him difficult to contact.”
“Once you’ve made a decision, you can let me know. He and I are in direct contact with each other.”
“Are you?”
“Yes,” he replied, staring back at her. “Now, if that’s all, I have work to do.”
“Indeed you do, Spencer,” said Muriel. “Indeed you do.”
When Spencer left the office, he had no idea who had come out on top. He had an uneasy feeling Muriel had managed to get exactly what she wanted.
He needed to talk to Marshall.
Chapter Twelve
Late Thursday night, as the southbound Tube train pulled out of Colliers Wood station, Spencer was one of the few remaining passengers in the carriage. In the pocket of his duffle coat, his phone vibrated with a call. He pulled out the device and stared at the display.
Marshall.
With a snort, he thumbed the green accept button.
“Hey, you,” came the soft baritone voice before Spencer could speak. “It’s me.”
Spencer felt his grin stretch across his face. He had grown to enjoy Marshall’s voice and his gently teasing tone.
“Hello, me. How are things?”
Down the phone, Marshall breathed out a deep sigh.
“Oh, dear,” said Spencer, his smile slipping. “That bad?”
“Actually, no. Things are going unexpectedly well. I’ve just been horribly busy this week. Sorry I haven’t been able to phone since Tuesday, but Darcy’s had me running in circles all over town.”
“I know. Your televised statement to the press yesterday was brilliant, by the way. I’ve watched it about twenty times on YouTube. And there are some wonderfully supportive comments on Twitter, in case you haven’t seen them yet. A couple of trolls, too, but nobody pays them any heed.”
“Thanks for saying that, Spence. It means a lot. I’ve had thousands of messages from people—family, friends, colleagues, and people I don’t even know, offering words of support. We’ve also got a full-page story coming out at the end of this week in the Sunday Chronicle by Damien Littlejohn. Does your mother read the Chronicle?”
“She does now. I’ll make sure my brother buys a copy.”
“Are you on a train?”
“Congratulations. You have not lost any of your powers of perception.”
“Bit late for a school night, isn’t it? Where are you heading?”
“Home.”
“At ten-thirty? Don’t tell me you’re just getting back from work?”
“I’m doing two jobs now, Marshall, and have a ton of extra responsibilities. I need to put in the hours. And I can’t take work home with me, partly because of the lack of connectivity in the flat, but also in part due to the attention demands of a feline demon who is giving me a hard time since her new best friend abandoned her.”
Spencer had texted Marshall Tuesday lunchtime after he’d met with Muriel and he had phoned back almost immediately. They’d spoken for around an hour, initially about Spencer’s new position and Muriel deciding whether to go ahead with the interview. After that, Spencer had asked Marshall how he was coping and his strategy for dealing with the press. Even before the call ended, Spencer had decided to try the job out, to make his mark until Muriel decided who to appoint as Clarissa’s replacement. Marshall had essentially agreed with the idea as a stopgap until something better turned up.
“Tell the little princess that when things settle down this end, I promise to come over with some TLC.”
“Tender loving care?”
“Tasty little chewbits. They’re these cat treats I saw at the supermarket.”
“Funny man.”
“Hey, the reason for calling is to see if you’re still free tomorrow night?”
Spencer’s heart gave a tug of delight. He’d been hoping Marshall would ask him but hadn’t wanted to presume anything, especially with everything going on.
“Hold the line, caller. I need to check my insanely busy social calendar,” said Spencer, before pulling the phone away from his ear and, under his breath, counting to five. “Yes, I’m still free. I kept the evening blocked out in the hope you might be off the hook.”
“I am, and I’d like to see you. I’ll send you the address for a private bar around the back of Liverpool Street where we can meet. You’ll need to quote my membership number, so I’ll send that by text along with the address. Can you be there for six-thirty?”
“I can. I was going to work late again, but I’m sure a night off is in order.”
“Good. And would it be presumptuous if I asked you to bring an overnight bag?”
Now Spencer’s stomach joined his heart as a nest of wasps escaped inside.
“Not one bit.”
“Can you get someone to cat-sit?”
“We’re pulling into Morden station right now. I’ll ask Gino’s wife while I’m ordering tonight’s dinner.”
“Pizza again?”
“It’s been a long day and I can’t be bothered to cook.”
“And the pizza is damn fine. I can vouch for that.”
Spencer laughed as the doors to the train clanged open and a waft of icy air invaded the carriage.
“Just arrived at Morden. I’ll see you tomorrow, Marshall. Six-thirty.”
“Until then, Spence.”
* * * *
For all the time Spencer had spent working in Central London, he had only occasionally ventured out around the vicinity of his office and rarely into the heart of London. He was wholly unfamiliar with the streets around Liverpool Street station. Fortunately, the journey took only half an hour, and ten minutes later he found himself in the spider’s web of small streets around Spitalfields Market. With the help of the app on his mobile phone, he found the innocuous road with the recessed but otherwise unremarkable black front door Marshall had indicated in his text message.
A simple aluminium buzzer panel with a video screen was fixed to the right-hand side and, as instructed, Spencer punched in a four-digit code. After a few seconds, a man’s face appeared on the screen, the voice pleasantly professional, clearly a member of staff.
“Good evening, sir. May I have your name, please?”
“Oh, yes. It’s—uh—Spencer Wyrrell. W-Y-R—”
Immediately, a loud, continuous buzzing sounded, followed by a soft clunk.
“Please come in.”
