Famous Last, page 9
* * * *
Without a break in the weather, they spent the rest of the day at home. Peony and Spencer’s mother sat in the kitchen talking about all things babies, while the men watched replays of football matches—football without padding—on one of Garrett’s many sports channels. His father lasted all of an hour before he fell asleep in an armchair.
Spencer sat back and marvelled at his family. Life in the Wyrrell family usually cruised along on smooth waters, but when surprises came they were often showstoppers, like their parents’ move to the coast. And now his brother, someone he had fairly—or unfairly—considered too immature to hold down a relationship, was about to bring a child into the world. In a strange way, he felt jealous of the change Garrett and Peony would have in their lives, of the love and hugs the child would receive from his parents.
Only Spencer appeared immune to the Wyrrell good fortune, although he could hardly complain. After a dinner of grilled cheese on toast and a mug of tea, he lay awake in his room, contemplating the day and wondering when the universe would finally wake up and include him in its plan.
He didn’t have long to wait.
Chapter Seven
On Sunday morning, he awoke to a quiet house with only the distant thrum of traffic outside the bedroom window. Unsurprisingly, considering their choice of supper the night before, he’d had nightmares and had woken startled a couple of times. Garrett had insisted on an evening of toasted cheese sandwiches and horror flicks to accompany the continued stormy weather. The evening had culminated in an old classic called Don’t Look Now, about a married couple who travelled to Venice after the husband was commissioned to supervise the restoration work on a Venetian church. Spencer had seen the film before, but had still managed to get hooked into the suspense, particularly on the husband’s sightings of his dead daughter in the red cloak, which had made his skin prickle. And every time he had gasped aloud in shock at one scene or another, he’d turned to find Peony and Garrett staring at him, trying hard to stifle their giggles.
Right now he felt tired and brittle from broken sleep. After using the bathroom, he packed up his weekend bag then headed into the breakfast area. His bespectacled mother sat at the kitchen island reading newspapers, one hand cradling her head, the other wrapped around a coffee mug. The sight made him smile.
Nice and quiet, business as usual after yesterday’s earth-shattering announcement. With both his parents avid newspaper readers, Sunday mornings had always felt like a safe haven of calm in their household.
“Where are the boys?” he asked. “Still sleeping?”
“They decided to go for a bike ride,” she said, still scanning the newspaper. “Seeing as the weather’s improved.”
“Oh. I see,” said Spencer. He had tried to avoid mention of his father’s motorcycle purchase. For some reason, she didn’t seem annoyed and picked up on his response.
“I know,” she said, looking up and giving him a knowing look. “I don’t really approve, darling, but if it means your father and Garrett having male bonding time together, who am I to complain?”
“I suppose. As long as they’re careful. I wonder how Peony feels about the father-to-be of her child out on his bike after a day of heavy rain.”
“Exactly,” said his mother, staring away from her paper for a split second and more than likely storing away that little remark for later. In Peony, she had a new ally.
“Anything newsworthy in the papers?” he asked, heading to the coffee machine.
“Looks like another national lockdown on the horizon. Probably the end of next week. Not that we’ll be affected much, with us both retired and Garrett able to work from the living room table. Will they let you work from home?”
“Even if they do, I can’t. I don’t have internet, do I?”
“How will you manage to work, then?” she asked absently, still scanning the paper.
“They’ll still allow minimal staffing. If I’ve got a lot to do I’ll mask up and brave a Tube train or splash out on an Uber into the office. Otherwise I’ll work from the coffee shop downstairs as long as they’re open. I’ll figure something out.”
Unaided, he had made himself a mug of cappuccino—pretty straightforward, as he’d found out—and a slice of toast. He perched the other side of the counter, where a more substantial pile of newspapers sat, and pulled out a colourful magazine poking out from one of the papers.
While tucking into dry toast, he scanned the entertainment section, one of his favourite parts, impressed to see a few plays continuing to run in the West End. A review caught his attention, of a new play called The Right Side of the Family, adapted from a well-known author’s acclaimed novel.
The story centred on the family of a prestigious Conservative politician in the sixties coming to terms with the tragic death of their much-loved eldest son in a boating accident while at Cambridge university. With a celebrated cast of actors performing in a time of difficulty, Spencer felt sure the reviewer would be generous. But even though some of the performances received a lukewarm mention, the review was nothing short of vitriolic. Somewhere around London, he mused, people who had sweated over the production would be waking to this nasty review, one that barely touched on the premise of the play and had only a passing mention to the author’s original work.
He sat back for a moment, drained his coffee, and considered the kind of treatment he would have given the review. Of course, he would have insisted on seeing the play first off—at least once—but in his favour, he already knew the book intimately.
Just as he returned from the coffee machine with a refill, his mother turned over the newspaper she had been reading, slapped her hand down on top and let out a loud cry.
“Oh no, not him,” she exclaimed. Looking like a wise old owl with her huge glasses perched on her nose, she picked up and tossed one of the Sunday tabloids across the counter to him. “Will you look at that? Marshall Highlander is gay. Which is perfectly fine, of course, and not completely unexpected. I mean, with those eyes and bone structure he must have had dozens of women queuing up to date him in his time. And now here he is, splashed all over the Sundays, caught making a complete fool of himself on the French Riviera with some boy young enough to be his grandson.”
Shock followed by dismay washed through Spencer as he stared down at the paper.
“I wouldn’t believe everything you read, Mum.”
“I don’t. But those pictures provide pretty damning evidence.”
With the mug cradled to his chest, Spencer picked up the paper, went over to the dining room table and fell into one of the chairs. After taking a deep gulp, he faltered momentarily before turning to the front page of the Tribute.
Jumping out at him, the scandalous headline sat above a photograph of two men sunbathing by a swimming pool—a private pool in a villa with high walls—with the younger man naked and lying on his front with his backside on full display, his face smiling up into the sun and the camera lens. Next to him, the unmistakably delicious figure of Marshall Highlander lounged on a sunbed, his body bronzed and decked out in tight white swimwear.
MARSHALL HIGHLANDER IN GAY SEX SCANDAL WITH JOE HOLLINGBROKE
by TOBY WENTWORTH
Journalist and political television host of the talk show Say What You Mean Marshall Highlander is at the centre of a sex scandal today after photographs surfaced of him and a former gay lover, the once popular celebrity Joe Hollingbroke, better known for his role of Donkey in the long-running soap opera Waterloo Lane.
Highlander, the son of film producer Leyton Highlander and socialite Gloria Ann Shelley, is said to have begun the affair while Hollingbroke had been a minor.
Shot at a holiday villa in St Cezaire sur Siagne on the French Rivera, the photographs show the tan and naked couple cavorting around a swimming pool.
Highlander, 41, a bachelor, has repeatedly avoided the subject of his sexuality. He is a close friend of actor and gay activist Charles Pollard and a champion of many causes including AIDS foundations and gay support groups.
See centre pages for more on this breaking story.
Spencer hated himself for reading the story, which took up the centre pages of the tawdry rag, but he wanted to understand the extent of the damage. Surely in this day and age someone being outed by a newspaper was no longer a headline, but the insinuation that his love interest had been under the age of consent would have definitely sold papers. Although nowhere did they imply that the police were involved. By the end of the badly written, poorly edited—French Rivera, for goodness’ sake?—and highly speculative article, what was patently obvious to Spencer was that Marshall’s ex-boyfriend, Joseph ‘Joey’ Hollingbroke, had royally fucked him over. Spencer wondered how much money he would be getting from the exclusive, and whether he was using the media attention to resurrect his flagging popularity.
After finishing the story and gulping down his coffee, he excused himself to go to his bedroom. He pulled out his phone and sat there for a full five minutes, staring at Marshall’s text number, not knowing what words to write. In the end, he texted the simple line—If you need to talk, I’m here for you.
* * * *
By the time he’d readied to leave for the station, he had still not heard back from Marshall. Naturally, the poor man would be keeping a low profile somewhere, probably at his manager’s place. Spencer would still have liked to know how Marshall was coping. He also wondered—a little selfishly—whether their planned dinner out the next week would be affected, then chastised himself because he knew, beyond any doubt, that it would. Marshall would have far more pressing concerns.
“Are you okay?” said his mother, fussing with the collar of his jacket the way she used to when he was a boy about to head off to school. “You’ve been very quiet today. Is this about your brother’s announcement?”
Garrett had escaped to Peony’s bedsit in the afternoon, after their light lunch together, probably for some private time or to discuss the future. Or maybe Spencer had scared him away. He had, after all, ribbed Garrett relentlessly about the responsibilities of fatherhood.
“Not everything’s about Garrett, Mum. I’m mulling over things I’ve got on my plate at work next week.”
He loved both his parents and rarely filtered anything when he spoke to them, but right now was not the time to tell them about his encounter with the tabloid’s latest prey.
“Oh, sorry, dear. I haven’t asked you. How are things going in the wonderful world of magazine publishing? You remember we have a local paper down here, don’t you? The Bournemouth Echo. They’re bound to be interested in a serious journalist with your talents, ones that are honestly being wasted right now.”
She didn’t bother to mask her contempt for Spencer’s employer. His mother had never been a magazine person.
“I love my job. And I’m bloody good at what I do. I just wish they’d see me as more than an office boy, someone to fetch and carry and clean up after people’s messes. I take great pride in what I do.”
“You’re conscientious to a fault, darling. You get that from me. Those people neither appreciate nor deserve you.”
Like all mothers, Coleen Wyrrell thought her sons had been born to lead, not to follow or to be managed. At least Garrett ran his own company.
“And you’re coming back for Christmas, aren’t you?” said his mother, standing with him on the front doorstep while Spencer’s father revved the car’s engine. They usually timed everything to the second so that Spencer would be on the platform five to ten minutes before the train’s departure. If all went well, he would arrive at his front door in Morden between seven and seven-thirty.
“Of course. If I’m allowed.”
“What do you mean, if you’re allowed?” she asked, looking aghast.
“If the government are talking about a national lockdown, about introducing a tier system, then they’ll soon start restricting the number of people for any kind of gathering.”
“To six, according to your father. So even if Peony joins us this year—which I would love—that’s only five of us. And I promise to let your father cook the turkey this year.”
Folding her into his arms, he gave his mother the kind of oversized hug she gave others.
“I promise to move heaven and earth to make sure I get home, Mum. Who else does Christmas like the Wyrrells?”
“Exactly. And you know you can bring someone, if you want to,” she said, giving him one last squeeze then pushing him away before he could respond. “Go on with you, now. Your father’s waiting.”
* * * *
Whenever he visited his parents or came home from work midweek during the summer months, Spencer enjoyed the short walk back from Morden station. With the daylight on his skin, the quick burst of exercise and the fresh air—he even took the shortcut through the park some days—he savoured the remains of the day before arriving home. But during the dark winter months, he put his head down and marched beneath the row of streetlights.
At seven in the evening, seeing groups of people huddled around the grimy station entrance was not unusual. Some waited for taxis or connecting buses to head to their homes while others met up with friends. But there always seemed to be enough random groups of people hanging around not to worry too much.
Except tonight, for some reason, Spencer singled out a tall man in a dark overcoat. He lounged against the wall with the collar up, a black woollen ski hat dragged down over the ears, wearing dark glasses and a black surgical mask covering his mouth. Dressed like an assassin, he peeled away from the wall beside the station convenience store the moment Spencer exited the station. Shaking his head at his overactive imagination, Spencer wrapped the ridiculously long brown and mustard scarf around his neck—a Doctor Who scarf, his father called the gift—before beginning the hike for home.
Somebody had once told him that intuition is real and that we should never ignore the signs, then went on to impart a cautionary fable about Welsh miners sensing wrongness in the air of a mineshaft and escaping just before the roof of the mine collapsed. Spencer felt nothing like that, but without even thinking, he turned a couple of times to see if he was being followed. Both times he saw nobody. Both times he cursed his brother and his insistence on last night’s television horrorfest.
When he reached the familiar row of shops, with the cheerful green, yellow and red lights of Romano’s Pizzeria, he felt the tension drain from him. With one hand on the handle of his luggage, he pushed open the front door to the empty shop. Instantly, the owner’s head popped up from behind the counter.
“Hi, Gino,” he said. “How’s business?”
“Hey, Spencer. Bloody crazy until half an hour ago. How’s family?”
“Same as ever, mad as a box of frogs.”
“All families are the same. Mine are all back in Milan, thank goodness. You want to order your usual?”
“Let me check upstairs first. Let Tiger know I’m back then see what I’ve got in the fridge that needs finishing. I’ll pop down if I need to order.”
“Okay. And don’t worry. Your cat, she is still alive. My wife has been spoiling her with fresh fish and cat treats. Think she wants to kidnap her.”
“Good luck with that. But please thank Mrs R for taking care of her. No doubt the little princess will still give me attitude for being away the whole weekend.”
“That’s females for you.”
Spencer laughed. “I’ll take your word for that.”
Before he opened the downstairs door, he acted the dutiful son and texted his mother to tell her he had arrived home safely, a ritual he had agreed to and would probably continue for as long as they were both alive.
Tiger met him as he opened the top door to his apartment. As always, after parking his luggage and kicking his shoes off, he spent a few minutes kneeling and petting her until she eventually provided her ‘all-is-forgiven’ purr, made better when he poured dried food into her bowl. With her cared for, he set about unpacking his bag and heading to his small bedroom wardrobe to choose an outfit for work the next day. Once done, he switched on the Bluetooth speaker on his coffee table and put on some soft jazz music, then checked the fridge for an evening meal. Gino’s wife had left him some fresh milk, but he had little else apart from a half loaf of bread, a couple of eggs and some butter. In the freezer, he had stocked up with store-bought frozen meals for the week ahead but decided he might treat himself to one of Gino’s pizzas. As he readied to pop downstairs, his front-door buzzer sounded.
Out of necessity, Spencer had personally invested in a video phone so he didn’t have to hike all the way downstairs and use the spyhole every time someone called on him. Too many times—back when Romano’s could open late—they’d had drunks falling out of the pizza shop in the early hours and ringing his doorbell for fun. Right now, on checking the monitor, he let out an audible gasp on seeing the silhouette of a tall figure in a dark ski cap and sunglasses standing outside his door. After a pause, curiosity got the better of him, and he pressed the answer button.
“Hello? Who is it?”
“It’s me,” came the hesitant, yet vaguely familiar, voice.
“Sorry. Who’s me?”
“Marshall. Marshall Highlander,” said the man, before looking up into the camera lens while pulling down his mask and removing the shades. “Can I—um—can I come in?”
Spencer gaped for a moment, unable to believe his eyes. Marshall Highlander stood on his doorstep, had come to see Spencer in his hour of need. Without a moment of hesitation, he pushed the intercom button.
“Hang on a minute. I’ll come down and let you in.”
Chapter Eight
When Spencer yanked open the door, Marshall stood there, a large black bag over one shoulder. Even in the wan light of the pizza shop, he appeared hesitant, scared almost.
“Is it okay if I come in? I know we don’t know each other that well. And I didn’t even return your text yesterday, although, to be honest, things have been a little manic. But I’m—well—I’ve run out of options of places to go and people who I can trust. I suppose I could hole up in a small hotel somewhere, but even then the bastards can still find—”
