Page 10 of Famous Last

Beverly sat back and put her chin in her hand. Making up stories had always been her forte, and he could see the wheels turning.

“From your mum? An early Christmas present?”

“Why would she? It’s not even Halloween. On top of that, roses and chocolates? From mymother? Sorry, but that’s just plain icky and gross.”

“Good point. Okay, why don’t we go with my first assumption and tell people they’re from a lying, cheating, sack-of-shit, ex-boyfriend in a pathetic attempt to win you back.”

“You really don’t like him, do you? But no, that won’t float. One, because I don’t want anyone else to know about us being a thing, and two, because if he deigns to pop into the office this week, he will naturally deny everything. More importantly, the few who do know would expect to see me ramming the bouquet into the paper shredder stem by stem. And I truly want to take them home with me.”

“Good point. And on that subject, a quick word of warning. The little prick is rumoured to be gracing everyone with his presence on Saturday night—”

“Blake?” said Spencer, a shiver running through him. “At the Halloween party?”

Until then, Spencer had been pondering ways to get out of going. Now the sick and twisted part of his psyche that had kept him awake at night, imagining a sobbing Blake on his knees—naked, of course—begging to get back together with Spencer, had wormed its way into his head.

“Possibly, which most likely means he won’t turn up. And anyway, don’t worry. It’ll be Halloween so if he does show up I can legitimately Jamie Lee Curtis him if he tries anything. Now, where was I?”

“Roses and chocolates.”

“Oh yes. Path of least resistance. Let’s stick as close to the truth as possible. You were at a private party over the weekend where you were introduced to a group of guys and happened to mention where you work. Somebody must have taken a shine to you and sent the gift. But you’ve no idea who. Trust me, everyone loves a mystery like that. Of the secret admirer variety. Up until they have to slap a restraining order on the stalking bastard.”

Spencer pondered the idea for a moment. As explanations went, that was a reasonably good one and didn’t even feel like a lie.

“Great, let’s run with that. If anyone asks, say I’ve been racking my brains trying to figure out who the person might be. Now I’d better get back before Clarissa—”

“Hang on. I have a question. How do you plan on saying thank you?”

“How about a glass of bubbly after work?”

Bev stared at him for a second, before closing her eyes and shaking her head.

“Not to me, idiot. To him?”

“Oh.Oh. I hadn’t thought about that. I suppose he must have a social media page. When I get a minute free, I’ll browse and check. Leave him a note.”

“Want me to get you his private number? So you can send him a message?”

“You have Marshall Highlander’s private number?”

“Of course not. But Muriel’s PA, Alice, will have. Leave it with me. Meet me outside the Cork and Bottle at six-thirty. And bring those flowers and chocolates with you. You know how I love to see you squirm, dear heart.”

Chapter Four

Ten-thirty Saturday evening, Spencer sat beneath the sallow light of a standing lamp, balanced on the arm of a rickety navy or black corduroy-covered couch. Crammed against one damp wall of a room off the kitchen, the sofa provided the only remaining perching point far enough away from the noisy bodies leaping around in the living room. Depressing as the thought might be, he had to admit to having outgrown these kinds of parties offering cheap booze and a buffet of variously flavoured potato chips.

Just as well Bev had offered to buy him dinner at her favourite Italian place. When they arrived at nine-thirty, the party was well and truly in full swing. Her genuine persuasiveness—she’d wanted to meet up with someone in particular but would not say who—and her insistence that he accompany her had outweighed his concern about attending an illegal gathering. And in truth, she had been right. He had needed to get out of the house more.

After seeking out the party connection—Bev’s college friend whose brother shared a rented, detached house with five other medical students in a rundown part of town—they dumped their bottles of drink off in the kitchen. The fact that everyone wore surgical masks seemed fitting given the students’ training and the current precautions. Bev had managed to recognise eyes behind the masks of old college friends and stopped to chat. After the third time this happened, Spencer had told her he would find himself a seat, which was how he had ended up on the arm of the small sofa.

With a deep sigh, he looked around the room. If the excited eyes were anything to go by, most of those attending—probably friends of the host’s younger brother—seemed to revel in the loud noise and the crowds and the squalor. Spencer sat alone observing everything, realising he had finally stooped to the level of sad, voyeuristic wallflower.

Next to him, a pair of mummies covered from head to toe in bandages—medical students, bearing in mind the considerable amount, complexity, and skill of the bandaging—made out with wild and passionate abandon. Spencer could not even determine their gender, whether they were a pair of men or women, or one of each. At first the sight made him squirm, until he saw the funny side and realised how delightful was the whole notion of two gender-indecipherable embalmed corpses making out in the present age. What he did know was that if they decided to take things to the next level, there might be considerable passion-dampening unwrapping involved.

When he stretched a leg out to reach for the phone in his trouser pocket, somebody stepped on his foot.

“Sorry,” he said, the unnecessary apology coming from him automatically.

With a wince of pain, he tried to tuck his feet out of the way. Random drunken people—most appeared to be in their late teens and early twenties—had been staggering past all evening, some falling onto him or the swathed couple.

---