Page 29 of Famous Last

“It is.”

Marshall began asking Spencer about his weekend with the family—probably a ploy to distract them both from Marshall’s melancholy—and before long both of them were laughing. By the time they had finished the pizza and managed two beers each, and when Spencer noticed Marshall try to stifle a yawn a couple of times, he realised the time had slipped away from them.

“It’s already ten-thirty,” said Spencer, standing up from the sofa. “Maybe it’s time for bed. I’d better grab a pillow and quilt cover for the sofa—”

Before he could move off, Marshall grabbed his hand.

“Spencer. The bed’s plenty big enough for two. And I promise to be a gentleman if you lie next to me. To be honest, I’m not sure I can even sleep. Not for long, anyway. My brain won’t stay quiet.”

“Are you sure, Marshall? I don’t want you thinking I’ve lured you—”

“I brought myself here. There was noluringinvolved. And honestly, it would be good to have your company tonight. Even if we’re just lying next to each other, keeping each other company and chatting.”

Once again a frisson of excitement shot through Spencer at Marshall’s words, and the fact he still had hold of Spencer’s hand. Blake had been the last person to share his bed, and that felt like an eternity ago. At any other time he might have found himself giving off seductive signals or maybe even returning a flirty comment, but doing so when the man was so vulnerable would be a low move. Instead he squeezed Marshall’s hand and smiled his encouragement.

“In which case, I would love to join you. It’s going to be another cold night and we can keep each other warm. And I have a feeling we might be joined by her ladyship, who usually hogs the sofa at night.”

“‘Marshall Highlander,” said Marshall, in his best television reporter voice, “caught in scandalous menage-a-trois with cute magazine editor and his cat.’“

“Cute?” said Spencer, smiling at Marshall’s light-heartedness and hauling him up from the sofa.

“As you said yourself, I say it like it is.”

Spencer grinned as he pushed Marshall towards the bedroom, towards his bed, which was barely a double.

“Which side should I take?” asked Marshall, standing at the foot of the bed.

“I usually sleep in the middle, so take your pick.”

Marshall went to the far side, correctly interpreting that side as the one Spencer rarely used. Both sides had a small table, but on Spencer’s side there stood a small lamp he left switched on until sleep. He set about turning off lights in the flat, and when he returned Marshall was sitting on the edge of the bed, removing his watch. When Spencer stretched his arms in theair, yawning on tiptoe, he turned to find Marshall staring at his backside before looking quickly away.

“This is a bonus to my otherwise boring Sunday evenings,” said Spencer, deflecting as he slid beneath the cover. Marshall got in too and laid on his side to face Spencer.

“I guess we both usually go to bed alone. If you need to sleep, turn the light off. I’ll be fine in the dark.”

“Are you not tired?”

“Not really,” said Marshall, even though he looked exhausted. “But I don’t want to keep you awake.”

“We can talk for a bit, if you like? Maybe you can tell me about yourself.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Tell me about your family. Your mother and father. There’s not much on your Wikipedia page. And although I am not normally an iStalker, I did look you up.”

“Did you now? Then you know who my parents are?”

“I think so. But tell me anyway.”

Marshall flipped onto his back and appeared to seek out something on the ceiling before he began talking.

“My father’s the film producer Leyton Highlander and my mother is Gloria Ann Shelley. That’s the name she still goes by, now they’re divorced. Before she met my father, she was at the start of a promising modelling career, but eventually planning to start her own fashion house, like Stella McCartney. But then, as she says herself, she made the mistake of falling for my father. She was the daughter of one of his wealthier financial backers, a natural platinum blonde and stunning. They had me late in the game. Mum would have been thirty-three, ten years younger than Dad. He already had a mistress by then. Although she has never said as much, I have a strong suspicion I wasn’t planned. Probably the result of make-up sex after one of their infamous fights. I didn’t hear many of them growing up. I mostlyread about them in the papers. Just like all the men in my father’s family, I had a private nanny until I was old enough to be shipped off to an all-boys preparatory boarding school in Edinburgh, and then on to Eton at thirteen to study for my exams.”

“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.”

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