Page 3 of Famous Last

“Spencer. Spencer Kenneth Wyrrell. S. K. Wyrrell. Hence, Squirrel. School was brutal. I’m not sure my parents even realised when they named me.”

Once again his words made Marshall chuckle, and he felt sure, or at least hoped, his dark moment had finally passed.

“What do you do for a living, Spencer?”

“I’m a junior copy and online editor. For Muriel Moresby’s magazine outfit, the Blackmore Magazine Group.”

“Poor you.”

“I know, right? I’m also the office gopher. But it’s full-time work and pays the rent. And I’m still employed despite what’s happening in the world. So I have to thank my lucky stars. Not exactly highbrow, like you, but it’s a stepping stone. Even if at twenty-nine I’m still on the first step.”

“To what?”

“At college I studied journalism. Once I’ve got enough editing experience under my belt, I’d really like to try out for one of the online dailies. Even though the competition’s vicious.”

“You write?”

“Not professionally. But I hope to, one day. In university I edited the student magazine and wrote articles. I even had a couple published by a local newspaper. And I did pretty well, too. Every person in this world, no matter how inconsequential they feel they are, should dream big. Isn’t that right?”

“Are you quoting me again?” asked Marshall, tilting his head to grin at Spencer.

“What can I say? You’re very quotable.”

And very shaggable, thought Spencer but kept that to himself. As he went to top up Marshall’s glass again, a mobile began to ring faintly. Marshall reached into his inside jacket pocket and pulled out his phone. He let out a soft sigh after a glance at the display and handed the champagne flute back to Spencer.

“Looks like my ride’s here,” he said, standing.

Spencer put the bottle back in the bucket and stood as well. “I hope everything works out okay for you, Marshall. And promise me you’re going to use the lift to get to the ground floor.”

Marshall appeared confused for a moment but then stared at his shoes and chuckled while shaking his head.

“You’re a funny man,” he said before looking up. “And, yes, I promise to use the elevator. Sorry I worried you earlier. Goodbye then, Spencer. It was an unexpected pleasure meeting you tonight.”

Marshall held out his hand, and Spencer fit his own inside. Marshall’s strong, warm grip closed around Squirrel’s ice-cold fingers. The simple gesture of bare skin on bare skin had his heart beating faster, his cheeks heating, and even the beast in his underpants stirring. Marshall held his gaze for a moment before leaning forward and kissing a shocked Spencer firmly on the lips. When he released his grip and stood back smiling, Spencer simply stood there, his eyes wide and mouth hanging open. An amused Marshall winked once before putting on his black surgical mask and disappearing into the penthouse apartment through the patio door.

Spencer stood staring at the dark glass, wondering what had just happened. His senses returning, he knelt to the ground and had begun clearing up the broken glass when the door slid open again. A figure stepped out carrying a flute of champagne and a large plate of canapés.

Finally. Bev, his colleague.

“Sorry, sorry, sorry, Squirrel, honey,” she said, flustered then freezing when she saw him on his hands and knees, picking up shards of glass.

“Oh poop. You started without me. Did I miss anything?”

Chapter Two

Five minutes late for work, Spencer marched along the office corridor, using a cardboard tray holder to balance twelve various-sized, various-coloured metal containers filled with all kinds of exotic coffee or tea permutations from Muriel’s independent coffee shop of choice. Over one shoulder he had a bag containing her laptop computer and cables for hooking up her presentation. Monday morning meetings happened in the main conference room, a large boardroom space with a glitzy plaque bearing the wordMagicon the door. Muriel started the first get-together of every week promptly at nine whether people were there or not, and very loudly named and shamed anyone who dared arrive late.

Feeling in an upbeat mood that morning, he had picked out a black shirt, black trousers and a shocking pink bow tie, with a matching pink belt and face mask—his friend who custom-made the bow ties and belts had also started a range of matching reusable masks. Together with Spencer’s thick-black-framed glasses, he considered his range of colourful bow ties and shirts his personal brand. Many of his colleagues had made their approval plain.

Not Muriel, though. Except when he made the very rare mistake, he might otherwise have been invisible. She referred to their first meeting of the week as her War Council, and every Monday morning the thirty-seater conference room became known as the War Room. Not difficult to guess that her retiredhusband, Lord Atherton Moresby, had once been in the armed services.

Worst of all, Bev had texted him that morning while he’d grabbed Muriel’s laptop, saying she was running late again and could he cover for her until she arrived.

With the tray balanced at chest height, he placed his back against the door to the conference room, took a deep breath and pushed.

Maybe the universe will be kind to me today.

“Spencer,” came the condescending schoolmarm tone of Muriel, the one person in the room who chose not to wear any kind of face covering. “Nice of you to finally deign to join us. Everyone’s gasping. Why is the simplest of tasks always a challenge for you?”

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