Page 34 of Famous Last

“You don’t need to give me your phone, Spence. I do trust you.”

“I know that,” said Spencer, handing over the items as they headed for the coffee shop door. “But I’ll have my hands full, so you’ll be doing me a favour.”

When Marshall stepped in front and opened the door, Spencer’s lenses immediately steamed up from the waft of icy air hitting his face. Removing them for a second to wipe them, he popped them back on and stepped out into the cold morning.

“Oh my God, it’s you, isn’t it?” came the shrill voice of a girl standing outside, her eyes wide, as Marshall followed him through the door. She stood across the pavement by a litter bin, a cigarette in one hand and her cardboard coffee cup in the other.

Spencer and Marshall froze, both staring at her. Spencer wondered if they could make a run for his front door. But then he noticed her attention was not on Marshall at all, but on him.

“I’m sorry, I think you’ve got mixed up—” began Spencer.

“Shut up, I know it’s you. Tom Holland. Spider-Man. The hair totally gives you away.”

“Actually, I’m not,” said Spencer, as Marshall moved behind him. To make his point, Spencer once again removed his mask and glasses, even though the girl became little more than a blur.

“Oh,” she said, the disappointment in her voice plain. “No. You’re not.”

“Don’t worry, he gets that all the time,” said Marshall, clearly enjoying himself.

“Yeah, no. My mistake,” said the girl, turning away to take a puff on her cigarette.

Spencer grabbed a chuckling Marshall’s arm and hauled him along the road.

“Not funny, Marshall.”

“I beg to differ.”

“Get up those stairs,” said Spencer, laughing along, enjoying the light-hearted camaraderie. “I’ll deal with you later.”

“Promises, promises,” said Marshall, stopping at the front door and winking at Spencer.

Chapter Ten

Figuring they would be spending time sitting around talking, Spencer stocked up on tea bags, instant coffee, bread, milk, butter, and a pack of assorted biscuits—including custard creams, bourbons, chocolate digestives and Jammie Dodgers—as well as buying a selection of canned soups he could heat up to go with the baked goods.

When he got upstairs, Marshall had already made himself at home on the sofa, his socked feet stretched out in front and crossed at the ankle, and Tiger once again curled up in his lap. One of the white socks had almost come off and hung limply over the right foot, while the left leg of his track bottoms rode up and showed a hairy shin. His gaze was focused in concentration, his head resting back against the sofa with his hair—freshly released from the hat he had been wearing—taking on an adorable life of its own, clumps sticking up at random. Apart from scratching the top of Tiger’s head with one hand, he waved the remote at the television with the other, changing stations until he reached a news channel.

Spencer understood the rare moment he was observing, an utterly relaxed version of Marshall Highlander that few people got to see, and the realisation filled him with an oddly potent mix of affection and desire.

“Making yourself at home?”

“I have to say, Spence, it’s a very comfortable flat. A bit chilly right now, but comfy.”

“Convenient for the commute to work, too,” said Spencer, putting things away into the fridge. “I always get a seat on the train into town, with Morden being the southbound Northern Line terminus. And the landlord is okay. Apart from redecorating the place before I moved in, he fitted out the bathroom and kitchen and put in a new bed. Many of the appliances are new. Shame he wants the place back in February.”

“Oh dear,” said Marshall.

“It’s fine. Not sure I’ll be able to get anywhere for the same price, but at least he’s given me plenty of notice. And the reason it’s so cold right now is because the ovens downstairs aren’t turned on until around ten. I’ve cranked up the central heating but I might drag in the cover from the bed.”

And that was how they spent their morning, sitting together beneath the bed quilt on the sofa, watching daytime television, avoiding any news channels and occasionally making hot drinks. At lunchtime, when Spencer went to use the bathroom, he came back into the room to find Marshall standing at his bookcase. Somehow he had found Spencer’s journalism portfolio tucked away in the corner.

“These are really good, Spencer,” he said without looking up.

“Thank you. Finally got a friend to help me create a website in my name and put them up online along with my CV—although not much has happened since. My mother thinks I need someone to kick my backside to get me moving. Some of them are from university, but others are pieces I sent off to various publications and managed to get published. I’m rather proud of my letter to theGuardianabout the implications of leaving the European Union and about the misinformation going around at the time. They published that around three weeks before the Brexit vote. Fat lot of good it did.”

“Doesn’t matter, Spence. You stated your case. I’m sure there were plenty of others who took an educated, factual, but opposing view who also got published. And I take my hat off to them, too. The important thing is that you made your voice heard. The downfall of any democracy will be the day when apathy outweighs people needing their voices to be heard, when a tyrant gains power due to majority abstention.”

“Did you write that?”

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