Page 44 of Famous Last

Now Spencer’s stomach joined his heart as a nest of wasps escaped inside.

“Not one bit.”

“Can you get someone to cat-sit?”

“We’re pulling into Morden station right now. I’ll ask Gino’s wife while I’m ordering tonight’s dinner.”

“Pizza again?”

“It’s been a long day and I can’t be bothered to cook.”

“And the pizza is damn fine. I can vouch for that.”

Spencer laughed as the doors to the train clanged open and a waft of icy air invaded the carriage.

“Just arrived at Morden. I’ll see you tomorrow, Marshall. Six-thirty.”

“Until then, Spence.”

* * * *

For all the time Spencer had spent working in Central London, he had only occasionally ventured out around the vicinity of his office and rarely into the heart of London. He was wholly unfamiliar with the streets around Liverpool Street station. Fortunately, the journey took only half an hour, and ten minutes later he found himself in the spider’s web of small streets around Spitalfields Market. With the help of the app on his mobile phone, he found the innocuous road with the recessed but otherwise unremarkable black front door Marshall had indicated in his text message.

A simple aluminium buzzer panel with a video screen was fixed to the right-hand side and, as instructed, Spencer punched in a four-digit code. After a few seconds, a man’s face appeared on the screen, the voice pleasantly professional, clearly a member of staff.

“Good evening, sir. May I have your name, please?”

“Oh, yes. It’s—uh—Spencer Wyrrell. W-Y-R—”

Immediately, a loud, continuous buzzing sounded, followed by a soft clunk.

“Please come in.”

Once he had checked his coat, bag and mobile phone, a young attendant led the way unhurriedly up a low rise of stairs with Spencer following sheepishly behind.

On the top landing, the building opened into an elegant foyer with pastel frescos on the walls. A long polished table housed a colossal vase in the centre filled with a beautiful arrangement of milky peach, purple and burgundy flowers, perfectly complementing the décor. Spencer peered around and noticed rooms leading off either side of the table. He almost lost the attendant, who had turned into a room on the right.

After weaving around several groups of men and women in clusters around low tables—a few he thought he recognised from the pages of one of Muriel’s magazines—he stopped at two high-back chairs in worn brown leather placed in a bay window overlooking a courtyard. Marshall had been sitting facing them but stood, smiling happily, as Spencer approached. Once again a little twist of pleasure filled Spencer’s chest at the fond gaze and smile, and the promise of an evening together.

“Mr Highlander. May I present your guest, Mr Wyrrell.”

“Thank you, Barnaby.”

“You’re welcome, sir. A waiter will be with you shortly, once your guest is settled.”

As soon as the steward left, Marshall stepped around the small table and pulled Spencer into a tight hug. Spencer’s head fitted snugly beneath Marshall’s neck, and he wanted nothing more than to stay there. From the lingering hold, he guessed Marshall needed the embrace as much as he did. After taking a deep breath of Marshall’s faint but pleasant scent of cinnamon and sandalwood, he prised himself away and took a seat.

“I hope you don’t mind meeting here,” said Marshall. “I know the club might come across as a little snobbish and exclusive but at least I can be confident we won’t be plagued by the press or any curious punters. There are strict rules about privacy, which means we can drink and chat together without being disturbed.”

“Fine by me,” said Spencer.

“You look good,” said Marshall, sitting back down and waiting for Spencer to do the same. “I know it’s only been a couple of days in the new job but how are you coping?”

“Honestly, I’m probably overcompensating. The late nights are largely to get myself up to speed with things I’ve never been involved with before. But tonight is a welcome and much-needed relief. Otherwise I might have stayed in the office. I’m terrified of letting anything fall through the cracks.”

“Of course you are. But you’re enjoying the challenge?”

“It’s—you know—good to be in control. But there’s this nagging voice telling me that no matter how hard I work and how well I do, the job will never be mine.”

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