Page 69 of Famous Last

On the tip of Spencer’s tongue was to ask whether that included Marshall, but he decided not to tempt fate.

“Hey, I haven’t asked you,” said Spencer. “How are things coming along with our client Christmas event? I can’t believe it’s a week from tomorrow. Is everything okay at your end?”

“You haven’t spoken to your friend Beverley?”

“She’s not been answering my calls. But, in her defence, she seems to have been swamped with work recently.”

“I imagine she’s been tied up working on the event. Probably spending time going through the finer details with the events company, Virtually Integrated Parties. From what I understand though, it sounds pretty impressive. VIP will be operating all the technical aspects from their own premises, but the control centre will be in your office where Beverley’s team will be coordinating everything. That way, if clients need to phone in with questions or problems, they just use your standard office numbers. From our end, everything’s arranged. Our studio’s providing the live link-up for the formal interview. Muriel’s publicist provided us with the sanctioned set of questions at the weekend. I’ll use those as a guideline, as always, and then just run with my gut instinct.”

“Just hearing you say that makes me want to tune in. Sounds like a lot of work is going on behind the scenes”

“At the moment, I only know about the interview I’m conducting. But Darcy tells me email invitations with links have been sent out to clients, because she’s one of them. They’ve been requested to dial in from seven-thirty, thirty minutes before the show begins. Of course, you know Darcy. She immediately clicked on the hyperlink, never does what she’s told, and the link took her to a Blackmore Magazine Group Client Party holding page telling her she had arrived too early. And that’s pretty much all I know. Where are you going to be?”

“I was hoping to be with you in the studio. But I suppose that will be up to Muriel.”

“Well, I already told her I wanted you with me as this was your brainchild. And I think Darcy is going to insist, too, so I don’t think there will be any issue. I just wondered if you would prefer to support Bev.”

“Honestly, I think I’d only be in the way,” said Spencer, the thought of talking to Muriel unsettling his stomach momentarily. He decided to change tack. “Goodness, whatever you’re concocting smells delicious.”

“I’m almost finished. How do you take your steak?”

“Medium, please.”

“Me, too. Good choice.”

“How did you know I wasn’t a vegetarian?”

“We haven’t known each other long but there were clues, Spence. The extra pepperoni pizza we ate together and the beef and onion pies from the coffee shop kind of gave you away.”

“You did tell me you were observant. And thank you. It’s not often I have people cook for me. I’d have eaten anything you put in front of me.”

Marshall froze momentarily and became pensive.

“You make a good point though. We don’t really know much about each other, do we?”

“Isn’t that the best part? The fact that we’re getting to know each other from scratch?”

Marshall laughed as he forked their steaks onto plates.

“You’re right. I really am enjoying this, Spence. Go and take a seat.”

And once again, as he did what he was told, Spencer’s heart did a little happy dance at hearing his nickname. Marshall finished putting fried onions, mushrooms, sautéed potatoes and grilled tomatoes onto their plates, then brought them to the table.

“In the three small bowls there’s Dijon mustard, creamy horseradish, and some of my mother’s homemade English mustard, which should come with a health warning. It’s like eating a mix of raw chillies, wasabi and molten lava. What do you want to drink, beer or wine?” he asked, putting a plate down in front of Spencer.

“What are you having?” asked Spencer.

“I was going to have a glass of red.”

“Can I join you?”

“Of course.”

They sat eating in companionable silence, Spencer tucking into the excellent meal. Marshall had uncorked a French claret, the exact name of which—beautifully pronounced by Marshall-- had already escaped Spencer, but he agreed that the wine complemented the meal perfectly. Eventually Marshall began talking about his limited cooking skills, explaining how he had learnt them by carefully spying on his grandmother as he sat at her kitchen table. Ten minutes into the meal, the intercom phone on Marshall’s kitchen wall rang. For a second he appeared annoyed, in two minds whether to answer the call, but then he shook his head and went to the video display.

“Good evening, Finn.”

“Good evening, Mr Highlander,” came the voice from the device. “There’s a Ms Corbett here to see you. Said you would know what it’s about. I told her you had a guest. Shall I send her up?”

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