Page 76 of Famous Last

“Thank you. And I truly hope you work out what’s best for you.”

Only as Spencer settled back in the booth for the final half-hour did he realise that both Ambika and Muriel had publicly spied him together with Marshall, and would probably tell Blake what they’d seen.

Not that it mattered, but he wondered how Blake might take the news.

Chapter Twenty

Poor Marshall.

He arrived at Darcy’s party much later than expected. Despite being upbeat and chatty, Spencer could tell by the way he continually pinched the bridge of his nose that he was tired. After greeting Spencer and his colleagues, Darcy had whisked him off for an hour to meet various important guests.

By the time he climbed the stairs to Spencer’s flat and dropped onto the sofa, he looked thoroughly exhausted. And in between Tiger climbing into his lap and getting the attention she had been craving, and Spencer coming back from the toilet, Marshall had fallen asleep. Spencer managed to get him to the bedroom, undress him and put him to bed, accepting that nothing would happen that night. But how could he be annoyed? Marshall had worked his arse off during the day. Just being in bed together was enough.

Fortunately, the man had woken refreshed and ready for action the next morning. They finally left the apartment for decent coffee—takeaway only—and a stroll just after midday, and spent the whole weekend together with most of that in each other’s arms.

* * * *

Wednesday afternoon, Bev perched on the side of Spencer’s desk, her enigmatic smile beaming. As usual, she dressed to perfection in a warm burgundy-and-beige trouser suit. She had good reason to be happy, and Spencer could never resistwallowing in her good vibrations. Still riding the high of the virtual Blackmore Christmas client event’s success, nothing could shake her upbeat mood, one that seemed as infectious as the coronavirus ravaging the country.

Friday’s online interview, which focused mainly on more entertaining aspects of the couple, with a clear emphasis on the magazine’s achievements, had been a resounding success. An extended version—something agreed upon with the Moresbys as a part of the arrangement—was being put together under the titleCelebrity Say What You Mean, a hybrid of Marshall’s usual show, and would air between Christmas and New Year. The magazine interview had been written long before and would be published during the week. All in all, Muriel had been so delighted with the results and the positive responses that she had promoted Beverley to Senior Events Manager on the spot. The fact that Evelyn, the previous events manager, had resigned the same morning had absolutely no bearing on the promotion, according to Muriel. On his part, Spencer had heard nothing about getting a bonus for suggesting the arrangement and, quite frankly, had given up caring. More important areas of his life had begun to take flight, a new optimism filling him with every waking morning.

By stark contrast, the rest of the country appeared to be in perpetual confusion about how seriously they should be taking the threat of the virus, with a government—like countless others across the globe—torn between keeping the economy from flatlining and protecting its citizens’ health.

“Have you spoken to Muriel yet?” asked Bev quietly, while fiddling with his crystal paperweight. “About the new job?”

The formal offer had been waiting for him on his doormat as he had arrived home from work on Tuesday. That very morning he had phoned precisely two people. Six hours ahead of UTC—one-thirty in the afternoon in his time zone—Marshall had beenhaving lunch with his crew in their hotel in Kryszytonia. He had answered after only two rings, and they had chatted for the whole of Spencer’s fifteen-minute walk to the Tube station. Once settled at work, and as promised, he’d phoned Madeleine to tell her the good news.

“You must be clairvoyant. I received the offer last night but she isn’t in today. Alice says she might be in tomorrow or Friday. I’ve asked her to book me a meeting both days.”

“And what’s the offer like? A good package?”

“It is. From what I can tell.”

“What did Marshall say?”

“I haven’t had a chance to talk through the details with him. Just the basics. But we’re both sure it’s fine.”

“Do you want me to look, Squirrel? Make sure there are no glaring omissions? You know contracts are one of my things, don’t you?”

“Would you do that?”

“As if you need to ask. You’re my bestie. Besides, after being rushed off my feet last week, I need something to do right now. Talking of Marshall, how is lover boy?”

“I could ask you the same question about Prince,” said Spencer, grinning. “And just for your information, Marshall is most definitelynota boy. Not in any sense of the meaning.”

“I’ll take your word for that. Have you heard from him today?”

“He kept me company over the phone on my walk to the station this morning. But he’ll be offline for the rest of the day attending a private function. And Friday’s the day of the inauguration ceremony. But he’s back at the weekend.”

“Bet you can’t wait.”

He really couldn’t. The official event was taking place at midday on Friday, followed straight afterwards by a grand state dinner to which Marshall had been honoured with an invitation. He vowed to fly back Saturday morning, or late Friday nightif he could snag a last-minute scheduled flight. Strings of voice messages—Marshall had defaulted to quick and sexy voice snippets from his text app—had kept Spencer on cloud nine, as well as confirming their plans for Marshall to stay at Spencer’s flat over the weekend again. They had said goodbye to each other properly in Marshall’s apartment as a van waited downstairs to whisk him and his crew off to the airport, and Spencer had almost spoken the words he had been aching to say all weekend. Once again, he’d relented, deciding he needed Marshall’s full attention in case things didn’t go as expected.

“Are you going to join us for drinks today?” asked Bev, bringing him out of his reverie.

“What? Where? Everything is closed.”

“Prince drove his Saab to work today. And he needs cheering up. They cancelled their production ofTreasure Island, so he has his nights free. Nile phoned him at lunchtime and said he’d found a gay club-pub in St Albans called Smugglers. They’re doing this midweek special on house cocktails until ten. St Albans is still in tier one for now and on medium alert. Nobody’s around, so we’re going to leave at three and meet him there around four for an hour or three. Prince will only drink non-alcoholic drinks, and he’s already agreed to drop you back at the Tube station on our way home, if you want to come.”

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