Page 88 of Famous Last

“Wait, what? He cooked for you? In all the years I’ve known him, he has never prepared a meal for me. I didn’t even know hecouldcook. Steak dinner, huh? Did he make dessert, too?”

“Um, he kind ofwasdessert.”

“Okay, time out. Too much information.”

At midday, a delivery of an eclectic array of hot and cold food arrived. Everything looked fresh and healthy. Assorted sushi, vegetarian moussaka, chicken wraps, wholemeal noodle concoctions—enough to feed a family of four. Darcy quickly explained that she would keep any leftovers for her dinner, but Spencer wondered if she did so in the event Marshall came back. When she opened a bottle of Chablis, at first Spencer declined. But after some gentle nudging, he relented. And he felt happy to have done so, the combination of food and wine taking the edge off, helping to relax him so much that later in the afternoon he managed to doze off on the couch.

* * * *

He was awoken at four-thirty, with Darcy’s phone ringing. In her usual curt way, she answered the call. After placing her hand over the receiver, she hissed out a command.

“Spencer. Some of the British media crews have just landed back in the UK. It’s on channel six right now. The remote is on the sofa. Push three-two-four.”

On the television, the news showed a KriztoAir A320 landing at one of London’s airports and coming painfully slowly to the gate. Crowded around the arrivals gate inside the terminal, reporters shouted as a trickle of passengers exited into the concourse, some dazed at the attention and probably on different flights.

Spencer stood close to the screen, studying each of the faces to see if one might be Marshall. After the first few appeared, crowds clustered around cameras, emerging media peopleinterviewing fellow reporters on the ground, and coverage focused on them rather than any newly arriving travellers.

“Don’t worry,” said Darcy, still on the phone. “My contact is getting a copy of the passenger manifest. As soon as he does, he’ll let me know if Marshall was on board.”

By nine o’clock, with Darcy glued to her phone, they had still not heard anything. Eventually, after returning from the kitchen, she parked herself at the end of the couch. He could tell by her face that she had some news and braced himself for the worst.

“Marshall wasn’t on the plane. And nobody’s heard any news about him. But one of the survivors who landed earlier said they believe Colm O’Donnell, Marshall’s cameraman, was killed in the blast. That’s all they know.”

Spencer’s heart sank. He had met Colm in the studio and seen him in the van when Marshall’s team had picked him up. A big bear of a man, he had seemed happy working alongside Marshall, happy to be a part of the team. Now Spencerwondered what loved ones Colm had at home—maybe his own family—and guessed they too were anxiously sitting by the phone, waiting for news from Kryszytonia. Not only that, he thought, but wouldn’t Marshall have had the cameraman with him at all times, recording footage and providing his own commentary? As always, Darcy seemed to sense his dread.

“Look, I have three bedrooms here. You’re more than welcome to stay. Do you want me to make up a bed for you?”

“No, it’s okay, Darcy. You’ve been really kind today, but I think I need to go home.”

Spencer needed his cave. Maybe he really ought to be around other people, but his nerves felt frazzled with each report coming in, and he wanted to be home. Darcy appeared to sense his resolve because she didn’t try to argue.

“You’re sure?”

“I am.”

“In which case, I’ll call you an Uber.”

Chapter Twenty-Three

Spencer sat stiffly next to the entrance on the very last bench of the Chapel of Rest. A distinctive almost cloying scent of furniture polish filled the air, outmatching the various expensively perfumed bodies seated around. He stared unfocused at the backs of vaguely famous people either perched in front or moving slowly down the aisle towards the front.

Life would go on. Christmas with his family would still go ahead. Once again, he would turn up alone. Garrett would be on crutches, and the women would be fussing over him to make sure he was happy and comfortable. Nothing had really changed.

Except everything had.

Joey slouched forward on the front pew next to an older man and woman and a slightly older version of him—probably Alex and their parents. Even seeing Blake seated next to Joey, both wearing ugly matching silver shell suits, inappropriately laughing together at a shared joke, had not sparked even a flicker of emotion in him. He almost wished it had.

Darcy sat upright and poised on the adjacent bench, next to an older woman crying into a black handkerchief, her long red hair spilling down from beneath a black veil. Unable to see her face, he assumed her to be Marshall’s mother, although something in the back of his mind niggled about her appearance. Had Darcy suggested Spencer sit with them? He couldn’t remember. But he would have felt conspicuous in the spotlight, preferring to mourn privately from the back without being stared at or singled out. Even having Muriel and her husband in attendance hadirked but not fazed him. On entering the chapel, she had glanced over but pointedly turned away from his stern gaze.

People needed others beside them during this challenging rite of passage, but Spencer wanted to get through alone. The important thing was to give friends and family some form of closure. And with that thought, he had to admit to feeling a little mystified and—if he was going to be honest—disappointed, at not having Bev and Prince somewhere nearby.

On an easel set atop a raised dais near the coffin sat an enormous portrait of Marshall. Spencer recognised the beautiful photograph from a men’s fashion magazine cover, his face so familiar, so full of life and love and possibilities. Soft strains of George Michaels’Waiting for That Dayplayed from the speakers, the irony of the lyrics almost undoing his barely held together composure.

And a thought kept coming back to him, that he should have told Marshall not to go, should have insisted he stay home and be with Spencer, even though he knew Marshall would never have agreed.

Despite sunlight spilling in through the frosted windows and the chapel doors standing wide open, he found he could barely breathe. How could he have come so close to perfect happiness only to have everything ripped away from him? When the gentle hum of subdued chatter subsided, replaced by nervous giggles and a few soft gasps of astonishment, he looked up to see a lone bird, a chaffinch, had flown into the hall and performed a couple of circuitous routes before flying back out through the main doors.

Once again murmured conversations started up, and Spencer squeezed his eyes shut. From outside, somebody oblivious to the sacred ceremony going on in the chapel, drilled then hammered on wood—bzzzz, thump, thump, thump, bzzz, bzzz, thump thump. At first, Spencer had tried to ignore the intrusion,had tried to calm his mind. Eventually, his temper rose, and he readied himself to slip outside and give the workmen a piece of his mind. Except he found he could not move, his body pinned to the pew, his head and shoulders weighed down by an invisible force.

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