Page 60 of Famous Last

“Now?” asked Darcy, her eyes wide.

“Yes, right now.”

“Fuck my sexy slingbacks. He’s so right about you. Come on, I’ll give you a lift. And on the way there, I’ll let you have his address and the front-door code. After that, you’re on your own. But I’ll alert the doorman that you’re coming. That’ll get you all the way up to his front door. How does that sound?”

“Perfect.”

“The rest is in your hands.”

“Let’s go.”

“Hang on. Before we go, do you need to bring anything? You know, just in case—?”

Spencer remembered his interview. Did he dare bring his suit with him? Or would that be presumptuous? But then again, he was owed a sleepover. Maybe he needed to take a chance. He jotted something down on a notepad sitting on the coffee table.

“Can you do me a favour?”

“I thought I already was. What do you need?”

“I’m going to pack a bag with work clothes. But can you nip to the coffee shop along the way? There’s something I need you to get for me.”

Darcy snatched the piece of paper from his hand and let out a huff.

“Honestly, the things I do. I’ll see you downstairs at the car in five.”

“You’re a star.”

“Yeah. And don’t you fucking forget it.”

Chapter Sixteen

Darcy’s driver pulled the Mercedes up outside a stylish Victorian terraced block of flats down a road between Kensington Park and South Kensington Underground station. Spencer yanked the black hoodie over his head and climbed out into the freezing night. As he made his way up the three stone stairs to the double doors of brass and glass, his overnight carryall and suit holder over his shoulder, his anxiousness grew. But before he had a chance to key in the door code Darcy had given him, the door buzzed loudly. When he looked around, a grinning Darcy waved at him from the back seat of the car, her phone clamped to her ear, before turning and giving the driver instructions to drive on.

Spencer pushed the heavy door and entered the overly bright foyer. Ornate antique sofas upholstered in gold and brown stripes sat stiffly opposite a mirrored wall, while all around white pedestals housed slender black onyx vases filled with arrangements of white lilies. The concierge met Spencer along the hallway and led him over to the waist-high reception desk.

“Sir, I’ll need to check your bag before activating the lift. Would you mind?”

Although a little puzzled, Spencer did as asked and allowed the older man to rummage through his clothes. He wondered absently if the concierge had acted as a buffer between what must have been the recent spate of press members trying to gain access, or whether other residents insisted on this kind of security. In less than a minute, the man had finished.

“Fifth floor, sir,” he said, activating a button from his seat hidden behind the reception desk. “Lift’s at the end on your left. When you come out on the fifth, turn right and go to the far end.”

“Does he know I’m here?”

“Not unless someone called him,” said the man with a knowing grin. “And I had my instructions from her ladyship out there not to breathe a word.”

Spencer grinned at the ‘ladyship’ reference, of Darcy being somebody who needed to be obeyed. That much he was beginning to understand. But she was also somebody to have on your side.

Stepping out into the corridor on the fifth floor—the top floor—he noticed the opulent theme continued. At the end of the hall stood only one door. Spencer dropped his bag, taking a deep breath before ringing the doorbell. While he waited for an answer, he bent down to unzip his bag’s side pocket and pull out the brown paper bag. Just as he was zipping the gear back up, a voice came from behind the door.

“Who is it?”

Marshall’s voice sounded strained and guarded. Of course, he might still be cautious about opening the door to uninvited guests, especially if he thought the paparazzi might confront him.

“Hi, Marshall. Sorry, I should have called ahead. It’s me, Spence—”

The door flew open and Spencer, still kneeling, was confronted with a pair of black trousers and beautiful bare feet. As Spencer straightened, Marshall’s mouth dropped open in surprise. He looked as though he had not long arrived home, still in a crisp white shirt with the sleeves rolled up and collar undone. Spencer had never seen him lost for words but enjoyed the moment.

“Delivery for Mr Highlander,” said Spencer, grinning broadly and holding out a brown paper bag. “Chocolate croissants. Apparently his new favourite. Consider these a peace—”

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