“Thanks, I think. Yours is very impressive. Egyptian nobility meetsMagic Mike. Looks like someone’s been working out. Is that mascara?”
Each of Blake’s eyes had been outlined in thick black makeup culminating with an upward flourish at each side. The whole effect made his naturally intense gaze—a lot like his mother’s—feel positively denuding. Unusual for Blake, whose sense of fun had remained hidden when they were together. Spencer noted that Blake’s humour had not perished entirely, from the slight smirk lifting one side of his mouth.
“Been to a Halloween dinner before this. But one has to make the effort for a party, doesn’t one?”
“Shame they didn’t state that in the invitation. Who do you know here? The host?”
“No, I was invited by a friend of a friend. Nobody you would know.”
And there it was, the real Blake surfacing, as snobbishly class conscious and dismissive as ever. No doubt if there were any other single gay men at the party with flawless skin, a beautiful bone structure and breeding, also looking for a one-night stand, they would have scoped out this perfect male specimen by now.Blake epitomised a particular Instagram genus of hard-bodied flawless looks and utter superficiality. Spencer had lost count of the number of times he had bailed Blake out at work, completely rewriting his jumbled mess to make the article shine. Blake might look like a demigod, but he couldn’t write for shit.
“Are you here to escort these two back home?” asked Spencer, pointing at the two mummies who appeared to have fallen asleep, tangled together. “The embalmed escapees from Giza?”
Blake’s smile faltered and his eyebrows knotted slightly. Another obvious tell on their incompatibility had been Blake’s rudimentary humour, not to mention his irritation whenever Spencer and Bev had got together and laughed all night about one topical reference or another. Maybe he should have read the signs better.
“Pharaoh,” said Spencer, pointing to Blake, before indicating the slumbering duo. “Mummies. Get it?”
Breaking down jokes for Blake had long ago become a tiresome process.
“Ah. Yes. Funny,” said Blake, clearly not amused. “Are you here with anybody?”
For a second, Spencer wondered why Blake wanted to know, and considered making something up. But then what was the point? Blake always did have a way of seeing straight through him.
“I came with Beverley, but she’s disappeared on me. Don’t suppose you’ve seen her? We’re going to share a cab home and, to be honest, I’m about ready to go.”
“Salvatore? What is she dressed as tonight? Let me guess. Something fromCats? Rebel Williams, perhaps?”
Spencer was almost impressed.
“It’s Wilson. Rebel Wilson. And Salva—Beverley—is dressed as the Queen of Hearts.”
“Of course she is. No, I haven’t seen her. Do you need a lift home?”
The question caught Spencer off guard, and his mind started to reel. In his heart of hearts, Spencer knew Blake wouldn’t want anything more substantial than a shag if he did take him home. But would that be enough for Spencer? Could he separate his already dented heart from the physical act? He already knew the answer.
“I’m fine, thanks.”
“Don’t be daft, Spence. It’s a bugger of a journey, Ilford to Morden,” said Blake, until his eyes betrayed his uncertainty. Spencer doubted Blake had ever ridden public transport. “Isn’t it? Besides, surely you’re not chancing the Tube this time of night, are you? And an Uber’s going to cost you an arm and a leg.”
“I’ll figure something out. And anyway, I thought you didn’t drive. Or did your mother let you have her driver for the evening?”
“Ambika drove us here.”
Right then, as though waiting for a cue, an astonishingly good-looking South Asian girl appeared. Dressed as a cowgirl complete with an authentic-looking suede skirt and thigh-length boots, she wore an impressive Stetson and had a red bandana tied around her face. Ambika’s long dark hair spilt down from beneath the hat and out across the shoulders of her gingham shirt. Similar to Blake, she wore no mask.
She leant forward and offered her impeccably manicured hand in greeting. Spencer was welcomed by a firm handshake and a genuine smile.
“Are they a part of your costume, Blake?” asked Ambika, nodding to the slumbering mummies. Spencer liked her, someone he thought he could happily get to know. Perhaps shewas a family friend. “And are they both drunk, or have you had them embalmed?”
Despite himself, Spencer hissed out a chuckle.
“How do you know my Blake?” asked Ambika.
MyBlake? Spencer stared hard at his ex. Beverley had once asked him if the rumours about Blake being bisexual were true. Right now he appeared unwilling or unable to offer an explanation. Spencer wondered how he should reply but then went for the easy out.
“We’re work colleagues,” said Spencer, who wasn’t surprised Blake hadn’t mentioned him. “Well, we work in the same office on occasion.”
“Oh, really?” said Ambika, smiling. She had a friendly smile of bright white teeth, a smile that seemed entirely authentic. “Blake doesn’t talk about his work.”
