“Probably because it’s not that interesting. Everyone thinks working in the magazine business is glamorous, but we spend most of our time bored to tears staring at computer screens, like everyone else in the world.”
“You can say that again,” added Blake.
“Are we inviting Spencer? To the party?” asked Ambika to Blake.
“Firstly, I’m not sure if we’ll be able to go ahead, Bika, given everything that’s going on. And I certainly hadn’t considered inviting work colleague—”
“But you must. I want to meet all the people who are a part of your life. Look, Spencer, Blake and I are hoping to host an engagement party in December. If you’re free, we would love for you to come.”
“Engagement party? Who’s getting engaged?” asked Spencer, not quite catching on.
“We are, of course,” said Ambika happily. “Blake and I.”
Spencer swung his gaze to Blake for his reaction and saw only a blank expression before the terrible truth sank in. Almost two years ago they had been in the same bed pretty much every weekend, with Blake pummelling him into the mattress and both dissolving into a pool of sweat. Spencer had been blissfully unaware that Blake had wanted something different. Once again—a personality flaw perhaps—he had realigned everything to absorb Blake into his life, only to have been left with nothing over a tweet. And in the months that followed, he had consoled himself with the thought that Blake was simply not long-term relationship material. To hear now that he planned to marry this woman had Spencer momentarily lost for words.
“That’s fantastic. I’m really pleased for you,” Spencer heard himself say, unable to look directly at Blake. Peripherally, at least, Blake had the decency to look slightly abashed.
“I’ll—uh—give you the details of the party next week at work. Now where is it you live, Ambika?” asked Blake. “I keep forgetting. I told Spencer we might be able to drop him off on the way to your house. Wasn’t it somewhere in Surrey?”
“Epping, silly. I live in Essex.”
“Nowhere near Morden, then?”
If he hadn’t felt as though someone had ripped out his stomach, he might have laughed. Typical Blake, always being driven around by his mother’s driver or by friends. The man probably got lost in his own back garden.
“Epping is in the opposite direction,” said Spencer, grateful for the mix-up. “Look, it’s no problem. Thank you anyway, but I can quite easily find my way home. Congratulations on your engagement.”
A sense of relief escaped him once he had said goodbye and made a beeline for the front door. He didn’t even bother looking for Beverley, who had probably hooked up. Even before they’d arrived, he’d had the feeling she was seeking someonein particular. As soon as he hit the pavement and the chill air, feeling utterly clearheaded after only two glasses of watery wine, he dug out his phone and checked directions to the nearest station.
Somewhere in the universe, a celestial being must have finally noticed his plight and felt a sprinkling of compassion because the TfL line train for Stratford came almost immediately. As soon as he seated himself in the nearly empty carriage, he texted Beverley to say he had departed. After that, he switched his phone to silent mode and glared at his vampiric reflection in the dark glass of the train window while mulling over his life.
Was he going to spend the rest of his days alone? Because as dating track records went, his was appalling. Why could he never hold on to anybody? Why was he never enough? Before Blake, his previous relationship had been four years ago. And that had ended the same way—except the brush-off had been in person, not by a tweet. Was there a stamp on his forehead that read ‘reject’?
At midnight, after a couple of connections, the train finally pulled into the Tube terminus at Morden. Spencer felt tired, empty, and ready to fall into bed. As he used his travel card to pass through the barrier, the phone in his pocket buzzed urgently with an incoming call. Not difficult to guess who that would be, probably to berate him for deserting her at the party.
Except when he bought out his phone the name on the display read Marshall.
“Hello?” said Spencer tentatively.
“Spencer? Is that you?” came the distinctive baritone voice.
So maybe the celestial being hadn’t finished with him entirely.
“Yes! I mean yes, it’s me. How are you?”
“I’m fine. Well, I landed back this afternoon and I’m now settled at home. I know it’s late. Is this a good time to talk, or should I call back tomorrow?”
Spencer stepped out onto the freezing street where a gust of arctic wind nudged a couple of fast-food cartons along the pavement. Pulling up his collar, he headed for the pedestrian crossing with the phone clamped to his ear. Just after midnight and the roads were deserted, with only a huddle of people around the minicab stand.
“Actually, this is a perfect time to talk. I’m just leaving Morden station and I’ve got a fifteen-minute walk to my front door. I live in a flat above a pizza shop, so you can talk to me and keep me company on the way, if you like?”
Marshall’s deep chuckle came down the phone, lifting Spencer’s spirits.
“Where have you been tonight?” asked Marshall. Before beginning his tale of woe, Spencer let out an overly dramatic sigh.
“Let’s just say that I’m coming home from the absolute worst Halloween party ever, full of unimaginative costumes worn by straight, horny students, where they served watered down booze. And during which I lost my best friend, bumped into my ex-boyfriend of six months, who in turn introduced me to his girlfriend slash soon-to-be fiancée before inviting me to their upcoming engagement party and, to add insult to injury, I had to make my own way home from the other side of the universe. Bet you can’t beat that?”
“Well, let’s see. I’ve just returned from Afghanistan where me and the film crew narrowly escaped an attack by the Taliban. If we’d hit the checkpoint ten minutes later, we’d have been caught right in the middle of the gunfire and I doubt we’d be talking right now.”
