“Yes.”
“You want to have dinner withme?”
Marshall laughed, and Spencer grinned into his phone.
“You sound surprised.”
“No. Well, yes. I am, I suppose.”
He began walking again, taking the long way around the main road instead of the shortcut through the darkened alleyway, the one he would happily take in daylight. On a night when things had finally begun to look up, he was not about to tempt fate.
“You shouldn’t be. You’re a really nice chap, Spencer. And I like that you treated me as an ordinary person, and the fact I knew I could trust you—”
“You can.”
“I know. I also like your sense of humour and the sound of your voice. So what do you say about dinner?”
“Next weekend?”
“If you’re free.”
Something nagged at Spencer. An earlier text message from his brother.
“Bugger. It’s Guy Fawkes Night next weekend, isn’t it? I have to do the dutiful son thing and stay at my parents’ place in Bournemouth. Guy Fawkes is kind of a family tradition.”
“Is your mother cooking?”
Spencer puffed out steamy laughter into the early morning air.
“You remembered. That’s the first thing I asked. My brother tells me they’re planning to order takeaway from the local Chinese restaurant on Friday night. And on the Saturday, traditionally, my dad takes us all out to a decent restaurant for lunch or dinner. So I think I should be safe. And I’ll be home Sunday evening. Could we do dinner the weekend after? Or any weekday after next weekend?”
“Absolutely. Let me check my schedule and text you. Do you mind if I pick the venue?”
“Of course not. Hey, how is everything else? That problem you were having? Did your friend Darcy manage to get everything resolved?”
“If you’re talking about that bloody newspaper hack, then yes. We threatened them with court action. I’m just hoping they know what’s good for them.”
Spencer approached the row of shops where he lived. To the right of the darkened window of Romano’s Pizzeria stood the chipped black door that led up to his flat.
“Well, I’m home,” said Spencer, fishing the keys out of his pocket with one hand. “Thank you for keeping me company and cheering up an otherwise dreadful evening.”
“You’re welcome,” said Marshall, his warm voice making Spencer tremble with pleasure. “I just wish I was there with you right now.”
“Yeah, me too.”
“Goodnight, Spencer. Sleep well. And I hope you know how special you are.”
By the time Spencer reached the top step to his flat, he had almost forgotten about his depressing night out. Until he unlocked the upstairs door because there, sitting beside an empty bowl and amid a box of ripped-up jasmine-scented tissues knocked down from his kitchen table, sat his ginger tabby, Tiger, glaring with feline petulance.
Chapter Five
On the two-hour rail journey from Waterloo to Bournemouth station, where his father waited to pick him up, Spencer had plenty of time to reflect on the week just gone. As soon as he had stowed his luggage and taken his seat, he removed today’s choice of navy bow tie with white polka dots—but left his matching mask on—and undid the top button of his light blue shirt. With many commuters still working from home, he was happy to get a seat by the window, plug in his ear pods, and settle in for the ride.
Work had been strangely less manic than usual, but Spencer guessed the lull to be the quiet before the Christmas snowstorm. Clarissa had been as lax as ever with her work, because he’d noticed a pile of deadlines as he left to get his train, editorial columns she needed to review and complete before the Monday afternoon deadline. No doubt they would end up getting dumped on his desk Monday morning and he would have to work through lunch again to make sure they met the cut-off point.
Being able to text Marshall’s private line a couple of times had been a highlight, although he had received only the occasional response, very formal, and usually apologising because being the show host, he had been confined to the studio where use of mobile devices was strictly controlled. On the upside, they had agreed to have dinner the following Friday, the venue a surprise but with them meeting in a small private bar around the back ofLiverpool Street station. At least Spencer had something to look forward to the following week.
At Bournemouth station, he met his father at the agreed meeting point. They performed their usual greeting ritual of an awkward hug followed by his dad insisting on carrying his small wheelie luggage, and, as usual, Spencer refusing, telling him he could manage.
