“If I had handcuffs,” said Spencer, his mouth working independently of his brain, “and I promise you I don’t, I’d be using them to secure you to the bedposts of the metal bedframe in my bedroom, once I’d hauled you back to my flat, to cover your naked body in orange marmalade and whipped cream before having my wicked way with you.”
This time Highlander turned sharply to take in Spencer, a look of disbelief on his face, before letting out loud, steamy laughter into the night. He had a nice laugh, Spencer realised, not something the public got to hear often on his high-minded programme.
“Do you talk to everyone this way?”
“Just drop-dead gorgeous celebrities,” said Spencer, before placing fingers over his mouth, realising his terrible choice of adjectives given the situation.
After a few more moments of silence and after a deep heartfelt sigh, Highlander turned and began to climb back over the balcony. When Spencer moved forward to assist, Highlander held a hand palm up, warning Spencer away. Cooperating reluctantly, Spencer backed up a step.
As soon as Highlander stood on firm ground, Spencer rushed forward and threw his arms around him, held him tightly in a hug and buried his face in his chest. Without warning, sobs began to rise from inside Spencer, his body trembling, and in an odd turn of events, Highlander became the one comforting him.
“Hey, hey,” came the warm voice, a hand rubbing his back. “If it’s any consolation, I wouldn’t have done anything. But sometimes I find an inner calm reminding myself of my impermanence. Consider it a momentary lapse in sanity.”
Spencer barely listened, his head buried in the shoulder of Highlander’s jacket, smelling the beautiful combination of spicy aftershave and skin.
“Who are you?” asked Highlander, gently pulling Spencer away from him and holding him at arm’s length while Spencer swiped quickly at his eyes.
“People call me Squirrel.”
“Why? Let me guess. Something to do with you being nuts?”
“Wow, that’s original,” said Spencer, straight-faced. Fortunately, he’d begun to calm down and enjoy Highlander’s—Marshall’s—fond scrutiny. Except now he also began to feel a little self-conscious at his teary display. “Not heard that like a zillion times before.”
“Now I think somewhere in your earlier appeal you promised me a glass of bubbly?”
“Okay, but can we please step away from the railing? Maybe sit down? But mind the broken glass on the floor. I dropped a champagne flute.”
Spencer moved across to the bench hidden behind the large bush. Spencer waited for Marshall to join him. Without being asked, he poured champagne and handed the glass over.
“Did you want something to eat? I could pop in and grab a tray of finger food.”
“I’ll pass, thanks. Champagne is enough. And the food didn’t look terribly appetising.”
“I know, right? Even my mother could do better, and she’s the world’s worst cook.”
“That’s a tad unkind.”
“It’s true, though. I remember coming home from summer camp once and my dad catching me at the door and saying ‘we had a lovely leg of lamb while you were away. Until your mother cooked it.’”
Marshall laughed again, and Spencer felt himself calming a little more.
“How long have you been out here?” asked Marshall, taking a good gulp then handing the champagne back to Spencer.
“About forty frozen minutes. A little before you appeared.”
Spencer took a sip before topping up and raising the glass to Marshall. As he handed the glass over, he pondered the rules on sharing drinks given the pandemic but then shrugged them away. If the man sitting with him had just survived a crisis of self, he could survive a shared glass of bubbly.
“Did you catch any of my conversations?” came the famous voice.
“I did,” said Spencer, feeling his face burning but keeping his eyes on the man. “Not much. I mean, don’t worry. I wouldn’t dare breathe a word.”
“Shit,” said Highlander, turning away and sighing out a cloud of steamy breath.
“No, really, Mr High—Marshall.”
Marshall’s attention returned, his eyes looking deep into Spencer’s. After a few moments, his gaze softened and he relaxed.
“No, you wouldn’t, would you? You’re one of those kind souls that people in my profession rarely get to meet. So what do you do, Squirrel? Shit, I can’t call you Squirrel. It doesn’t feel right. What’s your real name?”
