When they returned to the main room, Beverley was putting on her coat just as Marshall emerged from the bathroom.
“Okay, Beverley,” said Darcy. “Where do you live?”
“Mornington Crescent. But you can drop me at the Tube station. I’ll take the train.”
“Not in this weather, you won’t. We’ll drop you home. I told my driver to pick me up at seven-thirty from outside here. We’ll drop you off first, and then I’m bringing Marshall back to my place. Don’t worry, Marshall, we can avoid the bastards by going in through the underground car park.”
They descended the stairs in single file to the front door, with Spencer bringing up the rear. A gust of frozen air wafted in when Beverley opened the door. Since they had arrived, the weather had become noticeably colder, signs of frost already on the pavement, and while Darcy and Beverley waved a quick farewell before running to get into the waiting car, Marshall stayed back.
“Good luck tomorrow morning, Spence. Don’t let Muriel give you any shit. You’re worth far more than they’re giving you credit for. I can tell that from your portfolio, and the fact that Killian trusts you. And don’t forget about my offer to do the client-party interview for Muriel. Darcy is completely on board. Use those things as leverage if you have to, and, if push comes to shove, just call me and Iwilltalk to Muriel—”
“You don’t have to do that, Marshall. I can look after myself.”
“I’m sure you can, but the offer’s still there. And is it okay if I ask you to keep Friday free?” asked Marshall. “I hope things might have improved by then and I would love to see you again, to say thank you. I’ll send you details via a text message, if that’s okay?”
“I would love that.”
Spencer felt sure he would turn away then to avoid being seen outside. But instead, he pulled down his mask, leant forward and kissed Spencer full on the lips before grinning and turning away, heading towards the waiting Tesla.
Spencer remained there in the doorway, grinning despite the freezing air, the kiss fresh on his lips, feeling weatherproofed against any coming storms.
Chapter Eleven
Spencer read the same line for the third time. His brain would not take a step back and view the words on the page objectively. Thorough editing required objectivity. Even from the first hasty read-through, he knew Killian’s article was good. No, scratch that, brilliant. Savagely witty and beautifully observed, he had managed to paint the various royal engagement guests as vividly as characters from a novel by Dickens, complete with colourful descriptions of the more outrageous fashion faux pas, together with the unique quirks and mannerisms of some in attendance. That he had also eavesdropped on various conversations and peppered the column with wonderful malapropisms had been a masterstroke—The Right Honourable Lady Jenkins talking about her brother’s battle with ‘prostrate cancer’ or a former Tory minister decrying the Chinese authorities for banning the people of Hong Kong from enjoying ‘universal suffering’ like the rest of the civilised world.
Eventually, he put his head in his hands. Arriving early to the office had seemed propitious, but all he had succeeded in doing was to sit there waiting for the hammer to fall. In anticipation, he had worn a funereal ensemble of black trousers, white shirt, black mask, and black- and mauve-striped bow tie. The idea had been to arrive before anyone else, and keep his head down, keep himself busy with emails and other admin items, before getting stuck into the article by Killian. And when, by ten, Clarissa had still not arrived for work, Spencer had started to think that maybe he’d had a reprieve—until his phone rang and Alice’sname popped up on the display. Alice was Muriel’s personal assistant.
A shimmer of coldness passed through him. After letting the phone ring three times, he picked up.
“Hello, Alice.”
“Morning, Spencer. Hope you’re feeling better. Muriel wants to see you in her office at ten-thirty. Is that going to be a problem?”
Alice always asked if the meeting time would be okay, even though nobody ever dared decline. Spencer liked Alice. Everyone did. Being so close to her tyrannical boss, she let people know what kind of mood Muriel was in, and, where possible, gave them a heads-up about why she wanted to see them.
“That’s fine. Did she say what it’s about?” he asked.
“Not exactly. But I think it may be about what happened yesterday.”
“I see.”
“For what it’s worth, she doesn’t appear to be in a bad mood this morning.”
“I’m sure I can fix that,” he replied.
Alice giggled.
Of course, the next twenty minutes dragged like the run-up to an election. After restarting Killian’s piece, he finally threw in the towel and decided to wait until after the meeting—if there was going to be an ‘after’.
Alice gave a sympathetic smile before ushering him in.
Muriel’s corner office took up a big chunk of the southern side of the floor and, during the winter months, saw the brief rising and sinking of the sun. A line of award plaques sat pride of place above a long settee of plum-coloured leather, adorned with small throw cushions in pink and violet. In front, a crystal coffee table—gifted by a renowned furniture designer—sat on a jet-blacksheepskin rug. On the few occasions he had visited Muriel’s office, he had come to hate the colour combination, which would not have looked out of place in the garden outside his parents’ bungalow. Only a piece of modernist artwork appeared new, fixed to the inside of the square column separating the floor-to-ceiling windows and breaking the panorama outside the office.
“Sit down, Spencer. You’re making the room look untidy.”
Spencer’s attention swung to Muriel behind her desk as she snapped shut the lid of her large metallic purple laptop. Maybe fitting the occasion, she, too, wore black—a high-necked dress in charcoal cotton with a mauve silk scarf around her shoulders. He took the leather seat across from her, which appeared to sink three or four inches as his weight took hold until his eyes drew level with the top of her coffee mug.
“Do you want to explain to me what happened yesterday?”
