Something moved across Marshall’s face, something bordering annoyance, but he appeared to let it pass.
“Darcy spoke to Muriel’s publicist. The interview’s on for the magazine client event.”
“That was fast. I’m amazed Muriel agreed. Surprised she didn’t insist on taking control of the whole thing.”
“Oh, she did. Said I would be provided with a list of sanctioned questions from their legal team, a list I would need to sign and agree to use on the night. But we’re familiar with those kinds of demands. Most politicians and celebrities want to control their interviews, to paint themselves in the best possible light. But at the end of the day the interview is aimed at the audience and they are the only ones that matter. If they feel an interviewer is being too lenient, or is being overtly partisan or siding with a person, there will be floods of complaints. I’ve seen it happen. Not to me, thank goodness. Fortunately we have a clause in our contracts about respecting the professionalism and integrity of the interviewer, which essentially overrides their demands and gives me carte blanche to ask whatever I want.”
“Good to know. And thank you again.”
“No, thank you, Spence. Darcy made sure to let the publicist know that the whole thing was your idea. If you don’t get the credit, you need to let me know.”
“Yes, boss.”
Marshall chuckled fondly until his attention was drawn elsewhere. A waiter in the club’s uniform and a white apron appeared at their table.
“What would you like to drink, Spence?” asked Marshall before the man could speak. “I am reliably informed they have bottled Peroni, if that’s your preference.”
“No, it’s Friday night,” said Spencer, noticing Marshall had a long drink of clear liquid. “And I’m in a good mood. Let’s have a gin and tonic.”
“Ah. Are you really sure?” said Marshall, a pained look on his face.
“Yes,” said Spencer, but beginning to doubt himself. “Why?”
“Godfrey?” asked Marshall, his attention on the waiter.
“Sir,” said the young man, with a suppressed smile. “We have over one hundred varieties of gin, from over twenty different countries. It’s one of our club’s specialities. Do you have a particular preference, or would you like me to run through them with you?”
“All one hundred?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Do you have original Hendrick’s?”
“Naturally, sir.”
“Then I’ll have that. With whatever tonic water you think goes best. And a slice of cucumber, if you can.”
“Good choice, sir.”
Before leaving, the waiter pulled out a coaster from his apron and placed the item on the table. When Spencer looked up, he saw Marshall grinning and nodding appreciatively.
“Well played, Spence.”
“Are you kidding? I feel like a dork. I didn’t realise places like this still existed.”
“I still don’t believe people live above high street pizza parlours.”
Spencer chuckled and relaxed back in his seat. When he looked farther down the room, he noticed a doorway into what appeared to be a restaurant.
“Are we eating here?” he asked.
“Would you want to? I mean, I booked us into my favourite Bangladeshi restaurant on Brick Line, somewhere I’ve been going for the past twenty years. The food is sensational. I asked for a semi-private room upstairs so we’re not disturbed. But I could always cancel—”
“No. If it’s your favourite, then I want to try.”
“Can you take spicy food?”
“I’m not going to lie and embarrass myself. I can take mild to medium.”
