Case in point.
Buying drinks for twelve each Monday morning meant he filled a coffee shop loyalty card every time, and had never spent a single penny of his money on his own drink in the two years he’d been at Blackmores. And because of the good business he brought in, the owner often threw in a smoked salmon and cream cheese bagel.
Tick.
In order to set up Muriel’s presentation, she had to provide him with her password. While running through each slide of her weekly War Room presentation, he could forewarn and forearm himself and Bev to any surprise she might be planning to spring. When he got in early, which was most Mondays, he would even have a poke around her laptop to see if he could find any interesting titbits. And she remained none the wiser.
Tick.
He excelled at his job. Without openly boasting, he knew he could do the work better than anyone in his department, and, quite frankly, he equated Muriel’s constant badgering to the unrelenting persistence of an Olympic coach whose scrutiny ensures the best performance of an athlete. Never once had he dropped the ball on business-critical work. For the time being, he was paid well enough, loved the work, got along with mostmembers of staff and worked with his friend. And when the time was right, this Olympian would find a better track to race on.
Tick, tick, boom.
Sinking back into his leather seat, he lifted the lid to his drink and stalled when he smelled milky green tea. After examining his container—metallic blue with a rainbow unicorn—he checked around the room. Three times the shop had messed up their order, and three times Spencer had been balled out about a mistake he hadn’t made. A few others sipped at their drinks, but none appeared to be tasting extra-shot caffè latte instead of green tea latte. The only people who had not sampled their drinks yet were absent Bev, who unfailingly drank the same caffè latte as Spencer, and Muriel. With a hollow feeling of foreboding, he wondered if he would soon be suffering through another of Muriel’s rants.
“While we’re on the subject of Christmas editions, what new things are we wowing our readership with this holiday season? Tamara? What do you have in store for our hard-nosed readers ofVirago?”
Viragowas indisputably the most contentious of Muriel’s four magazines. Spiked leather bodices, spiteful whips, thigh-length PVC boots and industrial chains on the cover usually indicated a softer, more romantic issue. Targeting theFifty Shadesgeneration of women, the magazine had grown in popularity over the past decade. Being available via online subscription meant an unprecedented increase in circulation and healthy revenues for the group. In her fifties, Tamara—creative director for the magazine—was dressed as usual in her powder-pink Chanel suit and pearl necklace.
Spencer tuned her out. Fortunately for him, he rarely had to contribute to the substantive content of the meeting, being the most junior in the office. Muriel would only defer to him if his boss, Clarissa, could not answer specific questions, such asdetails about particular articles—usually from freelance writers—and whether they had been edited within the strict deadlines and resubmitted to various editors for final sign-off. Or if she wanted a summary of readers’ comments to controversial online articles, another job Spencer had been lumbered with, but one he secretly loved.
“I’m thinking we should do a piece about what modern men want?” said Clarissa, Spencer’s boss, and the bane of his life. After the statement, she threw a glance Spencer’s way. “Straightmen, obviously.”
Some of those in the room giggled. A Muriel clone, Clarissa didn’t so much delegate responsibility as abdicate from any, especially jobs she should really be doing herself.
“Who cares what they want?” asked Muriel. Unfortunately for Clarissa, Muriel did not like having a clone of herself in the office, and the two regularly disagreed.
“Women?”
“Oh, for goodness sake, Clarissa. Do wake up. In this century, women no longer care what men want. Women take what they want without asking permission. Loretta, do we have the article on the royal engagement party by Killian yet? For the November issue ofCollective?”
Killian Pinkerton. People did not always cotton on to Spencer’s sexuality. Some people—girls mostly—still mistook his brand of bespectacled awkwardness as geek chic and, on the rare occasion, tried to hit on him. Freelance journalist and YouTube celebrity Killian Pinkerton didnothave that problem. In all his videos, with his exaggerated gestures, heavy mascara and fluorescent suits, he purposely exaggerated his gayness. Reading and editing his fashion columns forSwish, another of Muriel’s magazines and one that covered fashion events and celebrity gatherings, had turned out to be a highlight of Spencer’s month. Nothing felt better than reading Killian’s brand of beautifullyworded viciousness—a cross between the eloquent satire of Stephen Fry and the scathing bitchiness of Joan Rivers.
“Not yet, Muriel. I’ll chase him today.”
“Spencer can do that.” Muriel’s frown transformed into an approving smile as the conference room door opened. “Ah, Beverley. Lovely to see you. Is everything okay?”
Along with everyone else, Spencer turned and grinned his appreciation on seeing Beverley enter stage right. Any idiot could tell she belonged in fashion. An unapologetic plus-size, his friend always dressed impeccably. Today she wore a velvet trouser suit in burnt caramel with the jacket unbuttoned, a high waistband in gold accentuating her slim waist, and a designer tangerine-and-white leaf-print silk blouse. Autumn personified. Over the weekend she had also dyed her long hair a deep burgundy, and, of course, her makeup and accessories—including an autumnal leaf-print mask—had been chosen impeccably. At Muriel’s question, Beverley’s expression had become anxious and she sought out Spencer, who nodded twice.
“Everything’s fine, Muriel,” said Beverley. “Thank you for asking. Everything’s been—scheduled accordingly.”
“Scheduled?” asked Muriel, concern filling her face. “With LMVP? What needed scheduling?”
Beverley said nothing as she sidestepped around the backs of her colleagues to her seat.
“Thank you for stepping in, Beverley,” Spencer piped up. “Sorry, Muriel, but I’ve been trying to arrange a meeting with the LMVP creative team for ages. Not just to reassure them about their coverage this Christmas, but also to try and get them to commit to giving us more of their advertising revenue next year. I’m guessing Beverley finally managed to schedule a meeting with them. Am I right, Beverley?”
“Yes,” said Beverley, her eyes smiling, taking her seat and her cue. “That’s right, Spencer. It’s this lunchtime, I’m afraid. AtFresh Off The Boat, the new seafood restaurant on the Strand. But with everything going on, it’s the only time they could spare this side of Christmas—”
“Then you should go, Beverley,” said Muriel. “And work your usual magic. Use your business account but make sure you submit all receipts to finance.”
“The thing is, Muriel,” said Beverley, opening the file in front of her, “they specifically asked to meet Spencer. Seeing as how he’s been the main point of contact for their account.”
“Oh, I see,” said Muriel, then added reluctantly, “then, of course, Spencer should join you. But watch what you spend. And no alcohol, either of you.”
While Muriel moved on to other matters, Bev removed her mask, produced a self-satisfied smile of lush burnt orange lips and reached for her drink. Before taking a sip, she stared at him quizzically.
“I thought you were going to test drive the new contact lenses today,” she murmured, the metal canister frozen before her face. “Change of plan?”
