“I could get used to this. To us. I’m usually alone in the mornings.”
Spencer didn’t want to overthink the remark, so quickly deflected with a joke.
“Whereas I am usually awoken by cat breath.”
“Yes, we really ought to remedy that. Should I come for a sleepover with you and the princess tonight?”
“As if you need to ask.”
* * * *
Exactly a fortnight before Christmas, the Friday of the client party came around all too quickly. Anticipating being needed, Spencer had managed to get the bulk of his work done before Friday, and whatever was left could wait until the following week. Not that he had needed to bother. Bev appeared to have everything under control, and Spencer had been scratching around for work that morning. As instructed by Marshall—they had not been out of each other’s company since the weekend—he had worn a dark ensemble that morning, of black jeans, black shirt, and black-and-white polka dot bow tie, to blend in with the technicians behind the scenes at the television studio. More worryingly, he hadn’t heard anything from theHeraldsince the interview and had started to worry until a personal call from Ed the day before had reassured him that something would soon be on its way, just slightly delayed because of staffing issues at the paper.
“Do you need me for anything before I head off?” asked Spencer in the early afternoon to a slightly frazzled Bev. Stilldressed impeccably, she clutched a large tablet computer under one arm and had perfected marching between offices.
“Did you get your Covid test results?”
“Yes, Mother. Negative, same as you. I wouldn’t be here, otherwise.”
One of the stipulations of being present at the studio during the recording was that everyone had to test negative for the coronavirus before being admitted. In an unusual show of collaboration, Muriel had extended the testing to anyone choosing to work in the office rather than from home, even if not involved in the event.
“Then just go,” she said, walking backwards away from him. “The driver’s waiting for you downstairs. And honestly, there’s nothing you can do here. Bugger off to the studio. Suck up to Muriel and his lordship.”
Had he been asked to go and suck off Marshall, he might have relished the instruction.
“Yeah,” said Spencer, pleased to be dismissed. “You know that’s not going to happen.”
“Just promise you’re not going to rush the stage and announce your resignation,” she said, grinning. Spencer looked around at that remark to make sure nobody else had heard, before giving her the stink eye.
“Don’t worry,” he replied. “I’m not saying a word until I get the offer in my hands.”
With a final wave, he made his way out and heaved a sigh of relief as he stood in the lift and the doors closed.
As they opened on the ground floor, a black-suited, black-masked man stood in the foyer holding a sign with Spencer’s name. Marshall’s doing. He had insisted that Spencer should be driven to the studios, even though Elstree—not more than forty minutes’ drive away—was just as easy to get to by train.
Once he had installed himself in the plush black leather seats of the Tesla, he pulled out his phone and texted Marshall to let him know he was on his way, then sent one to Bev to wish her luck. Her true talents had undoubtedly come to the fore this particular year.
Every email invitation for the Blackmore Group Virtual Christmas Party had provided clients with a secure link that allowed them to log into the virtual-conferencing application with a landing page, a snow-covered Blackmore Christmas Village. Different cottages and houses represented the four magazines, and two music halls had various bands playing non-stop music, one modern, another more Christmassy. In the centre of the screen, the town hall held the main event. They even had a library, where people could reference archived copies of magazines. A countdown in the top left-hand corner let clients know when certain crucial events would occur, such as the welcome speech and the primary interview of the Moresbys by Marshall J Highlander, with the promised appearance of some special guests.
With little traffic on the roads, Spencer found himself arriving at the studio in good time and was ushered through by security staff, once he had been issued him with a unique guest identity tag.
“Are you Spencer Wyrrell?” said a youngish woman, who met him as the car door opened. Like others, she was clad in black tee and jeans, and a tell-tale wireless headset.
“I am,” said Spencer, caught up in the wonder of the moment.
“Follow me, please. Mr Highlander has been asking for you.”
“Has he?” said Spencer, warmed inside.
“Says you have something for him.”
“I do?” said Spencer, suddenly worried he had forgotten something.
Inside the cavernous belly of the building, Spencer wanted to stand and take in the scene. He had never seen the inner workings of a real, live studio before. As vast as a warehouse, the building had a few bodies dotted around, dressed in black and almost invisible, busying themselves in the darkened periphery. Free-standing cameras stood idle but would work independently, computer-operated from what he guessed to be a hidden control room. All attention and lighting focused on the small red-covered stage with three modern chairs, adequately spaced apart, one side for Marshall and the other for Muriel and her husband. Either side of a giant screen, equally colossal photographs of the couple on a mocked-up cover ofCollectivehad been staged.
“He usually insists on private alone time before a show,” continued the woman. “But he’s been laughing, joking, and upbeat with everyone today. Puts the team in such a good mood when he’s like this.”
“Maybe it’s because this isn’t an officially planned programme,” offered Spencer.
