Page 8 of Famous Last


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“Sounds good to me, Squirrel,” said Beverley. “Long as they’re open.”

“Can’t, I’m afraid, Spence,” said Prince. “I got me pirates session after work.”

“Pirates? Does he mean Pilates?” Spencer said to Bev, carefully enunciating the word as ‘purr-lah-tees’. Beverley offered up a shrug.

“No, mate, pirates. I’m in the local church production ofTreasure Islandat Christmas. We’re rehearsing all the piratescenes tonight, trying to make sure we’re all safely distanced from each other.”

“Are people actually booking tickets? Bearing in mind what’s going on out there?”

“They had been. Now? I’ve no idea. Guess we’ll find out tonight.”

Spencer cracked on as the office slowly emptied of colleagues. Without any interruptions, he knew he could knock out the work quickly. By one-fifty, he had everything but the website review completed and placed back on Clarissa’s desk, so he donned his mask and decided to grab something to eat. Lunchtimes tended to be flexible on the side of generous at the magazine, and he wasn’t surprised to note the empty office. While waiting for the lift, he chatted to Kimberley, the pretty young newbie on reception, because most people ignored her.

After waiting in line for over fifteen minutes at the ground floor food stall, playing a mindless app game to distract himself, he picked out a rather tired-looking tomato and mozzarella baguette and a lukewarm seasonal mushroom soup. As the lift doors to his floor opened, Kimberley stood up from behind her desk, her eyes beaming at him.

“So romantic,” she said cryptically, her hands clasped beneath her pink-masked chin.

“I’m sorry?” said Spencer, looking at the contents in his hands. “It’s only soup and a sandwich, Kim.”

“Not saying another word,” she said, folding her arms and using a frankly sickly-sweet tone. “Except to say that she must love you loads.”

Did she mean Clarissa? Because he felt anything but love from his boss, especially after she had robbed him of a champagne lunch. Not stopping to talk, he smiled back sweetly from behind his mask. At some point he would need to get around to telling Kim about his orientation, but not today. Maybe when she wasin a more stable mood. Spencer’s puzzlement seemed to amuse her even more, as her adoring gaze trailed him all the way to the frosted office door. Shaking his head, he flashed his access card at the panel and re-entered. And turned the corner towards his open-plan desk.

“What. The.Fuck.”

A vast arrangement of long-stemmed roses—around three dozen—in pink and classic red sat to one side of his desk, the blooms artistically arranged inside an elegant glass vase. Propped against the front, in a wrapping of golden foil tied with a scarlet ribbon, someone had positioned an enormous box of chocolates.

When he got closer, the sound of the mechanical click of the office door startled him. Other staff members were returning from lunch. Checking closer, he saw a small white envelope buried among the blooms, something he plucked out and stuffed into his trouser pocket. He had a pretty good idea which bastard had hijacked him with this embarrassing display but wanted to check first.

He snatched up his desk phone and called reception. Before he could say a word, the giggling voice of Kimberley answered immediately.

“Told you, Spencer. So romantic.”

“Um, Kim,” he asked, “who brought these?”

“A delivery boy, of course, silly. From the florists, I suppose.”

“Yes, but,” he asked, trying to remain calm, “who are they from?”

“You don’t know? The boy gave your name. Isn’t there a card with them?”

Behind him, a couple of ‘oohs’ and ‘aahs’ and other mortifying noises began to fill the air. Someone had been evil enough to turn him into a Hallmark moment on a day that was neither his birthday nor Valentine’s Day. Shaming him at work could be theploy of only one or two people—his older brother, Garrett, who was frankly too cheap to fork out on a stunt like this, or his ex, Blake.

“No, there’s not. Did you see one when they were delivered?”

“No, I can’t say I did,” she said. “But surely you know who they’re from?”

Spencer breathed a sigh of relief. If she hadn’t seen a card, then he could pretend someone had sent them anonymously. This was the kind of embarrassing stunt Blake might pull in an attempt at an apology for his appalling behaviour. Had he done so eighteen months ago, then the gesture might have meant something.

Bastard.

“I have no idea who they’re from,” said Spencer, louder than he needed to for the sake of the gathering, then pretended to look for a card. “And I’m looking right now, but I definitely can’t see a card. Thanks anyway, Kim.”

After he had taken a few breaths and put the phone down, people immediately began asking questions. Somewhat theatrically, he inspected the chocolate box thoroughly, turned the vase around and even checked on the bottom, all the time shaking his head. By now the small crowd had grown, holding out phones, taking photos of him with his prize, probably posting straight onto social media sites. Fortunately he only usually socialised with Bev outside work, so he would not see any of their posts. Nonetheless, he began to feel overwhelmed with the attention and excused himself to use the bathroom.

Blakemore Group rented the whole of the eighteenth floor, which meant they had exclusive use of the bathrooms. For Spencer, Prince and Blake—and any occasional male visitor to their office—having their own dedicated, always clean male bathroom had become a company perk. After work once, he had given Blake a blow job in one of the cubicles. Happier times. Assoon as he had used his key to get inside, Spencer felt tempted to rip the small greeting card in half and flush the remains away. Instead he locked himself in a cubicle, sat on the toilet lid and pulled out the small envelope. After all, with his long dry spell, any attention felt good. Slipping a fingernail beneath the flap, he took a steadying breath before prising out the card and reading the neat handwriting.

To my bushy-tailed superhero,