“Anyway, Wyrrells and guests,” said Bev. “We just wanted to phone and wish you all a wonderful Christmas.”
“Same to you all. And a very happy new year.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Sunday morning, Spencer stood outside the Bermondsey apartment wearing a plain white towelling robe over his tee and pyjama bottoms. The concrete terrace, which overlooked the Thames, was adorned with lush evergreen plants and bushes in blue-and-white china pots and terracotta plant holders, not unlike Muriel Moresby’s penthouse apartment. Spencer cradled a mug of steaming coffee against his chest, watching a barge inch down the Thames. Tiger sat stock-still beside him, watching vigilantly as sparrows chirped excitedly in the branches of a tree across the way. Behind him, a door slid open and shut.
“Bit fresh to be out, isn’t it?” said Marshall, coming to stand beside him and putting a warm and comforting arm around his shoulders. Spencer noticed he had a matching towelling robe on, with a folded newspaper stuffed into one pocket. “Aren’t you cold?”
“Her Royal Highness wanted to come out and do her business. And then forgot all about it when she spotted the party going on in the tree over there.”
Built on a lower floor, the apartment looked directly onto treetops lining the river walkway. Marshall had told him they were cherry trees and would blossom spectacularly in spring. Something else on his long list of things to look forward to in the new year.
“She does love the terrace, doesn’t she?”
“Of course she does. We both do. Her, because she finally has some open space.”
“And you?”
“Because it’s not too far from the ground. In case you ever feel the urge to step over the railing again.”
“Arse,” said Marshall, pushing his nose into Spencer’s ear and nipping the lobe.
The moment he had walked over the threshold, Spencer had fallen in love with the flat, which felt far more like a home than Marshall’s South Kensington space. All the furnishings had been chosen for comfort, not style, the cosy tan sectional settee with a place for two to lie next to each other while watching the television, giant cream cushions that could be used on the shag pile carpet, to sit upon. Once the authorities had lifted restrictions, he couldn’t wait to get friends over for dinner and drinks. In the days leading up to the new year, when Marshall wasn’t rushing into the studio to put the finishing touches to their Kryszytonia documentary, they had moved in together, with Spencer informing his landlord that he could have the flat back early to begin renovating.
“When you’re finished, your ladyship,” said Marshall, tilting his head down at Tiger, “I have some new gourmet canned food for you to try out.”
Tiger blinked up at Marshall, and Spencer could almost believe she smiled at him before she moved over and sat between her new master’s slippers.
“You’re spoiling her.”
Marshall crouched down and scratched her head, a manoeuvre he knew she would love. The two of them had bonded well, Tiger loving having the run of the apartment and, of course, the terrace.
“It’s a new year’s treat. Anyway, I have to make sure she’s on my side, if I want to keep her owner happy.”
“You really don’t need to worry. Both of us couldn’t be happier. I absolutely love this place. Apart from the sex-on-demand, it’s bigger than my old gaff, has amazing views, modern kitchen, bathroom and bedroom, and, to top it all, is incredibly convenient. I can’t believe we did the journey to my new office in less than thirty minutes yesterday.”
“Over the weekend, too,” added Marshall. “When the service is probably limited. How are you feeling about tomorrow? Nervous at all?”
Having sorted the apartment out during the week—Spencer had brought mainly clothes and Tiger’s things—they’d had Saturday free, so Marshall had suggested they do a trial run using public transport ready for Monday, Spencer’s first day on the new job. On their way back, they had shopped in a supermarket together, a simple domestic chore that had made Spencer’s heart burst with pride. They were officially a couple.
“Not so much nervous, more excited.”
“You’re going to do just fine. And, by the way, I’ve got an online meeting with the publisher tomorrow. Are you going to need to clear your involvement with Ed?”
“I’ll talk to him tomorrow. But I can’t see it being an issue.”
Rather than ghostwrite Marshall’s autobiography, Spencer had suggested they write the book together. Marshall had taken some persuading, citing his busy work schedule, but Spencer had convinced him with the image of them both holding the finished hardback in their hands.
“Have you thought any more about what you want in the book? Key events that shaped your life and career? It’s important to focus on exceptional things and anecdotes that are going to grab the attention of the reader, but in your line of work I’d expect there to be lots.”
“What sort of things did you have in mind?”
“Oh, you know—special moments. Like having a drug lord put out a hit on you because they didn’t like the interview you’d done with them.”
Peripherally, Spencer noticed Marshall turn to him.
“You know about that?”
