Chapter Nine

Around six, both of them finally gave up trying to sleep any longer and decided to get up and get dressed. Of the three times Spencer had awoken during the night, twice Marshall had lain awake beside him, and both times Spencer had reached out to give his hand a squeeze before falling back to sleep again. On the third, not only had Marshall slotted his body in behind Spencer’s, along the length of his spine—a wholly wonderful and warming experience—but his soft, even breathing could only have meant that he was sleeping. Add to that the arm slung protectively across Spencer’s waist, and he had soon fallen back into a deep slumber. Most embarrassing of all, he had awoken roasting hot, with a rock-hard stiffie poking into his backside, and his own tenting the front of his sweatpants. Gently lifting Marshall’s arm, Spencer had leapt out of bed and run into the bathroom.

 

* * * *

 

“Here. Put these on,” said Spencer, much later. Marshall had returned from a shower in a fresh change of clothing, except for the tracksuit bottoms, which he had donned again, and the thick white socks he had sensibly chosen to keep wearing. Spencer handed over a pair of light-brown-framed glasses with a slight tint in the lens.

“Are they prescription?”

“No,” said Spencer. “They’re kind of fake specs. Well, designer fake specs.”

Blake had left the frames behind after his last visit, and Spencer had never gotten around to returning them. Typical of Blake, he didn’t need glasses, the lenses being made of clear glass, but he thought the look made him appear more sophisticated in business meetings. Even at the time Spencer had found the oddity more pretentious than professional but had not voiced his opinion. Worst of all, Blake’s nose from bridge to tip was so thin the glasses always slipped down, and he was forever pushing them back up with his forefinger like a latter-day Clark Kent. Marshall, by comparison, rocked the look.

“Now put on your face mask and ski hat.”

Spencer enjoyed making Marshall do his bidding and with the hat, the glasses and the black mask, Marshall was pretty much unrecognisable.

“Go and look in the mirror.”

Marshall did as asked and chuckled at his reflection.

“The shades you wore yesterday were a bit much, by the way,” said Spencer. “Rather than make you look invisible, you came across as sinister, as though you were about to rob a bank or murder someone. But these make you look normal, and as the mask is mandatory right now, you’re not only being socially responsible, you’re also incognito and pretty hot.”

“Okay,” said Marshall, removing his mask and smiling at the last comment, but turning quizzically to Spencer. “What’s happening right now? Are you throwing me out?”

“Of course not. But at the end of the arcade of shops downstairs,” said Spencer, “there’s a locally run artisan coffee shop which also serves food. It’s doubtful anyone would recognise you in the twenty yards from here to there, but let’s not take any chances. They open at six-thirty, but I’m told the morning rush doesn’t start until around seven-thirty to eight. I’m usually gone by then. Dressed like this, both of us in glasses, we look like a couple of nerdy friends, or at a push you could be my older brother. I suggest we go down, get some decent coffee and a muffin or bagel while you check your phone and let Darcy know where you are. And I can phone in sick.”

Marshall turned quickly at that comment.

“You’re not going to work today?”

“You know what, Marshall? I have never taken a sickie in the two years I’ve worked for Blackmores. I think I’m due a bit of latitude to spend the day taking care of a special friend in need. I think they can do without me for just one day, don’t you?”

Marshall’s generous smile lit up his face, and Spencer felt his stomach turn to jelly.

“I do. And can I say how nice it feels to have you looking after me. Are we ready to go, best geek friend?”

As soon as he pushed open the door to the Morden Bean Sanctuary, pungent aromas enveloped them both. Spencer visited the place very occasionally, on Saturday or Sunday mornings to check his phone, and recognised neither of the young servers behind the counter. Monday morning and only two tables out of around twenty were occupied, probably by other insomniacs.

Spencer took Marshall’s order then pointed to the empty table at the far end of the shop, a private corner where two armchairs of battered brown leather sat around a low circular coffee table. As Marshall, quite rightly, took the seat with his back to the room, Spencer noticed him fish in his jacket pocket for his phone and make a call. Some minutes later he joined Marshall with a tray of drinks—an Americano and a caffè mocha for Marshall, and an extra-shot caffè latte for himself—together with a plate of assorted muffins. He’d also bought a couple of croissants, and slices of quiche and pies to take away, for lunch, and had packed those into his bag.

“Have you checked in?” asked Spencer, lowering the tray onto the table. Marshall had removed his mask but kept the hat and glasses on. Although Spencer would have still recognised him by his handsome smile, nobody from the road or the door could see his face.

“Just spoke with Darcy. Things are much as we expected. She’s been flooded with calls from the press and she’s handling them with her usual hard-nosed professionalism. But we’re going to need to talk later today. At least she knows where I am now, and she’s going to pick me up around seven this evening. Fortunately I’m not needed in the studio this week, but Darcy is adamant that I don’t stay off the radar for too long, doesn’t want me to appear as though I’ve got anything to hide. Look, Spence, if you need to go in to work today—”

“Marshall. I’m staying home with you,” said Spencer, ripping away his mask. “In fact, I’m going to call our HR team right now—they won’t be in the office yet, but I’ll leave a message—and then I’ll text Bev and my boss. Neither will be up yet, but for a change they can both cover for me.”

Without a moment of hesitation, Spencer made the calls. As anticipated the one to HR went straight to the department voicemail, so he left a message saying he’d woken with a fever—which wasn’t far from the truth—and thought he should be a good corporate citizen and stay home. After that he texted both Clarissa and Bev, saying he was unwell, knowing both of them checked their respective phones for messages first thing. In a final act of defiance and with a self-satisfied sigh, he thumbed the power off button on his device.

“Done. Now I’m all yours for the day, without fear of getting any disturbances.”

“I’m honoured. Thank you, Spence.”

Spencer had begun to enjoy Marshall using his shortened name.

“Have you checked any of the online tabloids yet?”

“Yes,” said Marshall, turning his phone around and showing Spencer the same photo on the homepage of a morning tabloid internet site. “The article has obviously spilled onto the dailies. The cheap rags are having a field day at my expense.”

Spencer’s stomach curdled when he read the headline, not so much at Marshall being gay, but at the insinuation about him being involved in underaged sex. Once again Spencer decided to digress to save Marshall’s feelings.

“I have to say that resort looks amazing. Private, I’m guessing?”

“It was—or should have been. Don’t know if you read the whole article, but that photograph was taken in St Cezaire sur Siagne on the French Riviera. I hired a villa with a tennis court and swimming pool for the two of us. About five years ago. It had been a busy year. Joey had a few weeks off from shooting the soap, and he’d bought this new camera drone he liked playing around with. Which is how he managed to get photos of him starkers with his backside on full view and the one with me leaning over to kiss him. Thank goodness I chose to maintain my modesty.”

“Have to say, you rock those Speedos.”

“Thank you. Maybe I can model them for you one day.”

Spencer enjoyed the gentle flirting.

“Maybe you can. What do they mean by the heading? How old was he?”

Marshall stopped drinking his coffee and sat back.

“In the photo? He’d have been around thirty, I guess.”

“Okay, so when did the law change?”

“I’m not with you?”

“Well, the last time I checked, the age of consent to any form of sexual activity in this country was sixteen for both men and women. How is Joey considered a minor?”

Marshall heaved a huge sigh.

“They’re selling newspapers, Spence, so they need a juicy headline. If you’d read the whole article, you’ll know the reporter goes on to say that I first met Joey when he was fourteen and I was twenty-one, which is correct. I was at university with his brother, Alex, and over the summer went to visit them in their family home in Dorset. What I don’t like is the insinuation that anything happened between us back then.”

“The tabloids love their fake news.”

“Don’t they just. On that brief visit, I barely said a word to Joey apart from a formal hello. They have a large family, six of them, Joey being the youngest and Alex the oldest.”

“Is Alex gay?”

“God, no. Single-mindedly heterosexual. Back in our uni days, he was intent on seducing as many of the world’s female population as he could, if you know the type.”

“You just described my brother.”

“He’s a changed man now he’s married, a doting husband and father of three.”

“Maybe there’s hope for Garrett, then. Are you still in touch?”

“Yes. But I’m not sure how he’s going to take all this. Or his parents, come to that. We used to get on so well together. I hope they don’t believe the underage sex inference.”

Marshall looked away, clearly lost in thought. Spencer noticed customers arriving in the cafe and looked about to check nobody was settling nearby before continuing the conversation.

“When did you and Joey get together?”

“Not until much later. We met again a few years after that first meeting, when Joey turned seventeen and came out to his parents. Knowing about me, they asked if I would have a chat with him—provide some wisdom, so to speak—about what it means to be gay.”

“And that’s what brought you together?”

“No, not at all. In fact, I think Joey didn’t particularly like me. It was years later that we met at the television studio Christmas party. He’d have been twenty-seven and had just landed his role in Waterloo Lane. Back then, my career was beginning to take off as well, so I spent a lot of time working abroad. But we managed to make things work and a couple of years later he’d moved. We were together around five years.”

“When did you break up, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“A year after those photos were taken. I can’t say I blame him. I spent most of my time travelling the world, so he was left alone far too much. Those were heady days for him, too. His first taste of the spotlight. Got invited to a lot of parties while I was away. And whenever I returned from anywhere, we spent the first couple of days fighting. He said I treated him like a fisherman’s wife, left at home to wait for the husband to return to port. But the heated arguments felt a lot like what my parents had gone through and I could feel him slipping away. I used to say there would always be collateral damage being in a relationship with someone who spends so much time away and often in combat zones. He used to tell me I’m a rank outsider bet in the love and relationship stakes.”

The admission sent a wave of sadness through Spencer, but then his natural optimism bounded back.

“Don’t sell yourself short, handsome. People have been known to win big on rank outsiders.”

For all of his melancholy mood, Marshall grinned at Spencer and even laughed a little.

“What are you planning to do about the article?” asked Spencer. “Did Darcy say?”

“That’s the first question I asked, one of the reasons she wants us to meet up later. There’s not much we can do about the Tribute now—”

“How about suing the bastards for every penny they have?”

“That’s not going to make the article disappear, is it? It’s already out there.”

“Might feel good though. So what’s the plan, then?”

“Sometimes the best line of defence is attack. Darcy has a strategy. I think she’s going to arrange for me to do an exclusive with a more reputable Sunday paper, through a sympathetic journalist, and tell them my story, the real story. Let them take the Tribute to pieces for their shoddy journalism. And in the meantime, our legal team are working on getting the editor to publish an apology and take down the online photos.”

“But if you do another story, won’t you have to come out publicly?”

“Which is honestly such a joke. I’ve been out of the closet since the age of twenty. Everyone at university knew and so does everyone I work with. And I haven’t exactly been a monk since I graduated. There are plenty of men who can and will support my story, if I ask them.”

“Not Joey, though.”

“No, not Joey,” said Marshall a little harshly.

Spencer wanted to ask more about Joey, but sensed Marshall’s deep sadness and disappointment when he spoke about his ex. He did not understand how somebody could betray a person as pleasant and as genuine as Marshall.

“How will they cope without you there today?” asked Marshall.

“They’ll manage. But I know they’ll all be shitting bricks at the meeting this morning, what with no special entertainment slot for the client Christmas bash and the lack of a decent showpiece for the magazines during the holiday season. Muriel Moresby is on a mission to get a top-notch celebrity interview for the December issue of Collective. She’s even offering an incentive bonus to anyone who can land someone decent. Desperate or what? I think she approached you already at the charity event, the one where we first met.”

“I said no.”

“Of course you did. Quite right, too. Those interview articles tend to be a combination of fluff and personal intrusion, and that’s about the last thing you need right now. Somebody ought to bloody well interview her. Give her a taste of her own medicine.”

Spencer took another sip of his caffè latte and savoured another warm hit to his bloodstream. With a soft snort, he wondered who would sort out the coffee order for the morning meeting, but then shrugged the thought away. Somehow they would manage without him. Or not, he didn’t care.

“Wait,” said Marshall, his voice grabbing Spencer’s full attention. “Back up a moment. That’s actually a brilliant idea. How about you suggest to Muriel that I interview her and her husband live on stage at the client event? And they can get the whole thing filmed. As long as she’s happy to have me involved, what with everything that’s going on. That would be a great platform for people to get to know the couple, warts and all. And then they can use the material for the Christmas edition of Collective? We might even be able to get the station to air something, if Moresby will allow our crew in to record. That way I stay in the spotlight and Muriel gets her interview.”

Spencer sat stunned. An interview with the Moresbys, warts and all? What would the world make of the real Muriel Moresby? With Marshall asking the questions, no punches would be pulled. But would she even buy into the idea? After a few moments, he came back down to earth.

“I’m not sure how she would feel about that,” said Spencer.

“Not a good idea, then?”

“Are you kidding me! It’s a fantastic idea. But would you really do that?”

“Why not? Okay, so she’s not the usual kind of high-profile subject I might interview, but like I said, as long as she’s onboard, everybody wins. Muriel gets her interview, and I remain visible—”

“And I get a bonus.”

“And you get a bonus,” said Marshall, chuckling. “I’ll need to square things off with Darcy and the network, but I’m sure she’ll be up for the idea. I’ll ask her when she drops by to pick me up later.”

“Just so we’re clear, that’s not why I invited you in yesterday. To take advantage of your celebrity status.”

“I know that,” said Marshall, before becoming pensive. “But out of interest, why did you let me in? I wasn’t completely sure you would.”

Spencer’s words died in his mouth. How much should he tell Marshall about how much he liked him, really liked him? And how he only wanted the best for him. When Spencer looked up into his eyes to answer, he noticed the coffee shop had filled noticeably.

“You’re a complete arse if you need to ask. Have you finished yet? This place is beginning to get busy.”

Marshall smirked at Spencer before draining the last of his coffee. Readying to leave, he pulled his ski hat down around his ears and put on his black mask.

“How do I look?”

“Like a tourist who’s lost his way in the French Alps. Now, is there anyone you need to text or call before we leave? Remember we’re off the grid upstairs.”

“Nope, I’m good.”

“Excellent. I’ve bought pastries for lunch so we don’t go hungry. We need to walk back past my door, so I’ll give you the key and my phone and I’ll see you back upstairs. I’m going to stock up with extra food from the convenience store. It’ll be open by now.”

“You don’t need to give me your phone, Spence. I do trust you.”

“I know that,” said Spencer, handing over the items as they headed for the coffee shop door. “But I’ll have my hands full, so you’ll be doing me a favour.”

When Marshall stepped in front and opened the door, Spencer’s lenses immediately steamed up from the waft of icy air hitting his face. Removing them for a second to wipe them, he popped them back on and stepped out into the cold morning.

“Oh my God, it’s you, isn’t it?” came the shrill voice of a girl standing outside, her eyes wide, as Marshall followed him through the door. She stood across the pavement by a litter bin, a cigarette in one hand and her cardboard coffee cup in the other.

Spencer and Marshall froze, both staring at her. Spencer wondered if they could make a run for his front door. But then he noticed her attention was not on Marshall at all, but on him.

“I’m sorry, I think you’ve got mixed up—” began Spencer.

“Shut up, I know it’s you. Tom Holland. Spider-Man. The hair totally gives you away.”

“Actually, I’m not,” said Spencer, as Marshall moved behind him. To make his point, Spencer once again removed his mask and glasses, even though the girl became little more than a blur.

“Oh,” she said, the disappointment in her voice plain. “No. You’re not.”

“Don’t worry, he gets that all the time,” said Marshall, clearly enjoying himself.

“Yeah, no. My mistake,” said the girl, turning away to take a puff on her cigarette.

Spencer grabbed a chuckling Marshall’s arm and hauled him along the road.

“Not funny, Marshall.”

“I beg to differ.”

“Get up those stairs,” said Spencer, laughing along, enjoying the light-hearted camaraderie. “I’ll deal with you later.”

“Promises, promises,” said Marshall, stopping at the front door and winking at Spencer.