Chapter 5 #2
this opportunity has landed right in our laps!”
He crosses his arms, coughs out a laugh, and stares at the floor.
“Listen. I’m begging you; this is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity,” I plead.
Spencer’s attention lifts. “Once in a lifetime? So you think you’re going to win?”
I suck my teeth. “No way, I don’t think we have a chance in hell of placing.”
He flaps his arms out in exasperation. “Then why do you wanna go?”
I glance around, trying to think of a way he could understand this. “It’s like your play. You didn’t do this whole production
to win an Olivier Award. You performed with the hope that someone in the audience would see your talent and be willing to
give you a chance.” I sigh. “Wyst is never going to win, but if we put on a good enough show, the smaller investors might start paying attention.”
His shoulders ease. “But how would I pretend to be a CEO?”
Gesturing around at the piles of props, a hastily thrown together makeup station, and racks of costumes, I say, “Hmmm, I wonder
how?”
“It’s not acting if there’s no script,” he counters. “And I hate doing improv.”
Seizing the moment, I reach into my bag and hand him a lilac Wyst-branded folder with the presentation and notes. “Au contraire . . .”
I am nothing if not prepared.
He whips the folder from my fingers and spends the next minute silently flicking through it, the laminated sheets crinkling
as he throws them one by one to the left.
He shakes his head at the folder, then swipes his eyes up to mine. “I don’t understand this.”
“Which pages?” I lean to see where he’s looking.
“The ones with words on them.” He snaps it shut. “How am I meant to present something I don’t understand?”
I wipe away the dust from my hands. “You’re telling me you understood everything you said onstage tonight? You understood
the meaning of every line of Shakespeare?”
He purses his lips and blinks. “What about questions? We don’t do a Q and A on sonnets and iambic pentameter after the show.
How am I meant to answer things these nerds ask me?”
I smile. “Do you remember that scene in Freaky Friday when Lindsay Lohan is onstage miming playing guitar with the band, but Jamie Lee Curtis is actually the one slamming it offstage? We can do it like that, with wireless headphones. I’ll call your phone before you go on, that way I can pep talk you throughout if necessary and answer any questions live.
You just have to repeat what I say.” My words come in a calm, managed tone, but in reality I have no idea if we’ll be able to pull off this part of the plan.
“Riiiight. But . . . what do I get out of this?”
“Apart from a free trip to Rome? The joy of helping your favorite sister,” I deadpan.
He leans against the wall, arms crossed, and lifts an inquisitive eyebrow. “Besides that.”
“I’ll let you keep my jeans.” I point at his legs.
He scratches his thigh. “They’re kinda itchy anyway.”
“I’ll let you use my flat as rehearsal space?” His open-plan warehouse shared with four other creatives has a strict rule
about unsolicited performances in the common spaces.
He grimaces. “Nah, we started using Jeremiah’s dad’s apartment on Old Street while he’s at work.”
I dig deep; if I know my brother . . . what he wants more than anything in the whole world is to be famous for his craft.
He needs exposure, and I know exactly where I can get him some.
“I’ll get Cecily to post about your next show.” She’s not an influencer; she just has influence. Her one hundred thousand followers are obsessed with her candid posts. If she says she’ll be at an event, ticket
sales immediately increase. It’s honestly where a lot of the digital word of mouth originally came from for Wyst.
He presses off the wall with a flourish. “Ladies and gentlemen, we have a winner!”
“Great.” I immediately pull out my phone and open the browser tab with two easyJet flights to Rome already in the basket.
“I’ll need to get working on my lines right away.” He starts pacing, a plan forming in his head. “And develop the physical presence of the character. Who are we flying with? BA?”
“EJ.” I tense, hoping he won’t catch on.
“Okay, sounds good.” He nods with a finger on his chin. “So if I’m the CEO”—he stretches his neck like he’s seeing if the
costume fits—“who would you be? My security?”
I purse my lips. “I need a reason to stay close and the guy on the phone thinks the CEO has an assistant called Violet, so
I guess it makes sense that she would be me.” The best lie is a consistent one after all. “Does this mean you’ll do it?” I
try to stop the upward tug of my lips, the hope creeping into my chest.
He rolls his eyes, trying to hide the excited smile curling over his mouth. “Fine.”
“Thank you, thank you, thank you!” I pull out my phone, excited for the first time in months about what the future might bring.
“So there are a few hostels to choose from, but I’ll book the accommodations tonight and—”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” Spencer throws his hands up, back straightening. “No way. I will do this massive favor for you, but you’re not making me play the part of a fancy CEO, then putting me up in some dodgy Italian hostel.”
“Well, we can’t really stay in the conference hotel; a hostel is all the budget allows,” I reply, using the business lingo
that loosely translates to “I’m fucking broke.” I’m probably going to have to take out a credit card to pay for this trip.
“You just said this is the big leagues, Jess. How is it going to look if everyone else is staying on site and I’m rocking up in crumpled clothes after bunking with a bunch of students.
” He nods to himself assuredly as he starts to pack up his bags, clearly thinking through his argument as he goes. “And I want my own room.”
I purse my lips; okay, he does have a point. “We can stretch it, but we’ll have to share a twin room.”
He crosses his arms. “Sorry, that’s my main condition. You know how many tech bros are closeted?” He juts his chin out like
it was so obvious, the trademark twinkle in his eye remaining even under sputtering light.
“I’m not booking you a shag pad; you’re there to play a professional,” I remind him.
“So in that case . . . why would a professional”—he spits the word in a mocking tone—“be sharing a room with his female assistant?” Knowing he’s made a second great point,
he starts heading toward the stairs back from the subterranean level. I can practically feel the money draining out of my
account, like blood being leeched from my veins as I follow him up the stairs.
“All right, you can have your own room.” I stick out my lower lip, nod my head, and add another room to the bookings page.
He turns, throwing his army uniform over his shoulder as he bounds up the stairs. “I’ll only go if I get a suite!”