Chapter 11 #2
how are you going to achieve greatness with no money to get it off the ground? Gotta fake it till you make it, baby!”
The gurgling feeling in my stomach subsides. We’ll find out tomorrow whether we made it or not. I guess there’s nothing left
to do but relax.
I look around at his giant hotel room. “Can I stay here for a while longer? Order room service?”
He gives me a soft look and squeezes my hand. “As long as you’re paying.”
We sink into the sofa, watching an Italian-dubbed version of She’s the Man.
We know most of the lines anyway. These moments remind me of when we were old enough to stay home alone when Mum and Dad went out.
We made popcorn, wore out our favorite DVDs, and ate our weight in sweets we’d bought at the corner shop with our secret stash of coins.
We bought ice cream and drank the melted remains like warm milkshakes so we could wash the packaging and hide it in our schoolbags to discard in the cafeteria bins.
Once, Spencer had to distract our parents while I hid the remains of our sneaky feasts under our beds.
Of course, we both forgot they were there until a sour, tangy smell began emanating from the room.
Mum found out, and we had to eat extra vegetables with every meal for a week.
She replaced the sweet treats in our lunches with raisins, throwing any playground street cred out the window.
I wake several hours later on the sofa, with a cashmere blanket laid over me, being lightly shaken by Spencer. “Jessie, wake
up.” I open my eyes to see the morning light peeking through the curtains.
“What?” I ask, my voice groggy. “Shit, is it time to check out?”
“No, it’s time to fucking celebrate!” He holds his bright phone screen to my face. I wince, adjusting to the light as I read
the black-and-white text:
Dear Mr. Cole,
Thank you for attending the Odericco Investments TechRumble Round One.
We are pleased to inform you that Wyst has been selected to enter TechRumble Round Two. Please accept our congratulations.
Details are attached.
Odericco Investments
Opening my phone, I see the forwarded email and click on the attachment.
Odericco Investments invites you to take part in the start-up panel at TechRumble Round Two in partnership with Wyatt Regency
Paris.
“Paris!” Spencer shouts, throwing himself onto his bed. My neck cricks as I pull my body from the sofa.
“We got through,” I say to no one.
“And we’re going to Paris!” Spencer squeals.
Round Two. For a magical moment, I let my brain relax. You did it. You didn’t fail.
Then the timeline hits; we have to be in Paris in three weeks. The Wyst beta test launches in a month’s time. I’ll have to
prepare for both, coaching Spencer on the product while making the product as flawless as possible. Maybe we could premiere
it at TechRumble? Is that too ambitious?
“There’s so much to do for it.” I pull my laptop out and immediately start typing up a new timeline.
“I think in Paris I’m going to wear a turtleneck instead of a shirt.” He looks at himself in the floor-length mirror. “It’s
more chic.”
“Well, that answers my question,” I say hopefully. “You’ll do the next round?”
He smiles and pulls me in for a hug. “Of course.” He sighs, flicking an imaginary lock of hair over his shoulder. “Dominic
would miss me if I didn’t.”
I smile. “We have to prep you thoroughly next time. We’d be launching the week after. There’ll be a lot more difficult questions
once the beta is live.”
He waves a nonchalant hand. “It’ll be fine. Prep me all you want. I’ll show up and do my thing, and they’ll be eating out
of my hands.”
“Our hands,” I correct.
“Uh-huh.” He nods, fixing his hair in the mirror.
Getting through to the next round of TechRumble means more eyes on Wyst. Informing investors that have rejected us in the past that we got through to the second round. Maybe more sign-ups for the beta launch.
I call Cecily, and once the excited screams have subsided, I come to a wild thought. “Maybe we should go for it. Create a
social campaign around this whole thing and push the idea of Wyst being a successful company into the ether.”
“It’s kind of insane, but it’s doable,” Cecily says over speakerphone.
“Kind of? It’s certifiable,” I confirm.
Pulling up our finances, I look at the money eroded by Round One. I’ve spent way too much already. I didn’t factor in the
drinks from the assistants party. It’s crazy how having a good time can suck up your finances.
I glance up to my brother. “We’ll have to be a bit more . . . frugal . . . if we go to Paris.”
Spencer shrugs. “I can manage a king room instead of a whole suite.”
I purse my lips. “I mean, we might have to share next time.”
Spencer scoffs. “But you want me to act first-class? How am I meant to do that in economy?”
I cross my arms. “Fine, I’ll try to figure something out.”
Maybe I can sleep on the floor in the lobby.
To Spencer’s point, it would be strange for a CEO and his assistant to be sharing a room.
I wish things were easier than this, that I could focus on winning the competition rather than scraping by to be present for the next round.
Instead of being occupied with thoughts of how to impress the judges, how to wow the crowds with new and exciting innovations, I’m thinking about how to sneak into breakfast, so we’re not charged an extra thirty euros a head every morning.
The details for Paris have yet to be released, but it feels like a competition in itself to be able to drop everything else
to attend these events. Maybe it’s a test Dominic and Odericco Investments set deliberately to see who truly has what it takes,
but I can’t help but think about how many amazing ideas and innovations have been ignored simply because they couldn’t get
the initial funding.
My email dings with an automated reminder from NatWest about exceeding my overdraft. Spencer bounds to his suitcase, pulling
clothes to his body and practicing his French accent.