Chapter 14
Recent transactions:
The morning of our train to Paris started in boxes. I emailed my landlord when I got home from the Dr. Bernie town hall and
realized that maintaining a residence was one of my biggest monthly outgoings. If I didn’t have to pay rent, I wouldn’t have
to pay myself a salary. And I have a perfectly good sofa in the conference room of the office, as well as storage space for
my stuff. What I did not anticipate was my landlord being so keen on the idea, he emailed saying he would cut my contract
short and waive any admin fees if I could be out by the end of the week. Being in Paris for most of this week, I spent the
majority of the past twenty-four hours packing up my effects and transferring them via a minivan cab into the office.
As my boots echo across the concourse of St. Pancras Eurostar, my phone starts buzzing for the third time in a row.
I sigh, picking up my backpack and throwing it over my sore shoulder before finally clicking Accept Call. “Hey, Mum.”
“Hi, Jess, are you with Spencer?”
“Not right now, no.” I glance at my watch—if he hasn’t arrived at the station yet, he’s going to miss the train. “How are
you?”
A loud exhalation runs like static down the phone. “Things have been simply awful. Our neighbors just planted cherry blossom
trees in their front garden, the petals are everywhere, and they go all mushy and sticky and stained the driveway. Your father
is livid.”
“Wow, that does sound awful,” I say, trying my best to humor her as I continue to scan the crowd of travelers for Spencer.
She pauses for a few seconds before saying, “Well, there’s no need to be sarcastic is there?”
“I wasn’t. I’m genuinely upset on your behalf. That is awful of your neighbors down the road to plant a tree without discussing
it with you first.” In my defense, it’s difficult to not sound sarcastic when you’re humoring a ridiculous person.
Mum and Dad have always been dramatic; I guess that’s where Spencer (and admittedly, sometimes me) gets it from.
“So, ummm . . . why are you calling? I’m a little busy right now,” I say, pacing back and forth in front of security in case
Spencer arrives.
A tall man with broad shoulders and dark hair brushes past me, and for a second I think it’s Oliver until the man turns to
the side and reveals a smaller nose and less defined jaw. My fingers have been tingling at the urge to look him up online
again, to waste an hour going full girlie research mode and finding more traces of his internet presence.
I shouldn’t care. But knowing he’s going to be in the same place as me today sends a charge up my spine, hitting a nerve I thought long dead. It’s just because he’s hot, I reason. But I can’t get over the way he accurately assessed me, the way he couldn’t have known how I was feeling about
Spencer, TechRumble, and the chaos of keeping up this facade but completely understood how it affected me. I hate to admit
it to myself, but I’m excited at the possibility of seeing him again. I’ve been on tenterhooks imagining I might see him on
the Eurostar and play out a Before Sunset scenario.
Mum crashes through my wistful train of thought. “I’m calling because Spencer said you’ve roped him in for some sort of . . .
project?” I can feel her flippantly throwing her hand in the air.
“With Wyst, yes,” I clarify with as little detail as possible. Telling her we’ve already been to Rome and are leaving for
Paris in thirty minutes will send this conversation down a rabbit hole I won’t be able to scrape out of. Even at the ripe
old age of twenty-seven, it feels strange and rebellious to leave the country without telling your parents. They don’t care
where I am any other day of the week, but for some reason adding a passport into the mix adds a level of childishness for
which I feel I must be held accountable.
She tuts in the receiver. “Jessica, Spenny has a lot of roles coming up, which he needs to make sure he’s prepared for. He
has a gift; he can’t keep turning down acting roles for you willy-nilly.”
I stop in my tracks, almost bumping into a group of tourists wearing matching Union Jack bucket hats. “He turned down a role?”
Her voice hitches up by an octave; she knows she’s surprised me. “Yes, and it’s incredibly selfish for you to ask that of
him.”
I furrow my brow. “Which role, exactly, did he turn down?”
“Were you not even listening when he told you? You can be so self-centered; you need to work on keeping your ears open.”
My survival instincts kick in, so I do the adult thing of nodding, agreeing, and ignoring. “Okay. Sorry.”
“You should be apologizing to him, not me. What is he even doing at your company?” she asks.
I don’t think either of my parents has ever said the name Wyst out loud. Like giving it a name would give it life, an acknowledgment
of its existence beyond me talking to them about it at obligatory bimonthly family dinners. Usually, these involve Spencer
regaling us all with fabulous tales of his brief on-set chat with Ian McKellan about his favorite dried vegetable snacks in
between takes and me occasionally mentioning something about Wyst to the sound of sighing.
“Spencer is doing . . . sales,” I say as neutrally as possible; it’s technically not a lie. I’ve said a lot of “not-technically
lies” recently so I might as well add one more into the mix. A trifle of omitted truths. Before my mum has a chance to question
me further, I jump in with one of my own. “Hey, Mum, I was wondering if there was any chance I could come stay in mine and
Spencer’s old room for a few days. I’m looking for a new flat at the moment and—”
She interrupts me. “Sadly not, we’ve moved everything out so Dad could fit his gym equipment in.”
“Where is it all now?” I ask.
“Where’s what?” she asks.
“My stuff?” I try to keep my tone level as I slump into a cold metal chair on the train platform. Picturing my first bunny rabbit teddy Mopsy stuffed into a cardboard box.
“I asked Spencer and he said to give his to a charity shop, so I assumed you’d want the same.”
“Right, you couldn’t have kept it and checked with me as well? Not just Spencer?” I don’t know why I’m even asking, to be
honest. This is like when they decided to clean out the attic and threw out all my old school notebooks. I didn’t need them
for anything besides sentimentality but just throwing away part of my childhood without a second thought felt like a personal
declaration of disinterest.
“I guess I’m just the world’s worst mother! Your dad’s high cholesterol diagnosis was a tad more pressing than a box of old
clothes and trinkets, Jessica. His doctor told him he has to be doing cardio exercise every day. Where else did you expect
him to put his cross trainer?”
I swallow another five minutes of lecturing before promptly saying my goodbyes. I tap my fingers on the arm of the chair,
staring at my reflection in the black phone screen. A notification from my banking app pulls me out of my fugue state. Okay,
this is fine. I just need to find a way to get money and shelter. I could enter into one of those flu vaccine medical trials?
But then I’d be stuck in a room in a university medical facility for three weeks instead of being in Paris keeping an eye
on Spencer. I don’t fully trust he won’t go rogue onstage again, saying anything to draw in the crowd’s attention and adoration.
I could do a million of those paid online surveys or get Pacha to build some sort of AI program to fill out surveys pretending
to be me. But the last thing I want is for Pacha and Cecily to think they are working on a sinking ship.
Mum’s brother Uncle Rob always goes on about how much he makes in his weekly poker games.
Maybe I could give it a go. But that would involve knowing how to play poker .
. . Maybe they do other card games, like Old Maid or Snap?
Anything you play on the beach between trips into the sea and reapplying sand-covered sunscreen would do.
I could ask my parents for the money. No. I couldn’t. That is the absolute last option. If it wasn’t for keeping up with Cecily’s
and Pacha’s salaries, I would never, ever consider it. My gut tells me my parents would say no anyway, which has been bolstered
by Mum saying no to accommodating me for a few days. And on the slim chance they agreed, it would be the defining moment of
Wyst. Something they could hold over me for the rest of my life. Every success would be because they had to step in. Because
they had to bail me out when I couldn’t run my own company anywhere but into the ground.
I guess I can live in the office for a couple of months, just to get through the launch period. Use my salary to pay for Paris,
and who knows, we might make it to Round Three if we’re lucky.
Spencer finally makes it through security, and we jump onto the Eurostar with five minutes to spare. Sounds of boarding announcements
punctuate our conversation as we shuffle onto the hissing train. I decide to wait to interrogate Spencer until he is trapped
in the seat next to me.
Spencer’s suitcase is even bigger than last time. He grunts and pants as he drags and positions both of ours onto the almost
full racks, shoving them into place. We plonk down in our seats—economy, despite his consistent protests.
“We’re going to stay in a literal French castle. I think you can stand a couple of hours with the little people, Mr. CEO.”
As soon as the train starts moving, I strike.
“I spoke to Mum earlier. Did you tell her you’d turned down an acting role to work at Wyst?”
He tenses like a puppy caught peeing behind the sofa. “Errr, yeah. I think I mentioned something about it.”
I raise an eyebrow at him. “She gave me a lecture about not dragging you down the rabbit hole with me . . .”
“Weird,” he says, avoiding my eyes as he starts to dig through the magazine pouch in front of him. “Do they have breakfast
menus here? I’d love a croissant.”