Chapter 14 #2
“Very weird, almost like someone implied I’m forcing you to give up roles to work for me. She also said you’d turned down another play?”
He shrugs again. “I’m just getting pretty sick of Shakespeare after the play that shan’t be named.”
“Macbeth?”
“Fuck, seriously? Saying it out loud is really bad luck.” He punches me twice in the arm as though to alleviate it.
I punch back once. “Throwing your sister under the bus is worse luck.”
“I didn’t throw you under a bus . . .” He fiddles with his fingers. “Maybe just like a bike or a scooter or something.”
I slump back into my seat. “Spence, you’re already the favorite; just once can you please big me up a bit instead of joining
them in slagging me off?”
He scoffs. “I am not the favorite. I’m just better at packaging my life into sound bites for Mum to pass on to her friends.
You just depress everyone.”
The way he says it sounds like a joke, but my stomach twinges at his words. Do I really depress everyone? Does he just mean Mum and Dad, or does he mean everyone? The thought sits like a layer of concrete in my stomach. “If you’re so good at packaging yourself, why didn’t you take the
job? Don’t lie—you love Shakespeare. How many times did you make me watch that film with Helena Bonham Carter?”
He sighs. “I thought I nailed the audition, so I told Mum they’d practically promised me the role in the room. But when I
got the call, I didn’t even make the chorus.”
My lips spread as I cringe cartoonishly. “That sucks, sorry.”
His mouth forms a straight line. “It went to some kid whose dad is friends with the casting director.”
I hold my mouth agape. “Surely they have to give it to the right person for the role?”
Spencer shrugs. “In this industry, it’s either who you know or who you blow.”
I huff out a laugh, staring at the rolling British countryside. “I’m getting the impression that the tech industry isn’t that
dissimilar.”
He shifts, turning to me. “Look, staying on Mum and Dad’s good side isn’t difficult; you just have to start presenting your
life in a more digestible form.”
“So you’re saying become a better liar?”
“Not lying, just . . .” He waves his hands in the air. “Embellish! Give ’em the ole razzle-dazzle. Next time we’re round theirs,
I’ll help you.”
I crack a small smile. “Thanks. And the casting director was stupid not to choose you,” I offer.
Spencer is a genuinely good actor. Every time I’ve seen him in something he’s gotten even better, from our secondary school’s production of Sweeney Todd to a supporting actor in a local indie short film to a featured extra role as a footman in Bridgerton.
My favorite of his roles was the puppet in a budget production of War Horse.
They couldn’t afford to have a giant stage puppet made, so they hired Spencer to pretend to be the puppet being manipulated by a second actor.
His ability to play an inanimate object made animate was truly inspired.
We sit in silence for a few minutes as the train speeds toward the Channel Tunnel, Spencer having procured his baked goods
and travel snacks while I reply to emails.
“So I’ve been thinking . . .” he says, shoving my elbow off the armrest between us for his. “About this panel talk thing.”
“Uh-huh.” I’m half listening while putting the finishing touches on an email for Dr. Bernie’s agent to send before we lose
phone signal, laying out how we would position her as a major face of Wyst.
“I’m thinking we lean into my idea.” His smile is wide and excited.
“Your idea?”
“Yeah. The multimedia verse of it all. YouTube channels, podcasts, maybe even TV shows.” He purses his lips.
I shift, folding one leg over the other to lean toward him. “Let me get this straight—you want me to go all in on an idea that you made up on the spot when you went rogue in front of literally thousands of people. With no market research, no surveying,
no testing?”
“Yep.” He takes a triumphant bite of an almond croissant, the white powder coating his dark gray cable-knit sweater.
“On what basis?”
He shrugs, taking a bite of flaky pastry. “Vibes, I guess.”
I rub my face; this is what years of being coddled by our parents has taught him. “Acrobats take smaller leaps than you do.”
“Go big or go home—that’s literally the point of this whole thing.” He waves a bag of barbecue Popchips for emphasis.
Once we pull into Gare du Nord, we hop on another train toward the outskirts of Paris. Our suitcases hum across the uneven
pavement as we pant and groan our way over to the car rental place. Upon arrival, I slap down my passport and booking confirmation
for a four-door, five-seater black BMW X3 with trunk space big enough to fit our suitcases and Spencer’s ego. The man behind
the desk simply nods and leads us to a bright red Fiat Punto with two doors and enough space in the back to fit my optimism
for this trip.
Spencer attempts to argue with the man, but he does not speak English and we definitely don’t speak French. After fifteen
minutes of attempted arguing, I interrupt. Say we are “très désolé” and shove Spencer into the passenger seat.
As we circle around to leave the parking lot, avoiding the potholes that will no doubt render this go-cart completely useless,
the man holds up his middle finger and yells, “Bon voyage, putain!”
The invitation to TechRumble stated “Paris” and continued a partnership with the glamorous and extortionately priced Wyatt
Hotels. But upon closer inspection, the hotel isn’t nestled among iconic cafés and bustling shops; it’s a forty-five-minute
car ride from the center of Paris in a tiny French village, nestled between a two-hundred-year-old print shop and a specialist
boulangerie that only opens to the public on a Tuesday afternoon.
With my brother being a self-proclaimed passenger princess with only a provisional license, I am the one driving us down the treacherous French country roads. We trundle along through
picturesque mountains and rolling hills, passing quaint little villages and crumbling chateaus. We stop, on Spencer’s request,
at a series of vast lavender fields. Specifically to take photos for his Instagram, which I threaten him not to post for several
months, as the risk that somebody connects his actor social media presence to Wyst CEO Spencer Cole is too great. He edits
them in the car, making the purples pop even purplier on Facetune as I fiddle with the GPS and eventually get us back on track
to the hotel in the small town of Lac de Lys. The town is very Parisian despite being twenty-five kilometers away from the
city. The hotel, which has a carved wood exterior and iron-patterned windows, looks hundreds of years old.
“Why are we here instead of actual Paris?” Spencer asks; clearly this is the first time he’s paid attention to where we were going since we left the rental
lot.
“I think this might be his hotel,” I say, ignoring his question. A young man in a cream cashmere quarter-zip sweater runs back and forth between a luxury
stagecoach and the entrance, dragging two suitcases at a time over the cobblestones.
As we walk toward the front entrance, I point to a gold plaque shining in the afternoon sun.
Odericco 1967
“I thought this was a Wyatt? Does Dominic own this hotel?” Spencer asks.
“I have no idea,” I say, mouth agape at the grandeur.
The man carrying his last set of bags, sweat glistening on his forehead, walks past us. “It’s run by Wyatt, but the castle was purchased by Alessandro Odericco, Dominic’s grandfather, in the sixties as a holiday home and was later bought by Wyatt and converted into an exclusive boutique hotel.”
“Fucking hell,” says Spencer, taking in a full 360 view of the grounds. His voice turns dreamy like he’s talking only to himself.
“He’s like Christian Grey.”
I cut a side glance to Spencer, not bothering to hide the fully fledged judgment on my face. Spencer comes out of his trance
and wiggles his eyebrows at me.
I roll my eyes, gesturing with my purple travel wallet toward the hotel entrance. “Let’s get inside. I’ve been driving for
ages and need to shower the Eurostar off me.”
“Hmmm, I don’t think so.” Spencer grips the handle of his rolling suitcase, leaning one leg over the other. “You only booked
one room and said we have to be discreet.”
“I can only afford one room.” I purse my lips, but I did say that. Regretting volunteering to sleep on the pullout sofa in the room.
“Oh, it’s no trouble, Sis. But to maintain subtlety, I will be taking this.” He whips the travel wallet from my hand. “And will go check into my room.” He begins to roll forward, leaving me in the drive before saying over his shoulder, “I’ll text you when the coast
is clear, and you can bring your bags up.”
I scoff, coming so close to turning into a child and stomping my foot on the ground. Annoyingly, he is right. We can’t be
seen checking into the same room; that would look incredibly suspicious. But I can’t help but feel like Spencer is enjoying
this a little bit too much.
The floorboards creak under the weight of my wheely suitcase as I wander the seventeenth-century halls.
The interior is old, with carved wood and paneled walls adorned with landscape paintings and a taxidermy warthog, a stark contrast to the sleek, opulent hotel in Rome.
An uneasy feeling creeps along my body; the intimacy of the smaller competitor pool means I can’t just blend into the crowd like I did last time.
My eyes drag on the sign saying Gymnasium, and I push through the door with a hiss into another building. Maybe they have a treadmill I can use to burn off all this
nervous energy.
For an old hotel, the gym is incredibly modern. Everyone in here is either a skinny computer nerd doing neck and back stretches
or a roided-out tech bro lifting like he’s trying to prove a point.
Peeking through the long thin windows into each area of the gym, I spot groups of men playing squash and badminton in state-of-the-art
courts. My attention halts on two familiar figures playing on the basketball court, Oliver and Dominic. They are talking and
laughing while they play. It’s unnerving seeing them be so familiar, like friends rather than the formal boss and assistant
roles they play in public.
Dominic’s dark gray fitted T-shirt showcases a triangle of sweat spotting his chest. Oliver is shirtless, holding his own
against Dominic’s natural authoritative demeanor.
I lean against the door as I watch them; Oliver’s back muscles shift, sweat glistening as he weaves the ball away from Dominic with athletic precision.
I really could have done without the reminder of his hot and wet body.
Knowing I’m staying in the same hotel as him is going to make this trip a whole lot harder.
I should stay away from him; getting closer can only mean trouble.
My tired body presses against the door, only for the latch to click shut, echoing through the court.
Oliver and Dominic glance toward the door in unison, and I drop to the floor, unsure if they saw me.
After a few seconds, I crawl out of the way of the window and scramble away, my suitcase dragging behind me. Maybe instead
of a run, I just need a very cold shower.