He turns, throwing his army uniform over his shoulder as he bounds up the stairs. “I’ll only go if I get a suite!”
Chapter 6
Business Account (WYST) BALANCE: £9,502.56
Personal Account BALANCE: -£1,986.62
Recent transactions:
easyJet flights to Rome: £181.98
Wyatt: £2,374.35
The yawning automatic doors slide open as we drag our suitcases across the mezzanine, past the row of well-dressed drivers with names on whiteboards like penguins in a police lineup, out onto Rome airport’s uneven arrivals exit tarmac. My head is pounding due to the three crying babies scattered so perfectly throughout the cabin no seat was untouched by the bloodcurdling screams. The only in-flight entertainment came when everyone turned on the man who shouted, “Will you shut that kid up?” to his nearest baby. The camaraderie was frankly heartwarming.
Originally, we had time to get to the conference hotel, check in, unpack, prepare all the materials, go over the presentation plan, get zhuzhed, then leisurely head down to the welcome drinks hosted in one of the hotel’s event rooms. Instead, due to a three-hour weather delay, we are running to the shuttle bus in the rain. We step around puddles and past the line of tired-faced passengers waiting for taxis and head toward a sign with giant red letters spellingBus navetta.
“Come on.” Spencer waves at me as the long bendy bus covered in images of the statue ofDavidand the Trevi Fountain creaks around the corner of a dilapidated public toilet, sighing to a stop. “The next one is in an hour.”
Following the flow, I run toward the double doors. Tensing my arms to lift my suitcases—one full of clothes, one full of marketing materials—I slam them onto the bus’s black terrazzo floor and squeeze in between an old Italian woman wearing a red babushka headscarf and a couple with matching chestnut hair shouting at each other in Italian.
The bus vibrates to life, and we lurch forward with a long high-pitched moan, the entire crowd of standing bus passengers rocking back and forth in unison like a jar of dill pickles.
After an hour of winding roads, horns beeping, and road rage, we arrive at the hotel. The raw-edged wood and chrome beams give the hotel a distinctly masculine vibe that makes me immediately shrink as I step foot into the wide lobby. Leather chesterfield sofas and armchairs are littered around like burned marshmallows.
Spencer examines the lobby before turning to me. “I thought it would be busier than this.”
“We must be early; the actual TechRumble competition doesn’t officially start until tomorrow, but it’s some obligatory welcome drinks thing tonight.”
He fixes me with a look. “I imagine all the important people have better things to do than be here this early.”
My back straightens in defense. “The rooms are expensive! I wanted to get my money’s worth.”
He sighs. “I think I’ll go to the spa; it’s been a long day.”
I slip Spencer the Wyst company credit card. “You’ll need this to check us in.” Thankfully, it doesn’t have my name on it. When I booked our rooms, I decided to use my conference alias, Violet Leigh, to book mine.
“Here’s your key card, Mr. Cole. The executive suite gym and spa facilities are on the basement floor; you’ll need your key card to access those. Complimentary breakfast is served on floor one between six and nine. Oh, and here is your TechRumble literature and complimentary drink tickets.” The pretty receptionist smiles, handing a matte black key card in a decorative cardboard case and a TechRumble-branded folder to Spencer as a man dressed in a three-piece suit offers to take his bag.
“And yours.” A considerably less pretty smile is afforded to me as she passes over a white shiny key card.
She types something on her computer before looking up once more. “We just need to see your passports please, to have on file.”
A basketball-size knot forms in my stomach as I attempt to school my face into neutrality, faking looking through my handbag to kill some time. The last thing we need is someone questioning my identity the night before the competition even starts. Next to me, Spencer hands his over without a second thought.
I let out a nervous laugh of an inexperienced assistant. “I think mine is at the bottom of my suitcase. Can I bring it later?”
“Ummmm.” The receptionist looks at the man behind her, with a demeanor that suggests “manager.” Spencer glances at me, cottoning on to my dilemma.
He shifts his demeanor into CEO mode, faking a loud laughand adopting an accent considerably posher than his own. “I can certainly vouch for my own assistant’s identity; don’t you worry!”
After receiving a nod from her manager, the receptionist gives us a tight-lipped smile. “Of course, sir.”
“Thank you,” we both reply in unison. I quickly thank the genetic gods that Spencer and I don’t look that similar, because we just sounded identical.
The receptionist gestures her palm out to a nearby teenager in a red blazer. “Our bellhop will bring your bags up to your room.”
“Great, thank you so much,” I reply with a relieved sigh. Once we’re in our rooms we’ll be safe.
