Personal Account BALANCE: -£2,050.60
After the presentation, I’ve had time to have a panic attack, go to a party, break into a swimming pool, get hot and heavy with a stranger, then run back to my room to seriously regret getting hot and heavy with a stranger. It’s nearly 2 a.m. So why the hell isn’t Spencer in this hotel suite by now?
I stole one of his two key cards during the welcome drinks, and I thought the best plan was to ambush the little coward in his room. Instead, my head is pounding as I pace the decadent space alone with my thoughts. Rhythmic pain lances against my temples like someone wrapped a saucepan in a bath towel and is repeatedly smashing it over my skull.You’ve done it now, Jess.
Get it out of my system.What was I thinking? The only reason I needed to get it out of my system was because Oliver was flirting with me. Besides the unfortunate case of mistaken identity, Oliver was kind, fun, attentive, empathetic, understanding. After three years of feeling nothing, he flicked the switch that whirred my sex drive back to life. I should have stopped at the bar. I should have stopped at the pool. I should have stoppedat the hot tub. There were so many opportunities to leave, but I was stuck to him like he was a sexy American magnet and I was a rusty nail.
I consume the contents of Spencer’s complimentary minibar, since I’m paying for them anyway. Stress eating salted popcorn, smoked almonds, mini KitKats, jelly beans, and some spicy wasabi peas while scrolling through the social media coverage and reactions to Spencer’s presentation. Wyst has gained over nine hundred followers on Instagram today, thanks to the positive coverage from Round One of TechRumble. I end up on YouTube, watching the competitors’ presentations. As much as I hate to admit it, Spencer did a great job getting into character. Shots of the crowd applauding flash up on the screen, but one frame makes my body freeze. My finger drags across the screen to rewind the footage. That guy in the crowd looks so much like Malcolm. My heart pounds as I take two fingers and zoom into the video. It’s pixelated, dark, and grainy—it’s probably not him and I’m just being paranoid. Why would he have even been there? He’s just on my mind, like he is after every romantic encounter I’ve had since the day I left Graystone Asset Management. I hate that he’s always here, always casting any experience in a dark light. I thought I didn’t have time to think about Malcolm after finding out who Oliver really is, but it pains me to see that he’s clearly still there, just sitting in my subconscious and making me see ghosts. And besides, the audience has been mostly the teams of the companies that entered into Round One, smaller investors, tech bros, and journalists. It can’t be him. There’s no reason for Malcolm to be here. This man looks older, skinnier, and disheveled, not the blond-haired trust-funded rake who wore me down, pestering me to go outwith him, then ruining my life. I reason with myself that I’m just stressed and it manifests as faces in the crowd.
Eventually, once the stomachache has thoroughly set in, I fall asleep on the gigantic squishy corner sofa that’s comfier than any surface I’ve ever slept on. My sleep is fractured, memories flashing into bright focus, then murky dark, like familiar rooms with lights flickering on and off. Shadowy figures appear and disappear from view as I try to make sense of where I am.
My body leaps awake as the beep of the key card scanner and the door latch echo across the space. The main light switches on, causing me to squint at the bouncy and slightly drunk figure bounding through the door.
He seems almost pleased to see me. “Oh my god, that was amazing.” He guffaws, dropping a black branded tote bag full of merchandise and unraveling himself from his black coat. “Theylovedme.”
I’m rigid in the middle of the room. “Wow, Spence. I’msohappy for you.”
This is classic Spencer. Being so blinded by attention, he’ll push anyone out of the way to get it. Like when we were seven, he literally pushed me out of the way into a bush when we were trick-or-treating because everyone liked my princess costume more than his Spider-Man costume, ripping my dress and leaving scratches up my arms like I’d been attacked by a baby werewolf.
He doesn’t seem to notice my sarcastic tone. He swans to the minibar fridge and takes out a bottle of Acqua Panna, cracking the cap. “I know, right? Everyone who presented today got invited to this exclusive dinner with the panelists for a more intimate chat.”
A confusing swirl of feelings runs through me, pulling me in opposite directions like a compass out of whack. I sigh. “And you didn’t think that’s something I should have been at?”
He looks at me like I’ve just asked him to run a marathon with me. “Why would my assistant be there?”
I scoff. Is he being serious right now? “Because clearly you can’t be trusted to follow the guidelines. What were you thinking, going off script in front of everyone?”
He shrugs and fans his hands out in confusion. “Urgh, that feels like a decade ago. What did you want me to do? Not fucking dazzle them? We were losing the crowd, and I did what was needed to turn it around. You told me to put on a good show.”
“What are you talking about?”
“At my play, that’s what you said you wanted. I nailed it, and you’re welcome by the way.”
I spit out a laugh and shake my head. “Did you even realize you were making stuff up in front of the entire world, not just the people in the room? The whole thing was live streamed.”
For a blink, his face twitches as he registers the information before smoothing back to normal. “Just think of it more as an embellishment of the truth.”
“A lie is a lie, Spencer.”
“It was no worse than what you’ve lied about to get us here.” He crosses his arms, eyebrows furrowed.
He’s right. When this comes crumbling down, there won’t be headlines about what he said onstage. It will be about the woman who lied to get an investment. Shit, is this what committing fraud is?
My mind scours through the potential fallout like a nit comb through hair.
“It’s worse because I’m going to be a laughingstock; it’ll be Elizabeth Holmes all over again but with less turtlenecks.” I put my forehead in my hands, and my body starts to shake uncontrollably.
“Why would you be a laughingstock?” After a few seconds of silence, his face softens, finally understanding.
Spencer had a front row seat to my downfall from straitlaced golden child to the family embarrassment. His presence was helpful, even if he didn’t realize it; just his physically being there stopped me from doing something I’d regret or hurting myself further than I already had. I try not to think about what I would have done.
I don’t feel like that now, but the memory sometimes returns like a phantom limb, dragging me down when I least expect it. It’s like grief. A loss of my former self, the old relationships with my family, my friends, with myself. I used to like myself, some days even love myself. But after everything happened, things were never the same. Spencer looks at me differently too, no less than I was before but just... different. Like I’ve been cloned with a single piece missing and he can’t figure out what.
My legs shake; I sit back on the sofa, sinking into the cushions. He sits beside me, holding my hand in his and squeezing it rhythmically.
“It’s okay. What happened at your job is not going to happen again,” he reassures me.
“How do you know? All those things you promised? Podcasts, TV shows, YouTube channels, books. You think you’re just saying words up there, but I’m the one who has to execute and fund it, not you. It’ll be my fault if it all falls apart.” Myvoice wobbles. “Do you know how much everything you promised would cost?”
