I roll my eyes, trying to stop the embarrassed tug at my lips. “What is wrong with you?”
The cabin rumbles, the floor vibrating under our feet.
His eyes drop to my lips as he shrugs. “I can’t help it, I like it when you’re mean.”
“Well, get used to it.” I contort my arm up behind me to flick the lock open, but he doesn’t open the door. He doesn’t want to leave, and if I’m honest, neither do I. I want the walls to squeeze in like an Indiana Jones film, so it’s not my fault that we’re touching. Plausible deniability. My chest aches at how simple these interactions should have been. I should have been able to stay last night. I should have been able to enjoy whatever this fleeting feeling is, but it’s way too risky. Flirting is onething, but anything further is a risk I can’t take for someone who is essentially a stranger. Even if he is a charming, tall, good-looking stranger with a decent job and is good with his hands.
A bump of turbulence rocks us both, causing my back to bash against the unlocked door so hard it clicks open. We hurtle to the floor, him on top of me. As we fall, he pulls me toward him and twists so he lands on his side and I am partially cushioned by his hard chest. The air is thrust out of us by the landing.
After a few seconds to absorb the shock, I pull my head back to meet the gaze of two flight attendants staring down at us with crossed arms.
Oliver huffs a breathy, nervous laugh, his hands still gripped onto me. “Oh, don’t worry, ladies. We’re justreallygood friends.”
Nerves fried, I return to my seat for landing to find a sleeping Spencer and two empty bags of pretzels.
Chapter 13
Business Account (WYST) BALANCE: £3,696.50
Personal Account BALANCE: -£1,050.60
Recent transactions:
Adobe Creative Cloud subscription: £40.99
Hard drive: £54.98
The next few days in London go by in a blur of emails, meetings, avoiding calls from Greg at NatWest, and late nights figuring out how my bank account is going to stretch like Play-Doh to get us to the next round of TechRumble.
The air is frigid as Cecily and I stand shivering in the line outside Hackney Town Hall. A gust of icy wind whips past us, taking Cecily’s cigarette smoke and twisting it to dance around us. The doors aren’t open for another fifteen minutes, but we wanted to get here early to ensure we get good seats. It seems like everyone else had that idea too.
“I knew Dr. Bernie was popular but my god.” I glance down at the crowd quickly forming behind us. Hordes of women of similar age to us, dressing in floor-length puffer coats and plaid Acne statement scarves, shiver in the evening air.
Cecily nods. “She’s like the Beyoncé of therapists.”
The venue isn’t exactly small, but Dr. Bernie said in aSunday Timesinterview that she dislikes massive crowds and prefers to be able to see everyone’s faces in the audience to connect on a more “healing” level. I’m riding on her spotting us as our ticket backstage. Bringing the news that we have made it to the second round of investment at TechRumble is a surefire way to get her signed on for the launch. I’m just praying she will see us.
Eventually, the doors open up, and we speed walk to the second row, agreeing the first row would look too intense.
We tear off our coats, gloves, and scarves in unison while balancing the complimentary green juice with the ticket. We sigh and grunt as we plonk down in our fold-out seats. Calming new age music is playing in the background while we slip into our favorite activity: pretending we are talking, but in reality, we’re eavesdropping on everyone around us. We can’t help it at events like these; this is our target demographic. Wyst is a platform for people of all ages, but the majority who have signed up are women aged eighteen to thirty-five. The exact array of faces we see here tonight.
When Dr. Bernie comes onstage, we cheer and applaud along with the rest of the crowd. Her velvet deep purple suit reflects the light like a chic oil spill, complemented by her silk lilac pussy-bow blouse, her staple and highly recognizable uniform. Her shiny, thick hair cascades down her back, bouncing as she walks to center stage with a jet-black microphone in hand.
After an amazing talk, questions are offered to the crowd and hands shoot up around us.
The audience asks questions about relationships, family dynamics, and careers—the usual topics that are discussed atlength on the podcast. Most of her wisdom whittles down to one of her most iconic pieces of advice: “Every conversation is a negotiation.”
I lean toward Cecily. “Do you think she’s seen us yet?”
“No, she’s been mostly playing to the left. I see her agent, Alison, over there, but I’ve never met her in person.”
Checking out Alison, I say, “Maybe she’ll think we’re stalking Dr. Bernie.”
Cecily looks at me deadpan. “That would make sense considering wearestalking her, but Dr. Bernie gave us these tickets.”
“Pity tickets.”
“She gave us these pity tickets,” she agrees. “We are practically VIPs. All we need to do is say hello and casually drop that we are in the second round of TechRumble. And maybe get a picture with her for social.”
