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 coldmetal 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...”
