“Weird,” he says, avoiding my eyes as he starts to dig through the magazine pouch in front of him. “Do they have breakfast menus here? I’d love a croissant.”
“Very weird, almost like someone implied I’mforcingyou 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 meaneveryone? 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 gotteneven better, from our secondary school’s production ofSweeney Toddto a supporting actor in a local indie short film to a featured extra role as a footman inBridgerton. My favorite of his roles was the puppet in a budget production ofWar Horse. They couldn’t afford to have a giant stage puppet made, so they hired Spencer to pretend tobethe 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 wantmeto go all in on an idea thatyoumade 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.”
