She shakes her head. “No, the other one.”
He looks to the ceiling, racking his brain. “The one where they rewatch the entire filmography of Krysten Ritter?”
I point a finger at him. “No, but that one is good, though.”
Dr. Bernie is my white whale. I have been trying to get a meeting with her about being the face of Wyst for months. Her podcastHow Have You Been?—a concept therapy podcast focusing on women’s mental health and relatable experiences—tops the health and wellness charts every week. And when she has the occasional celebrity guest talking about their struggles, it’s almost guaranteed to hit the number one spot across categories. Clips are always going viral on social media for the candid, raw offering she brings to her advice. She is one of the major inspirations for Wyst, and just getting in the room with her would be a dream come true.
Spencer asks Cecily, “How did you get her?”
“I followed her personal assistant’s TikTok a few months ago and have been watching it like a hawk. She was tagged in a video with a London-based hair stylist, so I followedthemonInstagram and they posted a story at the hotel. I went there for breakfast andjust so happenedto bump into her PA and pitched Wyst to her. She must have passed it on to Dr. Bernie because the PA literally DM’d me a few weeks ago to say she’d be in town if we wanted to chat.” She points the phone screen toward me so I can read the message.
Once again, his mouth hangs agape. “Whoa. You are certifiably insane and I love it.”
“Every evil genius needs a crazy henchman.” She winks at me and leans back in her chair, triumphantly placing her stiletto heels on her desk.
Cecily makes the inaccessible accessible. A social media stalker extraordinaire, she has a reach the depths of which I can never fully fathom. I deleted all my social media platforms three years ago and never looked back. I jumped back in last year with an anonymous private account to watch any coverage of Wyst and stumbled across Dr. Bernie’s podcast. Something about her snagged my attention among the eons of home and lifestyle content (my studio flat with damp mold could never), random dance videos (cannot dance), and cooking tutorials (anything beyond beans and toast isn’t in the budget). Maybe it’s her soft but assured tone of voice, her kind but stern demeanor, or her penchant for expensive jewel tone velvet suits and pussy-bow blouses, but something about her stuck with me during a time when no other voices could get through.
Nerves rage through my stomach at the idea of coming face-to-face with someone as established as Dr. Bernie. She could make or break a company like mine. During a YouTube interview withGQoutlining her “favorite things,” she emphasized her love for a self-heating coffee mug. It was from a smallfemale-founded start-up, and they sold out within minutes. They now have a permanent space in Selfridges, huge social media presence, and a waitlist a mile long. The influential market power of Dr. Bernie is not to be taken lightly. When an indie artist was interviewed about the trauma of being dropped from her label, her new single went viral on TikTok. Dr. Bernie interviews authors, and they turn into bestsellers. She has the Midas touch for anyone looking for mass appeal to women. She could turn us from nobodies into somebodies.
Spencer interrupts my train of thought with a throat clear. “So, ummm, about those office hours?”
My stomach twists. I’m usually able to help him out. The whole twin thing makes the guilt even worse. “Sorry, I can’t give you more than two days a week at the moment.” Read: Every rent payment is sending me deeper into my overdraft, the bank keeps leaving me threatening voicemails, I’m already trying to pay off business and student loans, and I’m considering dropping out of my studio rental because why pay for a bed when our tiny office has a decent-sized sofa?
Spencer slumps but plows on, studying his fingernails. “It’s just that I owe quite a bit to the theater, and I could use the cash in between jobs...”
“They don’t accept Jennifer’s fancy hot chocolates as payment?” The rush of regret hits my cheeks almost instantaneously. “Sorry,” I add before I’ve fully taken a post-sentence breath.
He huffs a laugh, barely a laugh. Laugh lite. “No, and to make up for it, Hugh gave everyone a lottery ticket and declared”—Spencer throws his hands in the air like a spectator at a football match—“‘You make your own luck, boys!’”
Something sparks in his eyes and he digs his hand into his pocket. “How about this.” His lips wind into his pre-famous grin. “You give me some additional hours this month, and I’ll split whatever my winnings are with you. Fifty-fifty.” He wiggles a shiny blue and gold square in front of my face like he’s Charlie Bucket and I his crotchety grandfather.
I cock a playful eyebrow. “Is this before or after the director’s 15 percent?”
“You two are idiots.” Cecily laughs from across the desk.
“I’m sure he’ll live; wanna scratch?” He points the card toward me with a pursed lip.
I reach for it, before hesitating. “No, it was given to you. It’s bad luck if I do it.”
The TechRumble application burns in my periphery while Spencer takes a penny and begins to tear away at the first shiny patch, the metallic shavings littering the pristine white surface of my desk.
He gasps as a cherry fruit emoji appears under his fingers. “We need five in a row to win the grand total.”
“What’s the grand total?” I ask.
“Fifty K,” he says, deadly serious. He rubs the next patch clean, revealing a second shiny red cherry.
We glance at each other, sucked in with the suspense as he drags the bluing coin across the third circle. A third cherry.
“What will you do with your twenty-five grand?” Spencer asks, wiggling his eyebrows at me in childish glee.
My mind runs wild with the fantasy of a debt-free life. No more calls from the bank about my overdraft, my student loans paid. It wouldn’t cover my studio rent, office rent, and everyone’s wages, but it would give me some breathing roomas I locked in advertisers and finalized the website for a beta launch. Money like that would take me from scrambling to stay afloat to actually enjoying what I’m trying to do. Money like that would change my life. I wouldn’t need to apply to things like TechRumble, begging for just the chance tocompetefor funding.
Before I’ve had a chance to answer, he sighs wistfully. “I’ve always wanted to go to the Maldives.” He lifts his chin like he’s trying to smell the salty sea air before continuing to scratch.
“Oh, shit.” Cecily rolls her chair in closer, crunching a Diet Coke can in her fist as Spencer wiggles the coin aggressively across the fourth spot to reveal another cherry.
My stomach knots. A sliver of hope warming my nerves against the blizzard forming outside. What if this is real?
