Commitment Collection 2- Ignition; Turbo Charged; Pole Position, page 8
part #4 of Commitment Series
“What do you think?” The presentation has stopped, and everyone is looking at me for an answer.
“That’s a good question. I think I need some clear air to take in what you’ve discussed and then I’ll come back to you.” I look at the faces focused on me as they nod as though that’s the most intelligent solution. Phew!
Chairs scrape as the excited representatives from the visiting agency are shown to the door. When it’s closed firmly behind them, Bob, the Managing Director who I’d be remiss to get rid of, says, “You didn’t like them, did you?”
“Ah, they were OK. I think their proposal needs some work, but I could deal with the people. How about you?”
“I hated everything about them.”
I laugh, my mood lightened. “I like that about you, Bob. You don’t mince your words.”
Kyle
Ah, shit. Elliott isn’t coming back tomorrow. That man is working too hard. He’s going to make himself sick at this rate. He never takes a minute for himself anymore. He doesn’t even have the chance to speak to me on the phone.
And I miss him.
This house was a home when he was here filling it with his energy and laughter. I can’t remember the last time I laughed. This place is no more than a shell without him, a carcass of the relationship we built here.
I sit at the dining table and do nothing. It’s not like I don’t have anything to keep me occupied. I could easily get up and do the gym work that’s on Florian’s detailed agenda. But, I don’t feel like it. I’m losing motivation.
I open the fridge and peer inside. For what? I don’t know. I close it again and rest my forehead against the security of the door. The cool surface is calming, and I shut my eyes, taking a second to just be. I allow my thoughts to float away and drift off to nowhere. I can’t remember the last time I didn’t think. Somewhere at the back of every waking thought nowadays is the hollow worry that Elliott and I are drifting in different directions.
The bond that I thought was unbreakable is more fragile than I ever expected, our distance stretching it to its breaking point.
I thought we could do this, live apart and still maintain the core of who we are as a couple. But he’s got so much going on that I can’t help with. It’s impossible for us to be the team we’ve always taken for granted.
When we first decided to do this, we agreed we would never have a weekend apart. That would be our time. And yet, a few months in, his workload is so much that not only can he not make it home, but he doesn’t have a spare second for me to even stay at his place.
I move back to the table and swipe open the phone, which has been lying face down since his text arrived, and I type back.
“That’s OK, I’m sorry you’re having to work so hard. Thank you for looking after us x”
The last thing I want to do is put more pressure on him by adding to his worries. It had struck me that I should just go up there and surprise him. But then, he’ll be rushing to return home sooner than he would without me waiting for him. It’ll put extra pressure on him with him worrying about me hanging around waiting for him, so I decided against it and leave him to clear his head of whatever problems are plaguing him.
I can’t hang around all weekend alone though. I need to be busy. Otherwise it’ll stretch off into infinity, and that's no place for me to be right now.
‘Are there any extra shifts going this weekend? I could do with something to keep me busy,’ I text James, our number one mechanic. I’m not sure whether he’s too happy about having me on his team as it is though. The trust has plummeted since Elliott won his case against them, and while that wasn’t directed at James himself, he is close to Chase in whose mouth Elliott’s win has left a very bad taste.
The text reply is back in seconds: “Sorry, no can do.”
I rest my head in my hands and sit at the table some more.
Elliott
It’s not like I don’t have anything to do this weekend, but my interest in it is slim. I’m in the new wind tunnel, looking at the data, and working with the incumbent drivers about how they feel the handling can be improved.
“You know what? This is the point this lady needs to get out on track,” I say. “There’s only so much you can do off the circuit. We need to see what this baby is really capable of.”
There are definitely some benefits to being the boss.
Within a few hours, the car has been hauled into the back of a truck, and we’ve shut down and taken over our local testing circuit. This is just what I need to blow away the cobwebs. I’m a born racer: being out of the car for so long is doing nothing to help my general demeanor. I crave that feeling of being alive again. Maybe this will help everything that is spiraling out of control.
And of course, being the boss, I get to take the car out first.
I’m no longer nervous after my first stint for the press, but my nerves still jangle. My senses tune into that old, familiar red alert status, prepared to be flooded with information to process at a lightning speed.
I’m all fire-suited up and waiting at the circuit. The data receptors that feed from all aspects of the car into the computers set up in the garage are connected, and I’m given the all clear to set off on my out lap.
The pit lane is the most frustrating part of racing since the automatic speed limiters are applied, taking me to no more than fifty miles an hour.
But when I’m clear, I jam my foot to the floor and take off down the first straight. The engine roars to life and I cling on to the steering wheel for dear life. I don’t have the strength I once had, and this is a stark reminder that Florian has a very real place in this business. For all he’s done or not done, there’s no reason to risk my financial stability. Fitness in a competition such as performance racing can make the distinction between a few hundredths of a second. And that’s the amount in which races are won.
The car does what I expected and what the wind tunnel suggested. It kicks out, the fragile steering complaining as I round it through the series of tight bends. There’s not enough down-force to hold the body steady, and I skid around corners sideways slowing my lap time.
After five test laps, I reluctantly head back to the pits and drag myself out of the tight cockpit. It’s down to our official drivers to do their stuff now, for each to run another five laps to gather comparison data.
When they’ve finished, I’m once again reminded that I have work to do before I hit my peak. The difference between what these adequate drivers can achieve and myself is minimal, and it shouldn’t be so. I should be shifting that car around this track with way more speed and agility than they can even dream of. I’m out of shape and if my plans are going to be realized, then I need to stop making excuses and start sweating at the gym.
We work like that for the rest of the afternoon, fluctuating engine settings and drivers to establish where this car needs to be adjusted to obtain maximum performance.
When we’ve finished at the track though, the combination of the drive and of being outside in the fresh air again has well and truly blown away cobwebs that have taken two and a half years to build up. My brain is light, my body buzzing, and my head is finally clear. I’m ready to speak with Kyle. No, I’m excited to speak with him, so I call him from the car on the way home.
He doesn’t answer, so I leave him a message.
“Hey, Kyle. I just spent the afternoon taking the car for a spin around the track. I’d had my fill of standing in that wind tunnel, impressive as it is. Anyway, I’m feeling great, more like the old me again. Give me a shout when you get a sec. I’m not sure what you said you were doing today. Love you.” I add the last sentence on as an afterthought. Not because it isn’t true, but for the first time since this whole doubt thing hit, I’ve had the confidence to fight for what is right.
Kyle
The crowd has a life of its own, moving like a shoal of fish, a mingle of vibrant colors shimmering under the late winter sun. I haven’t been to a rugby match in years. I used to play a lot as a child, but never seriously. It was fun for me to careen up and down the pitch, and I’ve never lost the feeling that I can play better than any professional when I watch the matches on TV, even though I’m well past my prime.
A raucous cheer radiates from a corner. I glance over unconcerned and spy a Guinness-swilling bunch of local supporters jeering at a furry mascot.
Florian has nipped to the toilet, so I’m just standing back, soaking in the atmosphere. There’s something about being in a stadium. It diffuses goodwill out into the atmosphere like no other platform. And for me, growing ever more used to being in the spotlight, it’s nice to disappear into a crowd. It’s like the old days before PR took a stranglehold on our lives. With Florian I’m able to just hang around in a packed stadium and everyone passes me by without a second glance. In fact, with Elliott I wouldn’t even be able to attend this game; his security detail would be off the scale.
“Cheers, buddy.” Florian appears from the bathroom and grabs his plastic cup of lager from my one hand.
We stride easily together, dodging smiling faces traveling toward us until we find our entry gate.
“These are good tickets, man,” I exclaim. I thought with us buying them last minute, we’d be stuck on the top tier, able to see way less than we could on TV, here more for the atmosphere than the match.
“Yeah, we were lucky with these. StubHub has done us proud.”
“Indeed.” I survey the pitch. We’re almost on the half way line, giving us an equidistant view of both sides. And we’re right behind the TV commentators. We couldn’t have asked for a better position.
Ten minutes later the hooter sounds, and the game is underway. My heart actually races with anticipation. It’s not even like either of these teams are ones that I support, but something about a stadium crowd and a live match makes my soul soar. This is just what I needed to break the monotony of a weekend alone.
It seems like only two minutes later, and the horn sounds again signaling half time.
“I can’t believe that half that match is already over. Hell of a game though.” As we head to the bar for our giant cups to be refilled, I proceed to fill Florian in on how I would have run the team had I been in charge today. Florian corrects me where he thinks I’m a total idiot.
“To be continued.” I say, pointing my index finger while watching the opposing side kick the ball off the halfway line to signal the start of the second half.
Florian waves the beer he’s had stashed under his flip-down seat at me, and we’re once again engrossed in grown men crashing into one another for the sake of planting a funny-shaped ball over a line.
Elliott
I’m missing Kyle now. I’ve come to terms with my wayward suspicions. The time away from him, and from an office environment, and being back in the car has cleared my head.
I was just getting all sensitive, like I know I have a tendency to do. I also know Kyle. He wasn’t up to anything untoward. It’s not who he is. I’m just being melodramatic as a result of my over-tired and over-stressed state.
There’s a moment where I consider jumping on the motorbike and riding down to surprise him. I could tell him that work cleared or that I just don’t want to waste a weekend away from him. But then I think about how off-center my brain has been this week, without the excessive last-minute journey I’m now contemplating, and decide I’ve made the best choice by staying here, even though it was one initially made from sourness.
I’ve never been a huge fan of rugby, but in a bid to be close to the man I love, who I know will be tuned into this channel, I switch the TV on and watch the match. I wonder why Kyle hasn’t returned my message from earlier and slide open the handset to put in another quick call while the commentators are doing their pre-match assessment.
Still no answer, but then, he’ll be watching this too, so he may well not have noticed if he’s left his phone on silent from the night.
And then I see it. I see why he’s not fucking answering his phone. Right there in 4kHD is Kyle and no other than fucking Florian. Grinning and chatting and drinking beer.
What the fuck is he doing there?
Why didn’t he tell me he was going to the match with Florian?
And in five seconds flat, I’m right back where I started with Kyle and Florian banging like crazy mother fuckers while I’m stuck up here slogging my guts out to create a better life for us both. Actually, for all three of us, because let’s not be shy about this. Without me, Florian’s personal training business will not take off like it would if he could keep his cock in his pants. I am shaking all over.
I stab at the remote with unnecessary force. The picture freezes on two smiling faces, and Kyle’s gorgeous dark eyes are glittering with excitement. Why is he so excited? And Florian is mirroring him, his eyes catching the light in the camera as he chats to my husband. My husband! And as much as it hurts me, and I’m talking about a physical, searing pain here, Florian looks totally fucking gorgeous. This is obviously his team as he’s kitted out in one team’s colors, and the top hugs his tight muscles like he’s meant to be on the pitch.
That can’t have gone unnoticed by Kyle if I can see it from the other end of the fucking country.
I rewind, watch the footage from where it cuts to display my husband and his personal trainer again, studying for any clues that my suspicions are wrong. Praying for them to be so wrong.
And they’re not touching. They are just talking, although it’s a little over the top for my liking. They’re sitting close, but then the seats are close together, so it’s not like they’d have any choice about that.
But why didn’t he tell me? And so, the cycle recommences.
Kyle
Florian’s team wins, and I stand along with fifty thousand other people to cheer the end of a tight match that has had me pinned to the edge of my seat for the last half.
“We should do this again. Thanks for getting the tickets. It was great. I really enjoyed it.”
“Well, the day isn’t over yet. We should grab a couple of beers down the road. The tube will be mashed if we try to get on now.”
We siphon out of the stadium and into the pub with the rest of the supporters. There’s so many cheering faces in here. I’m sure the Underground would be empty if we left now, but I’m in no rush. I’m at a loose end, anyway.
It’s only at this point that I realize I’ve not checked my phone. As I pull it out of my pocket, it radiates anger and before I clear my screensaver, I know I have a missed call. I also sense that Elliott is pissed at me.
The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end as I swipe and indeed see that Elliott did call twice. I have one voicemail.
Do I ruin my day and listen to it now, or wait?
“Beer or Guinness?” Florian asks.
“I’ll take a wine.” I tap my stomach indicating the gas settling there while the message awaiting me churns around inside too.
I want to ignore the black cloud hanging over me, to get on with enjoying the best day I’ve had in a long time, but I can’t.
“I’m just going outside.” I make a motion with my hand to my ear, showing I’m making a call.
By now it’s almost dark, and it’s turned cold. I huddle into my jacket and listen to the message.
And now I really feel like shit. Elliott had an amazing day. This is the most animated I’ve heard him in a long while. He sounds like my El again, not distracted, but focused, yet still vibrant and inclusive.
Without a second thought, I press dial, desperate to say ‘hi’. My palms sweat as I wait for him to answer. I’m excited for us to chat like we used to, when conversation flowed easily.
Except that once again he doesn’t answer. My call goes to voicemail, and I can’t see the point in leaving a message. I wanted to talk to him, to speak to my man, the one who has resurfaced. I wanted to connect with him and tell him that I love him too. I am so fucking sick of answering machines that I just can’t stomach another message.
With another heavy heart, I hang up and switch the setting to vibrate so I’ll feel it if Elliott calls back.
“That was quick,” Florian grins handing me my glass of red. “I didn’t know you were a wine drinker?”
“I’m not really. Elliott taught me a bit about it, and sometimes it’s nice. Not as gassy.” I’m talking, but I’ve lost momentum. All I’m doing now is counting down the hours until I can leave without being rude.
Elliott
I’ve opened that bottle of whiskey I’ve been saving. This seems like as good a time as any. I don’t even particularly like whiskey if I’m honest. I was more saving it because I haven't had the stomach to consume it, not out of any snob value associated with the five-hundred-pound price tag.
I didn’t buy it myself. If I were going to spend that amount of cash on a bottle, it would be wine. No, this was a gift from one of my investors to celebrate me taking over Judd Racing, and it’s the best alcoholic option on hand.
And so, here it lies next to me on the sofa while I rewind the tape and watch Elliott and Florian having a ball this afternoon.
The phone is on the coffee table. I hear it and see the screen light up with a picture of us in the hot-air balloon. It’s not even that long ago, and it scares me how quickly life, and feelings, can change. I’ve been on the physical side of that with my accident and Kyle’s before that. But, this is emotional. Who would have thought I could be so totally alienated from Kyle?
The unanswered phone pings a voicemail. I snatch up the handset and dial into it. Nothing. Kyle doesn’t speak except to sigh against a backdrop noise of...?
He’s in the pub.
Not only have they been out to the rugby match together, but now they’re in the pub afterwards.
