Drive me Crazy, page 1
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Page numbers taken from the following print edition: ISBN 9781460768464
Dedication
To Carolyn Burke—for buying me Stephen King’s
On Writing about fifteen years ago and encouraging me
every day since. I feel your support always. ♥
Author’s Note
Before we start—a quick word for my fellow F1 die-hards.
Confession: I have taken a few artistic liberties with this story, so I’m going to ask you to take a leap here.
If I included every real-world protocol, this book would be 400 pages of contractual negotiations, simulator sessions, and long-ass meetings about tire degradation. So please forgive the lack of testing and practice sessions, post-race weigh-ins, data analysis, seat-molding wizardry, and anything else I skipped over.
I’ve bent reality a little to keep the story fun, fast, and full of sparks.
I did my very best.
Hope you enjoy the chaos.
Lizzy x
Contents
Note to Readers
Dedication
Author’s Note
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
A Conversation with Lizzy Dent about Drive Me Crazy
Discussion Questions
About the Author
Praise
Also by Lizzy Dent
Copyright
CHAPTER 1
Chloe
Singapore Grand Prix
Qualifying
I’m just very keen to sign the contract before we do this,” I say, picking up my pace to keep up with Arden Racing owner Barry Arden as we stride down the hallway, followed by the pitter-patter of his two greyhounds. “Because once we announce, we can’t take it back.”
That’s the most I’m going to push him, because oh my god, I would not take this moment back. I am fizzing with excitement. Or is it anxiety? Anxitement? Either way, I feel so high, I’m virtually levitating as I follow behind him.
My dream was always this, to be among the very best in the fastest, most advanced motor racing sport on the planet—Formula 1. And now it’s happening. It might not be perfect, but it’s happening.
There will be no take-backs. Not a chance. I spent most of the summer working with Barry and the team to get to this moment, and now it’s time.
“We’ve agreed to the deal terms, love. Plus, there’s no time with qualifying in just a few hours,” Barry says as we reach the door to the pressroom, where a handful of the team are waiting. My friend Keyla always says I can trust a man who loves flowers, animals, or children, and Barry has two dogs, so that’s something, at least. I nod at him, swallowing a frustrated sigh. Fine.
“Okay, soon?”
“Stop worrying. This is your moment,” he says, beaming at me with too large teeth, his ruddy complexion dewy with sweat. Barry Arden also has this slightly performative cockney-gangster accent, which makes him sound like something from a Guy Ritchie movie.
“Okay. But one other thing, Mr. Arden. It would be great if you could call me Chloe. Especially in public,” I say, clearing my throat as I do.
“All right, love.”
“Chloe,” I repeat, as evenly as I can.
“You got it, darlin’,” he says, cocking his head as his eyes move down to my green pantsuit and then back up to my mop of red curls. “You ready? Want to fix your hair or something?”
Ouch. I thought I looked quite tidy and well put together in my new Bottega suit. Not my typical vibe, but that’s the point. Today, I have to look elevated, professional, like I deserve to be here. Because . . .
I do. Don’t I?
I think back to the bug-eyed, flame-haired kid with skinny legs and braces, interviewing herself in the bathtub after she’d placed third in her first ever go-kart race. ESPN, Graham Norton, and even Oprah would bring me on to rapturous applause. I practiced remaining cool, humble, and thoroughly impressive.
“Oh, stop. Really. I’m no wunderkind,” eleven-year-old me would say to my mirror, smiling coyly. That kid quietly believed in herself. This woman is not so sure.
Am I truly cut out to compete at this level? Can I make myself heard? Will people listen? It is such a big jump up to F1. I put my hand on the wall to steady myself as I feel the anxiety wrap around me like some kind of giant python, starting to squeeze.
No! You are not going there, Chloe, I tell myself, burying the train of thought before impostor syndrome overtakes my body and I start to hyperventilate.
I steady my voice before answering Barry. “The suit is new,” I say, while I force my dark red curls into a low ponytail. “And it’s our team green.”
“No offense, but you look a bit like a Christmas tree,” he says, guffawing.
I fake a chuckle back at him.
“Don’t look so uptight, love. You’ve worked hard for this. And besides, it’s good you came dressed as a Christmas tree.” Barry Arden grins mischievously. “We’ve got a present for you.”
Before I have a chance to ask what the fuck that means, the doors to the hotel conference room fling open. Cameras, lights, and boom microphones line the back wall, and journalists, dozens of them, turn their excitable expressions in our direction. So many eyes, is all I can think. So many eyes on me. I’m not sure I’ll ever get used to this attention.
For a moment, we stand frozen in the doorway. Just two greyhounds, both with a single paw lifted—tiny me and the man mountain that is Barry Arden side by side, and behind us, the team, all wearing Arden Racing kit.
It’s an entrance, all right.
Lights burst on us almost immediately. Shielding my eyes, I notice everyone is here. The BBC, ESPN, DAZN, even Eurosport. I feel my chest constrict and I force an even breath. My appearance next to Barry is the reason the press corps are murmuring and fidgeting with anticipation.
“Showtime,” Barry says, and we’re quickly on the move, past the rows of journalists with their big-eyed excitement and on to the long table with the FIA-emblazoned tablecloth at the front of the room. I remove a short preprepared speech from my pocket and take my seat behind the little tented cardboard name card: Chloe Coleman.
Finally. I think about all the things I’m going to say, all the people I need to thank. And then, I close my eyes briefly and speak only to myself, to that eleven-year-old girl. You did it. You fucking did it. I’m so happy for you. I glance down at my prepared statement. You got this.
As I look back up, I notice an empty place next to Barry with a name card I can’t quite see. “Who’s sitting there?”
“Your present,” he says, grinning, tapping his lecture cards into a uniform stack as he waits for the room to settle so he can begin. A camera flash startles me, and I swing my head forward again.
My eyes sting from the bright lights, so I create a visor with my hand to see more clearly. Who else could be coming to sit up here with us? A head of aerodynamics? We need one. Or is it someone else?
Along with the press, I can see team principals from Ferrari, Rossini, McLaren, even Mercedes, ready to do their various team updates too. I spot Jack Sheppard from F1 Daily, a driver turned journalist who I know from my old racing days. I smile nervously at him, and he winks back. A friend. I breathe out. If I freak out, I’ll just look at him. By the far wall, I can see a couple of drivers too, before my eyes catch on a very familiar profile. . . .
Wait. Is that Matt Warner?
My eyes widen as he comes fully into focus. He’s leaning back against the wall, arms folded, eyes on the floor like he doesn’t want to be here. He looks so different after all this time, even at this distance. Older, wearier, somehow, though still admittedly attractive in that classic cocky Matt Warner way. His dark hair is too long, falling forward, hiding his eyes. Honestly, I’d be hiding too if I had burned out as spectacularly as he did at Rossini. Once their big hope, he’s had a season—so far—of failing form, then a huge crash at the Italian Grand Prix, which took out his teammate and best friend, Stavros. The Chloe from our teenage racing days might have had some empathy for his rough run, but those days are long gone.
I sit up a little taller in my seat and turn my gaze anywhere but in his direction. That too tall, arrogant asshole is about to witness my ascension.
“Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. I have a short statement to make, and then we’ll take questions,” Barry says.
Click. Click. Click. He waits f
This. Is. It.
“Welcome to everyone on this hot day in Singapore. The qualifying will begin here at Marina Bay Circuit in just a few hours, and we have a lot of teams to get through, so I won’t keep you,” he says, before clearing his throat. “As you know, Arden Racing has been without a team principal since the end of the summer break. But we’re very happy to announce Chloe Coleman will be filling that role, effective immediately.”
I absorb the gasps from the press corps, feeling my chest swell with pride. That’s right, I’m going to be leading Arden’s F1 racing team for the rest of this season. The boss. The head of all staff and drivers and the ultimate decision-maker.
Even though I really, really shouldn’t, I can’t help but look at Matt. I have his attention now, his hazel eyes in my direction, mouth slackened.
I’m surprised by how sharp the pleasure of his surprise is. See, I made it too. I turn to the press and paint on a smile, trying to remain calm and professional.
“Chloe has a wealth of experience. Not only is she an immensely competent driver, but the work speaks for itself. Last year in Formula 3, she turned around the fortunes of Visor Racing, teaming up with Honda and raising capital to improve the engines. Her decisions ultimately delivered the biggest improvement of any team on any of the circuits.”
I’m surprisingly impressed with Barry’s statement, which is very competently drafted, and has not contained any derivative of the word fuck, yet. He’s made me sound utterly worthy of the role, and for that I’m grateful.
I knew when he asked me to be team principal of the worst team in F1 he was chasing a reputation clear-up as much as anything. It’s bound to help improve the image of Arden Racing to have a woman in charge. A team that this year alone has been embroiled in a sexting scandal concerning the now sacked, very much married team principal and his personal assistant. And to make matters worse, there was a gender pay gap dispute that Arden ended up losing in court, resulting in a forced-groveling public apology, with Barry acknowledging that team Arden needed to “do better” when it came to ethics and diversity. It was honestly delicious to watch.
So yes, I’m a chance for Barry Arden to polish his team’s murky reputation. But there is politics behind so many decisions in F1, and besides, I am the queen of making lemonade out of lemons. I’ve worked with the scraps I’ve been tossed my entire racing career, and look where it’s got me. Here. Hopefully paving the way for more young women to break up this boys’ club.
“I know you’ll have a lot of questions for Chloe, but I just have another announcement to make before we unleash the hounds.” Barry pets one of his greyhounds, Ginger, and chuckles to himself.
One of the female journalists in the front row tips her head toward me and grins. “Good for you,” she mouths. I bite my lip, my cheeks warm with delight. All the work. All the hard fucking graft, it all comes down to this.
Barry clears his throat. “Now for the other big news . . . As you know, our first driver position has been empty since the departure of Jose Diaz. And so, we’re excited to announce we’ve taken on a new driver.”
I swing my head around to look at Barry. Hiring new drivers is really the team principal’s decision, and I have ideas of my own. I feel the little groove between my eyebrows deepen as I cover the mic on my desk and lean in toward Barry, trying desperately, out of the corner of my mouth, to shut the guy up.
But he completely ignores me.
“I’ve just finished talks with Rossini about the immediate release of Matthew Warner from his contract there.”
If I thought the news about me delivered gasps of shock, they paled in comparison to the breathless puffing and wheezing of excitement from this surprise announcement.
“What?” I say loudly into my microphone, causing feedback to squeal across the room.
Barry taps the table in front of me, his way of telling me to calm down.
Then he continues, a toothy grin on his round face. “As if he needs any introduction, Matt Warner has spent the last ten years at the top of the very best team, with over seventy podiums and one world championship under his belt. I know the last few months have been rough for him, but Rossini have agreed a fresh start for Matt here at Arden is best for everyone.”
All eyes are on Matt, and he looks furious. He immediately cranes his head in the direction of the Rossini team principal, who is already picking his way through the crowd to make his escape. Barry glances toward the commotion, and I wonder if this announcement is a little premature. I wonder, briefly panicked, if Matt and Rossini are also missing a final contract.
Matt looks back in our direction, now frozen in horror, and I’m surprised to find my first emotion is a wave of compassion. For him. For Matt fucking Warner. This massive bomb was just dropped on me, but was it dropped on Matt also?
I collect myself and feel a fury of my own start to bubble up. I put my hands on the table, and as I’m about to stand, I feel Barry’s hand on my shoulder holding me down. “Trust me,” he says, quietly but sternly.
“Matt, would you come up and join us onstage?” Barry booms.
Matt is still frozen stiff until he’s slapped on the back by way of congratulations by another driver from McLaren. And then a small handful of the press awkwardly clap, more out of pity than anything, surely? Matt has just been forcibly moved from the top Formula 1 team to the bottom one. This is no moment for congratulations.
“Matt? I’m sure the press would like to see the new team all together?”
Matt looks like someone winded him, and yet he moves toward the stage, slowly.
The frenzy of clicking is so loud it starts to sound like white noise, and in the cacophony, I realize why Matt is going along with this: He’s trapped. He can’t force Rossini to keep him, and if Arden have bought him out, his ass now belongs to Barry. He has no choice, and the world is watching. What else is he going to do? Run?
The camera clicking evolves into shouting. They have questions. Many questions. The shouting from the journalists is so loud, the dogs have started to howl, and Barry has to lean down and run a hand over their little heads to soothe them.
“Matt, can you tell us when you found out about the transfer?”
“Matt, BBC here. This is not unprecedented, but exceedingly unusual. Why Arden?”
“Hi, Joe from Racing Monthly. Has this got anything to do with the crash, and your struggle to recover your previous speeds?”
“Has your teammate Stavros recovered, Matt?”
“Why won’t you talk about the crash?”
“Can you look in this direction for a photo, please?”
But Matt isn’t replying. He’s just sitting with his arms folded, his mouth fixed firm, and a look of pure fury on his face.
This could have been the best day of my life. It should’ve been. It was supposed to be the moment when my career headed into the apex and emerged at full speed onto the straight. Me, poised to fly across the finish line, finally a winner in a sport I have battled for so long to do well in. Instead, my day in the sun has been completely overshadowed. And by, of all fucking people, Matt Warner.
“I think maybe it’s best if we pass on questions today,” Barry says now, holding his arms out to calm the room. “After all, we have a brand-new team and a Singapore qualifying to prepare for.”
I crumple up my prepared speech, briefly glancing sidelong at Matt.
“Of course,” Barry is saying to one of the photographers, who has pushed his way forward and is pointing his enormous lens in our faces. “Yes, we can get a team photo.”
Barry Arden drapes an arm over my shoulders, and then over Matt’s shoulders, squeezing us both in toward him. He is beaming. I’m pretty sure I look like I just saw a ghost. And Matt wants to punch something.
This ridiculous image of the three key members of the new Arden Racing team will no doubt appear in the sports news of every major paper tomorrow.
Barry squeezes us both closer. “So, darlin’,” he says to me out of the side of his mouth. “How do you like your present?”
CHAPTER 2
Matt
It feels like a ten-truck motorway pileup in my head.
