Fired from Rossini? Hired by . . . Chloe Coleman?

  I escape the press conference without a word, leaving Chloe staring ahead, almost catatonic, in her seat. Barry has moved like lightning, ushering the remaining press into the corridor. As I slip past, I can hear him shamelessly boasting about how great the rest of the season will be with me in it.

  “You’re not worried about his form?”

  “We’ll get Matt back on top again,” he crows. And then he starts to sing. “All he needs is love. Love is all he needs.” A roar of laughter follows from the press corps.

  Barry Arden brings the chaos. He’s unconventional and, more interestingly, he’s an outsider in a sport built on dynasties. And the press sure laps it up.

  “Matt! Come with me,” says a familiar, booming voice from the far end of the hall.

  Archie, my older brother and my Rossini race engineer, my now former race engineer, is striding toward me like a bouncer. Thank fucking god. He’s big and brash and permanently sweat stained and, right now, the only person I want to see. He yanks me quickly down the corridor, shaking reporters off left and right as he hauls me into a waiting lift.

  “Take a breath. We can talk in private,” he says, a reassuring hand on my shoulder as the lift climbs to the top floor.

  But my private suite is not the calming refuge I was hoping for. Gone is all my slick silver-and-bloodred Rossini paraphernalia, and in its place, a new, forest green hellscape.

  A cameraman and lighting crew are setting up for interviews in the lounge area, in front of a large Arden Racing banner, while a producer and her assistant who were draped across the sofa, sipping on espressos, spring up when we enter. Everywhere I look, another Arden logo, inexplicably bigger than the last. There’s no escape from this nightmarish reality.

  “Ten minutes?” says a cheery young woman clutching a clipboard.

  “He’ll be there,” Archie says, shoving me into my bedroom, where I drop to the edge of my bed, my head falling into my hands.

  “What. The. Fuck,” I mutter into my clammy palms.

  Archie pokes at my untouched breakfast on the little silver tray at the end of my bed.

  “Is this caviar on the fucking scrambled eggs?” he says, forking the little black balls atop a congealed yellow mound. “Gross,” he concludes, shoving it into his mouth, and then picking up a slice of bacon. “Why do you order this elitist junk? I hope the nutritionist at Arden is on your ass.”

  “What the hell just happened, Archie?” I say, looking up from my hands.

  “Well. You just got sold to Arden, my guy.” “I need to speak to Miles.”

  “That so-called agent of yours should have been fired a long time ago,” Archie says, knocking back my freshly squeezed orange juice. “What’s he actually done since 2002?”

  “Archie,” I say, my voice thin. My mind is reeling.

  He stops eating and his body slackens. He brushes the crumbs off his hands and pulls up a chair opposite me. “I mean, it isn’t surprising, Matt. You were warned.”

  “I was warned I might drop to reserve, not . . . this.”

  “Would you have been happy with reserve?”

  “No.”

  “Then . . .” Archie raises his palms upward, as if this isn’t the worst outcome when it patently is. I scoff.

  “And working for Chloe Coleman? Where the hell did that come from?”

  “Well, she’s been amazing in F3,” Archie says, shrugging. “She’s just what Arden needs after their bad press this year. A surprise, sure, but it makes sense to me. She’s a rising star.”

  I frown. “Right.”

  Archie’s eyes narrow. “You didn’t know.” He shakes his head. “Dude, you were pretty good friends growing up. Practically inseparable on the track until you left for F1.”

  I bristle. “Friends? She was more like a kid sister.”

  “Yeah, I guess. But you were still friends,” says Archie.

  “I hung out with her because Dad asked us to look out for her.”

  “Admit it. You liked her.”

  I glare at Archie. I don’t need this right now, especially with everything else blowing up around me. “Whatever, man. Does she still live in Brackley, or . . .?”

  “Her family is still there,” Archie says, then he leans forward, looking me straight in the eye. “I know life has been a bit of a fucking circus, but you’d know that if you came home more.”

  I take it with a slow nod. “I need to speak to her.”

  “You sure do.”

  I look at my big brother, pleading with him. “Archie. I don’t know how to move forward.” My eyes sting a little, and I blink a few times, the weight of everything finally crashing down on me.

  He grabs my shoulders and pulls me up. “Dude, something had to change,” he says as he squeezes me lightly. “You don’t train. You eat shit. You’ve been drinking too much.”

  “Say what you really think, asshole,” I mutter, laughing weakly.

  “One thing at a time, Matt. Pick yourself up. You need to or it’s over, for fuck’s sake. Maybe a new team, a new car, will help with all the problems from the—”

  “I doubt it,” I say, cutting him off. I don’t want to talk about that.

  “Well, a familiar face running the show just might. Someone you can trust. You can’t deny Chloe always gave you good racing advice.”

  Archie is right on that, at least. As I recall, she did have this uncanny ability to spot minor imperfections. She helped me improve my race on more than one occasion.

  I think about her back then, picturing her in her scuffed trainers, with the oversize T-shirts and wild red hair, sticking her tongue out as she raced ahead of me in her go-kart. Those big brown eyes always wide with energy and nerves. What did I used to call her? Bug-eyes? Bug? The memory makes me smile.

  “Fine. I get your point.”

  Archie knows better than to push. Instead, he ruffles my hair like I’m still five and he’s fifteen, and turns away, scanning the room.

  “Have they delivered a new kit already?” He finds the two zip bags hanging over the back of an armchair, liberating a new racing suit and undershirt. “Is this it?”

  “It’s so . . . green,” I murmur, pulling off my white T-shirt.

  “Come on, mate,” Archie says, tossing me the undershirt. I look at the little logo. No more iconic silver wolf of Rossini. Instead, I see what looks like a barking yellow dog above off-the-shelf Arial font reading arden racing. Below that, a big silver square of gaffer tape covering a sponsor patch. I try to peel the edge of the silver tape.

  “Don’t pull it off,” says Archie. “Could be a reason it’s covered.”

  “Christ,” I say, recoiling. “Save me.”

  “This is what you’re gonna do, baby brother,” he says. “You’re gonna go out there and do the stupid little social media clips talking about how excited you are and whatever the fuck. Then you’re going to head to the track and make the best of the rest of this season. Success is revenge.”

  “Okay,” I say.

  “We could build something there, you know,” Archie says, heading toward the door.

  “We?” I stop following him, aghast.

  “Yes.” He beams at me, motioning for me to hurry. “I was always more of a dog than a racehorse.”

  “Christ, don’t willingly leave Rossini, Archie.”

  “Of course I’m coming. I’m your race engineer. You think I’m going to stay and work with someone else?”

  “But for fuck’s sake. It’s Arden.”

  “We started this together. Where you go, I go,” he says firmly.

  I stare at the ceiling. “Promise me you won’t do anything right away.”

  “I won’t,” he says with a grin. “Now get out there and be your handsome, charming self.”

  I sit impatiently as the makeup artist dusts a light film of powder across my face. I hate this part of the job. The press and publicity. Or the “media,” as they call it now. I’ve always hated it, despite the fact that I’m good at it. It’s such a big part of the gig now, because it keeps the sponsor money flowing and the fans talking. With F1’s international growth, the sport has lately been as much about the personalities and the off-track antics as it’s been about the racing. And I’ve had some pretty juicy off-track antics over the years.

  The producer takes a seat next to the camera and taps the edge of the lens. “Straight down the barrel, if you don’t mind.”

  I force a smile, trying not to come off too petulant, even if it’s exactly how I feel.

  “Hello, Matt. Just a warm-up question to test sound. How are you enjoying being back in Singapore?”

  “I just got here last night.” What does she think I’ve been doing? Clubbing? Sightseeing? I could be in Peru right now for all I know—having seen the inside of a private jet, the airport tarmac, the lights of the city through tinted car windows, and the cookie-cutter luxury hotel room. God, I’m angry. How am I going to get through this interview without coming across as a megawatt asshole? I look at Archie, who nods at me encouragingly.

  “The sound is fine,” confirms a voice from the back. The producer smiles tentatively as I blink a couple of times, trying to get my eyes used to the ring light.

  “Great. Straight into it, then. Matt. How are you feeling about your move to Arden?”

  I clear my throat. “I’m um . . .” Shit. My mind goes completely blank. How do I feel about it? I feel furious. Blindsided. Confused. Devastated. I pluck through the negatives until I find one tiny kernel that I can cling to. I glance at the producer, who is starting to look panicked, and I decide to just fucking do this.

  “I’m excited for a fresh start at a team based closer to my hometown, Brackley. It will be good to be back in England.”

  “Is it okay if you say I’m excited for a fresh start at Arden Racing? Just to be really clear for our fans.”

  “Sure. I’m excited for a fresh start at Arden Racing. I’m happy to be on a team based closer to my family in Brackley. I’ve really missed the weather.”

  She smiles merrily. Archie gently pumps a fist in encouragement.

  “And what about your new team principal? Brilliant, yes, to be working for your first female boss and only the second ever in Formula 1’s history?”

  “Er . . .” I try hard not to frown, conscious that the camera is on me.

  This is an annoying question, directed, I suspect, by Barry Arden. Archie is right. He wants to maximize the cachet of this men’s club having a woman as a team principal. The producer didn’t even use her name, for fuck’s sake. My hesitation is not because she’s a woman; it’s because I’ve had about thirty minutes to get used to the idea of that woman being Chloe Coleman.

  It feels like a lifetime ago when I actually knew her. I think back to the eight-year-old with the braces and the vintage racing shirts who outpaced half the dudes on the track in our tiny karts. The teenager with the goofy smile and the wild hair who I looked out for because, as my dad explained, “the circuit can get tough for girls.” But what had started as an annoying chore from my dad had turned into a friendship. Archie was right. She was my friend once.

  I was about twenty when I left for Rossini. She’d just finished her first year in F3 at what—seventeen? And then we drifted apart.

  I feel the clock ticking. I’d better answer something and fast.

  “It’s great.” It’s all I can manage.

  “You mean, ‘It’s great to be at Arden Racing working for my first woman boss,’” says the producer. I summon all my chill. Then I parrot the line back, trying to smile as I do.

  “Barry Arden has declared that Arden has been grafting hard in the garage and is ready for its fairy-tale finish. You were off pace at Rossini, can you come back?”

  I want to reply sarcastically, “With the shittiest car on the grid and a team more famous for its partying than its pit performance?” But instead, I take a deep breath and roll out a list of PR classics.

  “Nothing I like more than the chase. I drive at my best when I’m on the ropes. Sure, there’s gonna be challenges ahead, but that’s motor racing.” I wait for something to stir inside me, but I feel nothing. Not even a faint hint that maybe, just maybe, the driver I was before the crash is still inside me somewhere. “I’ll be taking my Rossini points with me, and I want to keep adding to that total. As always, I’m here to win. I’m never happy unless I’m standing on the podium.”

  “That’s great, Matt,” she crows. “Can you give us an update on your old teammate Stavros?”

  “I ahh . . .” I tip my head, holding a hand up to cover the light shining into my face. “Sorry. I don’t want to talk about Stavros.”

  The producer grins apologetically. “I know, Matt. It’s just, you haven’t spoken about it publicly, and we think it’s contributing to the . . . ah . . . lack of goodwill toward you on the paddock, and among the fans.”

  Because they blame me for Stavros ending up in hospital after the crash. And of course they do. It was my fault.

  “We’d love to get those Rossini fans to come to Arden with you,” she continues, and then she gives up beating around the bush and comes out with the financial heart of the matter. “It helps so much with merch sales for you to be popular. You know, like Daniel Ricciardo. Everyone loves that guy.”

  “Fine,” I say, sighing. The producer taps the lens again.

  “Stavros is on my mind every day, and it won’t be the same without him.” I have to dig deep to keep my voice even. I see a flash of his car, in my mind’s eye, flames licking out the front of the engine. I clear my throat. “But Stavros is a great competitor, he understands the sport, and I’m sure he’ll be happy to see me back on the track.”

  I imagine my best friend watching me from his hospital bed and my stomach contracts like I might be sick. It’s my fault he’s there. And it’s fucking unfair I’m back and he’s not. I think about all the messages I’ve sent him over the past few months. All the times I’ve tried to reach out. But he doesn’t want to speak to me. He’s made it clear.

  I stand and yank the battery pack free from the back of my shorts and unclip the little mic on my collar. “I’m sorry, I can’t do this. You’ve got enough footage?” I ask the producer, who looks momentarily panicked before painting on a big smile. “We’ll make it work, Matt,” she replies eagerly.

  I turn to Archie, the only person in the room I can truly trust, and he motions for us to escape. I move toward him, palms sweaty, chest tight.

  “What’s with the silver gaffer tape across the chest?” Archie asks the producer as we head to the door.

  “Oh. Um. We lost a sponsor earlier,” she replies, blushing.

  I turn to Archie, my face expressionless.

  “Come on,” he says, grabbing my arm with one hand and the racing kit with the other. “We need to get you to qualifying. And you need to talk to Chloe.”

  CHAPTER 3

  Chloe

  I shrug off my stupid, expensive green blazer, feeling the sticky sweat already pooling between my shoulder blades and making its way down my spine. There is a reason Nico Rosberg described Singapore’s street circuit as being like a two-hour spin class in a sauna. It’s humid and hot as hell.

  The cavernous garage is ready, doors about to open onto the Singapore pit lane. The interior is set like a stage show, plastered with Arden Racing forest green signage and sponsor logos. Along the sides of the garage are our custom-built engineer stations, rows of monitors detailing and transmitting every imaginable scrap of data to and from the team in Singapore and our headquarters back in North London.

  In the heart of this cutting-edge technological theater sit the two Arden Racing cars. Multimillion-dollar machines, the black-and-forest-green livery shimmering under the bright lights. Through the back, away from view, are a set of rooms for testing, building, spare parts, and naturally, plenty of coffee.

  I glance up at the digital clock that is counting down to start time.

  Two hours to go. I desperately need Barry to leave. In the weeks leading up to this race, he has been standing over me, second-guessing all my decisions. He’s like a manifestation of my own self-doubt and I need him to fuck off already and let me do my job.

  “Where is he?” asks Barry, his eyes darting around for Matt. I watch the guy in a white boilersuit hastily painting Matthew Warner in big white lettering above one of the garage doors.

  “Maybe he’s firing his agent,” I joke.

  Barry laughs, slapping me lightly on the shoulder. “You’re funny, you know that?”

  I silently count to five. “I’m amazed we could afford him,” I say dryly, recalling the tiny figure we have remaining on the spending cap for the year and the even tinier figure on my own deal terms. Barry looks at me sheepishly.

  “I’ll have to adjust some numbers,” he says evasively.

  On the way back from the press conference, I made the decision to deal with Barry and his “surprise,” a.k.a. Matt Warner, after the Singapore Grand Prix. Or rather, my only friend on the circuit, McLaren strategist Keyla Kato, made the decision for me. As I stumbled through the sea of waiting reporters, she yanked me into the women’s toilets (a famously quiet space in F1) and pep-talked me out of my shock.

  “Welcome to the F1 disco,” she said sympathetically.

  “What in the name of Senna just ha—”

  “There’s no time to take you out for fucking cocktails to debrief.”

  “I’m just . . . Matt? I can’t be his boss, he’s—”

  “No. We don’t have time for that. Pull yourself together, Chloe,” she said, squaring up to me, trying to catch my eyes. “This is Formula 1. You’re not in Little League anymore. Matt is just a driver. Your driver. Okay?”

  “Okay.” I said the words, but I was not and am not okay. Matt isn’t just a driver, to me, at least.

  He is my aching, desperate, unrequited love from childhood. A nightmarish one-way infatuation only a teenage girl can have, made infinitely worse by the fact that Matt seemed to like hanging out with me.

  I overanalyzed everything endlessly. Of course I did. A grin across the garage after a close race. Those long shared drives home head-banging to Queen after training. A gentle hand on my lower back as he pushed me forward, urging me to speak up in that room full of dudes.

 

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