Drive me Crazy, page 7
I slink round the back of the Rossini trailer and finally find a spot to wait. Then I get an email notification on my phone and open a long rant from Barry.
To: CHLOE
From: BARRY
Subject: You & Matt at the garage tomorrow morning, 10:00am. What the hell is going on? FYI I have a sponsor meeting with a company that builds water slides. Unsure about the powder pink of their logo.
Message: [blank]
I’m blithely wondering if I should encourage Barry to use a phone messaging service when I spot Rossini team principal Matteo Borelli standing across the lot with two of his team. Our eyes meet, and he stops mid-conversation, striding over to me, a pitying look on his face.
“Hi, Mr. Borelli,” I say, a small thrill coursing through me as he approaches. Despite it all, despite this legend of F1 holding the same position as me, I still feel like this small racing superfan who is lucky to be on the lot. “Congratulations on the podium.”
“Podiums,” he says, grinning, holding up his fingers in a V shape. “Two.” I smile as he smooths back his wiry salt-and-pepper hair. I suspect he didn’t come here to gloat at me.
“Matt’s still struggling,” he says after a moment.
“Your drivers didn’t need to lap him,” I say, attempting a joke, humiliating as it was.
“He’s in his own head since the crash.”
“He was driving badly before the crash,” I remind him.
Matteo tips his head sideways, scratching at the scruffy regrowth on his chin. “He was impatient before. Driving too fast, too recklessly. But since the crash, he doesn’t drive at all. He’s a lame horse.”
“What are you saying? I should shoot him?” I quip.
Despite my attempt to seem jovial, I must look stricken, because Matteo dips his head, lowers his voice, and puts a hand on my shoulder. “Cut him loose. He’s going to need too much time.”
“Well. Time is what I don’t have,” I mutter.
Something passes over Matteo’s face, and he nods as though he understands.
Because he probably knows the trouble Arden is in.
Jack was right. This team is on the brink of financial collapse, and everyone here knows it. I’m about to press Matteo, to see what he knows, when we are approached by a girl, can’t be more than eighteen or nineteen, her long blond hair back in a ponytail, stuffed under a cap.
“Sorry to interrupt,” she says shyly. I glance at the phone she’s clutching in her hands. “Can I have a selfie with you?”
Matteo smiles warmly, standing a little straighter, making room for her to stand next to him. “Oh,” she says, glancing between Matteo and me, flushing red. “I meant with Chloe Coleman.”
“Ahh. Of course,” he says, hands up good-naturedly. “I’ll leave you to it.”
She looks back to me and grins, and at once I feel a giddy sense of pride, misplaced though it may be right now.
“It’s just so cool having a woman at the top,” she says, giddy, as we lean in together and she takes several shots, moving her head into multiple positions as she does. “Thank you!” she squeals. “I’m at the academy. If things don’t work out, I hope I can go into management like you.”
I try to swallow a sort of embarrassed yelp.
“We’re all cheering for Arden. For you!” she calls out, and I watch as she skips back to a group of young women, all drivers, I suppose, from the FIA’s new woman-only racing academy, designed to help improve representation in the sport. I watch as they crowd round her phone to look at the photo, hooting and giggling.
Christ. I’m clutched by a nightmare worse than fear of failure.
Collective responsibility.
Barry is right. Tomorrow, Matt and I need to figure this out one way or another, or we’re both finished.
CHAPTER 8
Matt
Thirty-four minutes and counting.
That’s how long Chloe and I have been trapped in this tiny damn box of a room.
Barry told us to meet him here in the garage at ten a.m., packed and ready to head to Texas. I thought we were going to debrief, and was awake half the night planning my retirement speech. But instead, Barry lured us into this little room on the promise of those doughnuts over there on the small table, the strong black coffee, and an honest “chat.” Okay, the venue seemed a little strange, but the neutral territory of the garage, away from the prying ears of gossipy reporters, made some insane sense at the time.
As Chloe and I stood there awkwardly exchanging glances, Barry asked for our mobile phones, to “keep us focused.” Then, before we knew what was happening, he was on the other side of the door, locking it from the outside with a key.
“Come together, you two. If you learn to work as a team, you’ll get out,” he said as he grinned, before running off on his tippy-toes like a teenager mid-prank.
“It’s like a PG version of that movie Saw,” I said, looking around the empty room as Chloe rattled the door for the hundredth time.
“At least there’s no dead person in the room,” she said dryly. “Yet.”
“Just a dead career,” I muttered to myself. Chloe’s head spun around so fast it nearly did a 180. “My career,” I said quickly as I took in her mortified face.
“Are you really done?”
“You didn’t watch the race? I’m done.” It came out uneasy, my voice hitching slightly. Chloe’s eyes narrowed on me, and she folded her arms across her chest.
“I’m afraid I just don’t believe you, Matt,” she said.
“Believe what you want. As soon as we’re out of here, I’m on a plane back to England.”
“Going back to Brackley? Finally. Gracing your family with your presence at last.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Chloe didn’t answer, she just pulled on the door for the hundred and first time.
“It’s locked,” I said slowly, irritated, dropping my head into my hands. “I think we’ve established that.”
Chloe rolled her eyes and tossed her hands in the air. “Fine. Let’s wait for a janitor. Or maybe next year’s circuit? Perhaps there will be a dead body or two in here by then.” She shoved at the door, before shouting, “Barry, you are a monumental shit stick!”
Then she blew hot breath onto the glass window that looked out across the garage, steaming it up and writing HELP before kicking the wall and then whimpering like an abandoned puppy.
Now we are trapped in this box until such time as Barry decides to let us out. I accepted that half an hour ago, and now Chloe finally has, stubborn as she is.
I’m sitting on the floor, elbows resting on each knee, head in my hands, flight-ready in my chinos and Lacoste tee. Chloe is against the opposite wall playing with a discarded screwdriver she found among a sea of construction junk littering the room. The sweet smell of the doughnuts and coffee is tempting, but I’ve cornered myself into a one-way silent standoff with Chloe, so I’d rather starve than move first. I hear only the sound of a low electrical buzz and a vacuum somewhere in the distance until Chloe breaks the silence and taps the glass with the screwdriver.
“Shall I smash the window?”
I sit quietly, waiting for her to come to terms with the fact that she’s not going to do that. Her shoulders slump.
“Never ceases to amaze me how quickly they pack down the garage and get everything into the crates ready to move on to the next country,” she says, her whispery voice trailing through the silence.
“Especially if they lose.”
Chloe looks at me and tips her head, raising an eyebrow. “Are you speaking now?”
“No,” I say quickly, trying not to grin as I look away. “Thinking aloud.”
She huffs. Then she slides down the wall and lands on her bum. I glance sideways at her; she’s in coffee-colored soft cotton joggers and a matching T-shirt, her hair down and still damp from the shower. Traveling clothes, I suppose, for the jet we’re due to catch after lunch. She’s casual but there’s something about the soft fabrics that adds to her softness, her effortless beauty. I suddenly want to be closer and feel her for myself, but then I quickly snap out of my unexpected daydream and back to reality.
“Is he even coming back?” she says, finally seeming to lose her temper, tossing the screwdriver against the wall and glancing up at the coffee. “Fuck it.”
She pulls herself back up and walks past me to the box of doughnuts on the little table, a cloud of sweet-smelling perfume trailing in her wake. The light catches on a thin gold ankle bracelet sitting just above her left trainer. I let myself imagine holding that ankle for a moment, sliding my hand up her bare calf. Fuck. Why am I even having these thoughts of her? Where is this coming from?
“It’s still kinda warm,” she says, nodding to the coffee after she takes a sip. “Tastes like a punch in the throat, though.”
I want to laugh, but I’m also stubborn.
I push myself up the wall and swipe the other coffee and a chocolate-glazed doughnut with all the visible reluctance I can muster. Then I struggle not to spit out the coffee.
“Was this filtered through Barry’s underwear?” I say, and Chloe laughs, a high, fluttery giggle that warms me through. I’m hit by this sudden wave of nostalgia, recalling that sweet laugh when it was so easy to extract from her, way back when we were kids. I smile at the thought, and our eyes meet for the briefest of moments before she looks swiftly away, her grin vanishing. Just as I catch her, the old Chloe, she slips through my fingers again.
“We need to talk, Matt,” she says, serious now, biting into her doughnut, then removing the sugary glaze from her lips with a finger. I narrow my eyes on that finger, as something begins to uncoil in the pit of my stomach. Jesus. One minute she’s that teenage girl I grew up with, the next she is a very adult woman who is doing very adult things to my body.
“I know,” I concede, my eyes firmly on the floor now. I have to get a grip.
“We should have talked earlier.” I watch as she pulls out one of the chairs and drops herself heavily down into it. “You wanted to, and I fucked up.”
“It’s doesn’t matter.”
“It does matter,” she says. “Please. I should have made time, even if you really want to retire. . . .” Her voice trails off as she eyeballs me. “Do you really want to retire, Matt?”
I meet her eyes, but again, they slide back down to her coffee, pretending it’s the most fascinating thing in the world.
“No,” I say, truthfully.
I can’t quite tell if this has pleased or panicked her until her mouth stretches into a smile, her eyes still on that coffee. “Well, then.”
“Are we still friends, Chloe?”
I watch her body go still, almost imperceptibly, before she replies, “Sure.”
“Convincing,” I say wryly.
“We’ve known each other since primary school, maybe even before because of our dads,” she says.
“True, but there’s a difference between someone you once knew and someone you’re currently on good terms with.” I lean in, smiling at her, trying to understand where she’s coming from. “You seem to dislike me, if I’m honest.”
Chloe squeezes her eyes shut for a beat. “That’s not . . . not true,” she says, stumbling over the words as she clears her throat.
“Even more convincing.” I raise an eyebrow.
“I’m sorry if I gave you that impression.”
She still hasn’t denied it. I watch her closely as she pulls herself together, placing the coffee on the table and tossing the half-eaten doughnut into the box.
“Was it the press video?” I push her.
Chloe tips her head, turning to face me now. “It didn’t make me feel great, if you want the truth.”
I need to clear that misunderstanding up, at least. I slide in opposite her at the table, tilting the coffee cup side to side as though it’s a glass of whiskey. I wish it was a glass of whiskey.
“When she asked me if I was happy to be working for a woman, I didn’t hesitate because it was a problem,” I say slowly and clearly. “I was thinking about how amazing you’d done and how dumb the question was, if you really want to know.”
Chloe tips her head, her face curious, her cheeks pink. “You were not.”
“It’s the truth.”
“Really?”
“Yes. And I’m proud of you, if that’s not a weird thing to say now that you’re my boss.”
She says nothing for a while, but I can see the flush in her cheeks deepening a little, and I feel glad I told her. I should have said it yesterday.
She lets out a little huh. A half laugh. “I’ve wanted it all my life, and the word boss doesn’t sit well on me,” she says finally, picking her coffee back up.
“It should. By all accounts you really deserve it.”
She ignores the compliment, pushing her hair back from her face.
“I don’t know how to do this, Matt,” she says finally, quietly. “Please just be honest with me. If you don’t want to stay, I can work with that. I can look for someone new. But Arden Racing is on its last legs. The money is running out. The sponsors are jumping ship. I have heard from two people now that we have only a few races left before this is all over.”
“I heard it too,” I say quietly, nodding.
“You can retire now; your career has been incredible. But I’m just now getting started, and I’ve come too far for it all to come crashing down this soon.”
My chest tightens with guilt.
“If you want to go, please just go. The crew can see there’s tension, and it doesn’t help my bloody fear that I’m not cut out for the job,” she says, her eyes misting a little. “I’m very well aware I’m a PR exercise, but I thought, maybe stupidly, that I could prove them all wrong. That I am good enough.” She drops her head into her hands, and I reach my hand across the table, my fingers outstretched toward hers.
She ignores it.
“Chloe,” I say gently. “You do deserve this. You are cut out for it.”
“On the one hand I know that’s true; on the other, I feel like the impostor I am,” she says, shaking her head. “I need time to settle. Find my feet. Fire that wanker of a strategist. But time I don’t got.”
The honestly from Chloe is arresting.
Tell her. You owe her at least the truth.
Her head is still in her hands, her gaze fixed on that damn coffee. I steel myself.
“Chloe,” I say quietly.
“Yes?”
“I’m getting flashbacks,” I tell her finally, pulling my hand back across the table. “At night and on the track.”
She turns her head back to me. “The crash?”
“Yes. I have these physical reactions. Tight chest. Hard to take a deep breath. I have to slow down. I get worried I’m going to . . . well, crash again, I suppose.”
I watch Chloe absorb the information. “Shit, Matt. I’m so sorry,” she says quietly.
“Anyway. Now you know. That’s why I think it’s time to quit. Even if I really don’t want to. Even if, as Barry says, there is still some bite in the old dog. If I can’t drive, who am I? What use am I?”
“Is there really?”
“Really what?”
“Bite in the old dog?”
“Dunno. Sometimes I still feel it. For a second.”
“Really?”
“I think so,” I say honestly. “I think so.”
“We can work with this, Matt. If you want to drive,” she says. “You have a whole bunch of training and discipline issues. You need a pre-race routine, one that helps you focus. A therapist to work on the mental blocks.”
She blinks a few times, worried, I think, that she’s said too much. But I just laugh. To myself mostly, because no matter what, Chloe has been and will always be an optimistic fixer.
“What’s so funny? There’s nothing wrong with therapy,” she says quickly.
“No, it’s not that,” I say, shaking my head, not ready to share with her that, in fact, I have been seeing a therapist. “I’m just remembering how you always know what to do. Remember when you whipped me into shape back in Juniors?”
I grin, but Chloe doesn’t. Instead, her eyes flicker to the back of the room. “That was a whole lifetime ago,” she says, with a laugh that sounds almost bitter. “But really, I can help you get back to the driver I know you can be. What do you say?”
“If anyone can do it, it would be you,” I say, tipping my coffee cup at her.
She stares hard at me, scanning my eyes, searching for something.
“I’m serious,” I reassure her.
She finally nods. “Okay. Great. We can focus on those things, while you work with a therapist. We can get more help for you if we need to. We can claw back some pace in other ways.” Chloe is awake, suddenly. Excited, even. She springs up and starts to pace.
“I guess so.”
“The car has a range of upgrades coming. And we need a new head of aerodynamics, for sure—I have to pressure Barry on that. But there are whispers of promise here.” I watch her move into full leader role, right before my eyes. “We have Austin next, then Mexico. Then Brazil. Then back for Vegas. That’s four races, around two months . . .” Her voice trails off as she stops pacing. “We can get a lot done. Maybe we can claw to the middle of the field. One top ten would be incredible. We could really get points, Matt. We really could.”
“You make a good case,” I say.
“Arden suffers a lot of problems, but the worst one is the lack of belief. In this fucking game of tiny, incremental improvements, you need a motivated team. Small gains beget small gains.”
I shoot her a wry smile, but her enthusiasm is infectious; her excitement is rubbing off on me. “Do you believe?”
“In the team? Yes. In myself?” She laughs. “I’m working on that.”
“Okay,” I say.
“Okay?” she replies, those eyes big and round.
“You help me, and . . .”
“And?” Chloe asks, looking impatient.
“I’ll help you with your impostor syndrome.”
“Oh, that,” she says, grimacing.
“You know, I’ve worked for two of the best ever team principals—”
