TWO
I’M ON CAMPUS EARLY because I have an interview with my favourite lecturer, personal tutor and style icon, Dr Bethany Meyer. She’s looking for someone to help research her new book on success and sports psychology over the summer – the kind of project that would look great on my CV. I’m actually amazed I’ve made it this far in her selection process because jobs like this are usually given to graduate students, but I’m prepared to give it everything I’ve got. Academia is a much more ruthless, cut-throat business than I ever anticipated, and if I’m going to get a place on a decent MA course next year I’ll need some kind of edge.
I feel a little formal in a navy Zara linen dress and a blazer, but since I wore my other smart clothes last night, they were my only option. Hopefully they also convey what a serious and professional person I am, as opposed to somebody who got fired from a job less than twelve hours ago.
‘Come in,’ Dr Meyer calls when I knock on her office door, beckoning to me when I stick my head inside. ‘Maisie, right on time. Would you like some coffee? The kettle’s just boiled.’
‘No, thank you.’ I decline because I’m already a jittery bag of caffeinated nerves, thanks to the double espresso Ava made for me before I left. I didn’t want it, but accepting seemed like the best friend thing to do, especially after the fiasco of last night. She never got a chance to approach Letitia Haddon because she was fired by Khloe approximately five minutes after I was, simply for recommending me. She was so gutted I never even told her about my conversation with Gio, although I spent most of the drive home replaying it in my head. I didn’t want to make things any worse by admitting I spent a large part of the evening lounging by a pool with a very hot, if arrogant, man.
‘I’m sorry to drag you in on a Saturday, but I’m travelling to Greece early next week and I’m trying to clear my desk,’ Dr Meyer says, preparing a cafetière for herself and then sitting at her desk, wearing her customary wide smile. She’s like a walking advertisement for good mental health, always cheerful and relentlessly upbeat. Also glamorous, with a large collection of accessories; today’s choice is a pair of black Jimmy Fairly glasses and a striped neckerchief.
‘Happy to be here,’ I say, trying to look as positive and together as she is.
‘Good. Now …’ Her smile falls away as she riffles through her notes. ‘Maisie, I think we have a problem.’
‘We do? Wait, I thought I was here to interview for the research position?’
‘Research position?’ She peers over the top of her glasses. ‘Aren’t you going home for the summer?’
‘No. My flatmate and I have decided to stay here. My home is pretty remote, so there aren’t many job opportunities.’
The first part of this is true. The second part less so, since there are plenty of jobs I could do in my dad’s bike shop. I just refuse to consider any of them.
‘I see.’ Dr Meyer fixes me with an uncharacteristically hard stare. ‘I’m afraid that the position has already been filled. What I want to discuss is your work ethic.’
‘Oh …’ I squirm in my seat, trying to remember what exactly her email said. Now that I think of it, she only suggested a meeting and I assumed she meant interview. Oh no … The realization is doubly mortifying. I know my work fell off a cliff in the spring, but I’ve tried really hard to make up for it recently.
‘Your attendance has been somewhat erratic, and a few of your marks this past term were lower than I would have expected, bringing your overall grade down much further than either of us would like.’ Her frown deepens. ‘Until now, you’ve been an excellent student, one of our best. It makes me wonder if there’s some issue I don’t know about?’
I curl my hands into fists, feeling a powerful urge to run out of the room. I don’t want to talk about this, but … ‘It’s my dad.’ Somehow I manage to push the words past gritted teeth. ‘He’s had … some health problems.’
‘Ah. I’m sorry to hear that.’
I nod quickly and look down at my hands. It’s nothing serious , Dad tells me when we FaceTime. There’s absolutely no need to worry . He needs to make a few lifestyle changes and take a couple of pills every day, that’s all. I know that he’s putting on a brave face and I wish I could be brave too, but I can’t. Losing Mum was bad enough; the thought of losing him as well is unbearable. The last time I went home to see him I was a nervous wreck. Being around so many trails and mountain bikers already made me feel panicky – I still can’t stand to be near that stuff since my accident – but I spent most of the time watching him like he was about to collapse. Worse, I could tell that he noticed. That’s another reason I can’t go home this summer: me being there does more harm than good. To both of us.
‘He’s better now,’ I say, overemphatically. ‘He’s on a diet, he’s managing his stress levels and he’s on medication.’
‘I’m glad to hear it.’ Dr Meyer’s brow is still furrowed, but her expression softens. ‘As your personal tutor, I wish you’d told me sooner. I might have arranged an extension for your exams. However, in that case, perhaps you might consider retaking the year, if the university allows it?’
‘No!’ The word comes out several decibels louder than I intend.
‘There’s no shame in it, Maisie, especially if you’ve been having a difficult time.’
‘But I won’t get funding if I retake the year. Dr Meyer, I didn’t talk to you about all this because I’ve made a huge effort to catch up with my work over the past few months. And I tried really hard in my exams. I was hoping that would make up for my shortfall.’
I’m not lying. I’ve hardly done anything except eat, sleep and revise. It’s no wonder Harrison said I was no fun any more. I worked so hard I actually deluded myself into thinking I had a shot at Dr Meyer’s research position. Exam results won’t be out for another month, but I know – I think – I hope – I haven’t failed. My mind races, trying to work out what could be dragging my overall grade down so badly. The only thing I rushed was one of my early coursework assignments …
I inhale sharply. ‘Is this because of my coursework on the benefits of sports psychology?’
‘It’s the biggest issue, yes.’ Dr Meyer sounds genuinely regretful. ‘It actually contributes a large percentage to your overall grade. And as it stands, it’s a fail.’
I wince with embarrassment. No wonder she’s talking as if she expects me to fail all my exams. I knew the essay I submitted wasn’t great, but I’d hoped it would scrape through. ‘I’m sorry. I wrote it in a rush between visits back home, but I know I’ll do better in my exams.’
‘Well, then …’ She looks thoughtful, tapping her fingernails on the desk for a few seconds. ‘Since there are mitigating circumstances, I’m sure I can convince the university to let you resubmit that particular assignment.’
‘Really?’ My heart lifts.
‘Yes. If you can do that, and it meets your previous standard of work, then we’ll discuss the situation again once we have your exam results. Hopefully then you’ll be able to continue with the programme as planned.’ Her smile settles back into place. ‘And by the way, there’s no need to revisit the same essay. As you know, the assignment is on how psychologists help athletes to perform at their best, with a focus on one sport. You chose tennis, but it occurs to me that perhaps downhill cycling might make a better subject for you? I remember you telling me about your previous sporting career when you first came here for an open day. Perhaps you could write about some of your own experiences?’
‘My experiences …?’ I echo weakly as my heart plummets again. I ought to have known that telling Dr Meyer about my accident would come back to bite me someday. I was so desperate to get on this course that I made myself talk about it, the second worst thing that’s ever happened to me, even though it meant twenty minutes in the toilets vomiting afterwards. It worked – I got in – but it means she knows who I was before I came here.
There’s only one problem: I don’t want to think about mountain biking ever again, let alone write about it.
I’m self-aware enough to know this is unhealthy, psychologically speaking. I’m also not prepared to do anything about it.
‘The thing is …’ I say. ‘I never had a sports psychologist.’
‘But you could still write about the potential benefits of psychology to the sport in general, or how it might have helped you if you’d continued with your sporting career, for example?’
‘That does sound interesting …’ I twist my fingers together as I clear my throat. ‘But if you don’t mind, I think I’d prefer to revise my original essay.’
‘Of course. That would be acceptable too.’ She agrees, though there’s a speculative gleam in her eyes that makes me want to bolt for the door again. ‘In that case, why don’t you take some time to think about it, let me know what you decide, and then use the rest of the month to come up with something you’re happy with. In fact, take until mid-July as I’m on leave until then. I’ll sort out the admin.’
‘That’s great. I really appreciate it.’ I get up and inch towards the door with relief. ‘Thank you, Dr Meyer. Have a nice holiday.’
‘I’m sure I will. And, Maisie …?’ She looks on the verge of saying something else, before shaking her head. ‘Take care of yourself.’
I practically run out of her office, the building, the campus, then across the park towards home in a fog of self-pity and misery. Any mention of my downhill biking career always does this – plunges me into a pit of depression so deep it feels like a monumental effort to scramble out again. My dad worried that me studying sports psychology would be a constant reminder. Just like living in a town like Cambridge, where it seems half the population rides a bike, might be a bit masochistic. But I still wanted to have some connection to sport. That sense of striving towards a goal, of testing yourself and your limits, is the thing I’ve always loved, and since I can’t bring myself to compete any more I intend to help others achieve their dreams instead. Then when they triumph it will be partly my win too, a victory at one remove, the best I can do. So long as nobody expects me to talk about my past or get on an actual bike.
‘How did it go?’ Ava calls from the kitchen/living/dining-room as I stomp through the front door of our first-floor flat. She and I met as neighbours in our first-year halls and got along so well we decided to rent somewhere together in our second year. This place belongs to one of Ava’s cousins, a physics lecturer at Girton who moved in with his boyfriend last summer and gave us a cheap deal. It’s better than we should be able to afford, and it means we can stay in Cambridge instead of going home in the holidays.
‘On a scale of one to ten? Minus a million.’ I hurl my blazer on to a chair and collapse next to her on our ancient, tea-stained sofa. ‘It wasn’t even an interview. She wanted to discuss my grades and suggested that I repeat the year.’
‘ What? ’
I smile at her outraged reaction. ‘It should be fine. I just need to resubmit one assignment and pass my exams.’
Should be … I bite my lip, experiencing a moment of disquiet because what if I’ve deluded myself about the exams too?
‘Phew! In that case, don’t worry. You worked so hard, you’re definitely going to pass.’ Ava thrusts a bowl into my lap. ‘Here. Have some breakfast.’
I look at the bowl and then back at her quizzically. ‘Popcorn?’
‘Yes. Corn. Like cereal. Though FYI, we really need to go shopping.’ She tips her head on to my shoulder as I scoop out a handful. ‘I’m sorry about your interview.’
‘I’m sorry about last night.’
‘Don’t be. Khloe was a nightmare to work for. I was going to quit soon anyway.’
‘When you start your internship, you mean?’
Ava lifts her head, wearing an expression that looks simultaneously guilty and excited as she reaches forward to pluck her phone from the coffee table. She’s got a paid position over the holidays as a digital marketing intern at some incredibly trendy development company that makes racing games because she’s the smartest, most organized and motivated person I’ve ever met.
‘It’s OK,’ I reassure her. ‘Just because my morning was a disaster doesn’t mean I’m not pleased for you, and at least I still have my job at Suds. I can probably get some more shifts over the summer.’ I attempt a smile, but it feels so stiff and unconvincing that I have to stuff another handful of popcorn into my mouth to hide it. Selling soap isn’t quite the cutting-edge academic research position I was hoping for.
‘No way!’ Ava exclaims suddenly.
‘What?’ I try to see what’s on her screen.
‘Giovanni Bauer! The Giovanni Bauer! I just got a message from his PR team. He’s offering to be on my podcast!’ She’s practically vibrating with excitement now, staring at her phone like it’s transformed into a gold nugget in her hand.
‘Oh, wow.’ My pulse jumps at his name. ‘Can I see?’
She whips her head towards me, her green eyes huge. ‘It says you recommended me?’
‘Yes.’ I smile and then bow my head graciously. ‘Yes, I did.’
‘ When did you speak to Giovanni Bauer?’
‘At the party …’
‘And you didn’t tell me?’
‘I was going to! But you were so upset last night and then I was stressed this morning.’ I purse my lips. ‘Although technically I asked him to ask Letitia Haddon, so I don’t know why he’s volunteering himself. It’s a little arrogant, don’t you think?’
‘I don’t care, he’s Giovanni Bauer! This is amazing!’ She flings her arms round me so tightly, I feel like a squeaky toy.
I hug her back, briefly wondering what happened to women in F1 getting the recognition they deserve, but she seems so happy I don’t want to spoil the moment. There is one teeny-tiny issue I ought to mention, however …
‘Ava?’
‘Yes?’ She pulls away to grin at me.
‘Just so you know, there’s a chance I told him what you said … about him messing up his chance of the championship.’
Her face freezes. ‘There’s a chance you told him, or you told him?’
‘I told him, but only because I didn’t know who he was.’
‘How?’ She leaps up from the sofa. ‘How is that possible?’
‘Because I don’t watch Formula 1!’
‘But I do! How many times have you sat here while I’ve been watching a race?’
‘I don’t know. A lot?’ I cringe. ‘I thought he looked familiar, but he’s so good-looking, I assumed he was an actor.’
‘Oh no. No, no, no.’ She presses a hand to her forehead. ‘ Please don’t say you told him I thought he was an entitled asshole after the Melbourne Grand Prix?’
‘No.’ I shake my head because, fortunately, I’d forgotten that part. ‘Definitely not, and if it helps I made a fool of myself too. I told him I didn’t think F1 was a real sport because they use engines.’
‘And you call yourself a sports psychologist?’ She sounds appalled. ‘Those drivers have to be so strong, both mentally and physically. They have to make continuous split-second decisions, and the amount of core and neck strength they need to control the cars, not to mention stamina and cardiovascular fitness, is incredible. The G-forces their bodies have to endure during a race would make most people pass out. It’s like several times their own bodyweight. The only equivalent is going into space!’
‘OK, OK, I get it.’ I hold my hands up defensively. ‘He’s basically a machine. But I don’t think he was too offended because he said to tell you he plans on winning the championship.’
Her jaw drops open. ‘Wait. So you had a proper conversation with him, not a quick chat? I thought you got fired for dropping glasses, not talking to guests?’
‘I did, but the glass-dropping incident was kind of his fault, so he invited me to hang out with him.’
‘So while I was getting yelled at by Khloe in the kitchen, you were chatting to Giovanni Bauer?’
‘Yes. Sorry. But you forgive me because I mentioned your podcast, right?’
She narrows her eyes for a second and then relents. ‘Fine. But only because I’m going to interview him on Monday and you’re coming with me.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘Look!’ She thrusts her phone out. ‘The invitation specifically includes you. Eleven a.m., Fraser Headquarters. They’re only twenty minutes away and they’ve offered to send a car, probably a sporty one.’ She gasps. ‘Maybe Bauer likes you!’
I laugh because she must be joking. Although he did invite me to Canada, and he asked for my name when I was leaving like he intended to use it again …
‘I don’t think so.’ I fold my arms because, although my heart is thumping a little harder at the possibility, I don’t believe it. He probably invites a different girl to every Grand Prix. Besides, even if it were true, it doesn’t mean the feeling is reciprocal. I don’t like arrogance.
‘Why not?’ Ava sounds indignant again.
I give her a look. I might not have paid much attention to the actual driving when she’s been watching races, but I noticed the wives and girlfriends, and none of them ever look like Bellatrix Lestrange on a bad hair day. I’m pretty sure they would never eat popcorn for breakfast either.
‘You’re gorgeous, Maisie,’ Ava says, like she’s reading my mind. ‘In a real-world way. You have lovely eyes.’
‘Thank you.’ I smile because it’s nice to have supportive friends who exaggerate your good points, even if they say ‘real-world’ rather than ‘fantasy-woman’.
‘Actually, you might be right.’ Her face falls abruptly. ‘I have a feeling he’s dating that model Iris Calver. Just imagine if he did like you, though! It would be the perfect revenge on Harrison. How bad would he feel if he saw photos of you two together?’
I pause for a moment to reflect on this. It’s a pleasing image, if extremely unlikely to happen.
‘Giovanni Bauer …’ She sighs dreamily. ‘He’s like the perfect combination of his parents. His father’s racing talent mixed with his mother’s looks, although she’s pretty talented too.’
‘Who’s his mother?’
‘Morena Mancini! You know, the actress who played Ginevra?’
I stare at her blankly.
‘It was a big arthouse hit in the late eighties.’
‘Nothing to do with F1, then?’
‘No, it’s about a teenage girl who has this toxic relationship with an older man, then goes around getting revenge on other predators. And every time she stabs someone her hair gets redder, like their blood is literally seeping into her soul.’
‘Ew. Does she get caught?’
‘Eventually. It’s amazing – we should totally watch it.’
‘I don’t know.’ I grimace because I feel queasy just thinking about it. ‘It sounds kind of depressing.’
‘We should still watch it, only not tonight. Tonight, I have to prepare.’ She presses a hand to her stomach. ‘Oh wow. This is huge.’
‘So? You want to work in F1, don’t you? This will be a great way to make connections.’
‘Yes, but my biggest interview so far has been that guy we met in the pub who changed tyres for Chiltern back in the noughties. What if I mess it up?’
‘You’ll be great, don’t worry, and if you’re not, I’ll drop a tray of something expensive to distract everybody again.’
She throws me a grateful look. ‘You’re right. I can do this. I just need to prepare some questions. I want to be tough, but fair.’
‘Sounds good.’ I swivel sideways on the sofa. ‘Here. Imagine I’m him.’
‘OK, so …’ She sits down beside me. ‘Hello, Gio.’
‘Hello, Ava. May I call you Ava?’ I do my best to emulate his velvety smooth, slightly Mediterranean accent. As voices go, I have to say, it was pretty damn sexy. Just thinking about it makes me tingle.
‘You may. What do you think of your car this season?’
‘I’m so glad you asked.’ I tap my chin thoughtfully. ‘I think it’s … blue?’
‘Blue and silver.’ She rolls her eyes. ‘Which is your favourite track?’
‘The bendy one.’
‘Insightful. What are your chances of winning the championship?’
‘Oh, I know this one! “I plan on being the youngest world champion in F1 history.”’ I knit my brows and revert to my own voice. ‘What are his chances, really?’
‘Honestly? It won’t be easy.’ Ava purses her lips. ‘His form has been kind of erratic, and he hasn’t won a race yet, although he’s come second and third a few times. It’s kind of a weird season, though. Farron, Marr, Shimizu and Zaragoza are all close in the points, which means there’s no clear leader yet, and Gio’s not far behind, which is probably the only reason Fraser hasn’t fired him already. If he could just win a race and fix his public image and not piss off Mark Haddon any more … he could still feasibly do it. Otherwise he’s in danger of losing his seat.’
‘Wow.’ I’m surprised I’m actually interested in this. I mean, I can see how Gio’s behaviour might piss people off, especially if he’s getting into fights at parties, but he wasn’t all bad. He stood up to Khloe for me and now he’s offering to be on Ava’s podcast.
‘Sounds like he’s his own worst enemy.’
‘Yeah … Did he mention anything about punching his teammate last night?’ Ava gives me a keen look. ‘There was a rumour in the kitchen.’
‘Maybe.’ I nod. ‘But maybe it was the other guy’s fault?’
‘Doubtful. Luc Farron’s one of the good guys of F1.’ She sighs. ‘I don’t suppose Gio’s publicity team will let me ask about it, though.’
‘So ask around the question. Find out what’s making him punchy.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, you could ask him what motivates him, for a start, like if his father is a former world champion, that must be a lot of pressure, right? Ask him how he deals with that. Then ask about his relationships with other drivers.’
‘That’s a good idea.’
‘Psychology student,’ I say smugly.
‘Keep them coming.’ She makes a note on her phone. ‘And also, think about what we’re going to wear. We need to look sleek and professional.’
‘Then I really shouldn’t have worn this today.’ I look down at my linen dress. Thanks to my conversation with Dr Meyer, it now smells of panic sweat. I don’t have time to wash it either, not when I have a shift at Suds starting at eleven and another tomorrow. I might not know how I feel at the prospect of actually seeing Gio again, but I’d at least like to smell good. ‘Can I borrow one of your Formula 1 shirts?’
‘Um …’ Ava looks awkward. ‘Not really.’
‘Why not? You’re always wearing them.’
‘Yes, but I support Quezada and you definitely can’t go in a rival team’s merchandise. Nothing yellow at all.’
‘What about knickers?’
‘Do you have yellow knickers?’
‘Yes. I like vibrant underwear. It makes me feel positive.’
‘Fine, you can wear yellow knickers, but don’t show anyone.’ She waggles her eyebrows at me. ‘Not even Gio.’
‘Urgh.’ I reach for more popcorn. ‘Trust me, after Harrison it’s going to be a long time before I show my knickers to anyone.’