SIX
NOT BAD. I READ over my draft and make a couple of changes. I’m in the staff room above Suds that doubles as a storage area and smells like a summer meadow. It’s five o’clock and my shift has just finished, but with sunshine still streaming in through the south-facing windows, our latest delivery of soap is so pungent you can practically hear bees buzzing in the background. When I came upstairs, I was tempted to lie down and bask like a cat in the warm golden glow, but since I spent a large part of the afternoon mentally planning my new essay on Formula 1, I wanted to get my thoughts down as quickly as possible.
‘You look nice,’ the store manager, Lauren, says as she comes up the stairs. ‘I was going to ask if you wanted to go for a drink, but you look like you have plans. Cute dress, by the way.’ She rifles her hands through her short, dark curls. ‘Hot date?’
‘No!’ I answer, a little too vehemently. I’ve changed out of my black leggings and lavender Suds T-shirt into a strappy green summer dress that brings out the hazel flecks in my eyes. I’m not trying to look good good, more everyday good. The last thing I want is Gio to think I’ve made an effort for him. His ego is already the size of a small planet.
‘Woah.’ Lauren holds her hands up. ‘It was a compliment.’
‘I know. Sorry. It’s just pizza with a friend.’
‘Sounds nice.’ She reaches for her bag. ‘So about those extra shifts you asked for? I definitely need five days a week over the summer, plus holiday cover for Faye at the end of the month. Sound good?’
‘Perfect.’ I nod enthusiastically, then remember I could be out of the country. ‘Although there are a couple of weekends when I might be busy. I’m not sure yet.’
‘No problem. I’m going to advertise for another part-timer anyway.’
‘Great.’ I give her my widest smile. ‘Thank you.’
I’m still smiling when I step outside five minutes later. Holiday cover means that I can make some decent money over the summer, enough for food and rent anyway, because there’s no way I’m letting Gio pay me to be his fake girlfriend. Travel and expenses I can accept, but paying for my time just sounds weird. No judgement on anyone else’s life choices, but I don’t want to feel like an escort.
I walk through the centre of town and keep going. Gio invited me to his house so we can have our ‘business meeting’ in private, and since I’m nosy about what kind of house he lives in, I agreed. He offered to pick me up from work too, but it’s such a beautiful evening I’m happy to walk and get my head straight instead.
I figured that Bo’s background check entitled me to do a little digging on Gio too, and my research unearthed a lot, most of it bad. His reputation is about a hundred times worse than I realized. There are stories about him turning up late and hungover to practice sessions, of being argumentative and bad-tempered, of walking out of interviews when he doesn’t like the questions. There’s even footage of him having a full-blown row with Farron after a race in Australia.
He’s also dated a string of beautiful women, mostly actresses and models, including Iris Calver, although their relationship seems to have imploded spectacularly with a kiss-and-tell article by her a month ago. Honestly, he reads like an arrogant, oversexed asshole, definitely not the kind of guy I want to spend time with, but in the interest of fairness I’ve decided to believe only 50 per cent of what the tabloids say, which is still a little alarming. On the flip side, since our relationship will be fake, what does it matter? It’s not like I’ll be spending that much time with him.
I ring his doorbell around 5.45 p.m, although I’m not totally convinced I’ve come to the right house. It’s not just that he lives in the suburbs, at the end of a short, gravelled drive without a security gate, but I expected something modern and minimalist like the Haddons’ palace, not red-brick Gothic Victorian with bay windows, a high-pitched roof and an octagonal turret.
I ring the doorbell again when nobody answers, and this time I hear a thud, followed by footsteps. The next moment, Gio is swinging the door open, looking casual and relaxed in a black vest and shorts. Clearly he’s going for ‘everyday good’ too, although he still manages to look incredible. His hair is damp, his skin is flushed and dewy, like he recently got out of the shower, and I can see a tattoo of a wheel on fire on his shoulder. It’s like being hit in the face by a wave of testosterone. The effect is so powerful I have to dig my toes into my sandals to stop myself from swaying backwards. His own feet, I notice, are bare.
‘Sorry. I was in the back,’ he says, his gaze skimming over my dress. ‘You look nice. Come in.’
‘Thanks,’ I reply, following him into the hall. It has a black-and-white chequered floor like a chess board. ‘Is this really your house?’
‘Yes. I mean, it’s rented, but I live here.’ He lifts an eyebrow. ‘Why?’
‘I just expected it to be more, you know … symmetrical?’
‘Ha. I saw a few places like that, but I liked this one. I’ve never had a turret before.’ He beckons for me to follow him towards the back of the house. ‘Now, I hope you’re hungry.’
‘Famished. I’ve been selling fancy soap all day.’
‘Soap?’ He glances over his shoulder.
‘Yes. I work in a shop. It’s usually only a couple of days a week to help pay for my rent, but it’s now officially my summer job.’ I stop as he leads me into a large, open-plan kitchen. This house is full of surprises. The outside might be old-fashioned, but the inside is definitely not. It’s gorgeous, all granite worktops, dark grey walls and contrasting light wood cabinets.
‘Can I get you something to drink?’ Gio offers, propping himself against one of the counters. ‘Beer, wine?’
‘Do you have any sparkling water?’
‘Coming up.’ He takes a bottle from the fridge and slides it in my direction.
‘Thanks.’ I take it and hop on to a stool. ‘Congratulations again on coming third in Montreal, by the way. Ava said your overtaking was very impressive. Does this mean your seat is safe?’
‘Not quite.’ He makes a face. ‘It means I have some breathing space, that’s all, one last chance to prove to Mark that I’ve changed.’ He opens a water for himself and raises it. ‘ Salute .’
‘ Salute .’ I toast him back and then notice the flour on the work surface. ‘Hold on, are you making the pizza from scratch?’
‘Of course.’ He seems offended. ‘What, did you think I would order one?’
‘Yes! I mean, you only just got back from Canada.’
He shrugs. ‘Part of the reason I rented this place is because there’s a pizza oven in the garden. It’s heating up now.’ He gestures towards a large glass door. ‘Shall we go outside?’
‘Actually …’ I take a deep breath. Much as I hate to delay pizza, I’d prefer to get the business part of the evening out of the way. ‘I think we should talk first.’
The corners of his mouth curve upwards. ‘ More questions?’
‘Ethical concerns,’ I correct him. ‘First of all, about the environment. Frankly, I’m not sure it’s right to fake-date somebody who basically destroys the planet for a living.’
‘Destroys seems a little harsh.’ He rubs a hand over his jaw. ‘I mean, single-use plastic and disposable fashion play a part too, right? But I get the point. Formula 1 has had a fairly large carbon footprint in the past, but a lot’s changed over the past few years. We’re aiming to be carbon neutral by 2030, though there’s still a way to go. And I offset all my flights and I drive to European tracks when I can. Things are moving in the right direction.’
‘Really?’ I’m impressed. ‘I didn’t know that. Sorry I accused you of single-handedly destroying the planet.’
‘Not a problem. What else? You said a couple of concerns.’
‘The second one is to do with my professional integrity.’ I pause heavily. ‘On the one hand, if the press were to ever find out that we were lying about our relationship, it could completely undermine my future career. Who would ever trust a psychologist who lies? On the other, sports psychology is a competitive industry and what use is professional integrity when you’re unemployed?’
‘I’m not sure how to answer that,’ Gio says, though judging by the way his forehead is knitted, at least he’s taking the issue seriously. ‘All I can promise is that no one would find out about us from either me or Bo. Also, career-wise, he’s a useful person to know, especially when he owes you a favour.’ His blue eyes warm, as he leans towards me. ‘Now can I ask you something?’ I nod. ‘What can I offer to persuade you? You said you would think about that.’
‘And I did.’ I smile back. ‘I’d like to speak to your performance coach, like you suggested. It’s for a paper I need to … to write.’
‘Is that it?’ He leans back again.
‘Yes. You already said you would cover my travel and expenses.’
‘More than that. I’d like to pay you for your time.’
‘No.’ I shake my head quickly. ‘Paying me would make this way too Pretty Woman . I can earn my own money.’
‘But I’d prefer that you didn’t have to.’ His brow knits again. ‘What will people say about a driver with a ten million pound contract who lets his girlfriend sell soap?’
‘That she’s an independent woman who obviously makes her own financial decisions?’ I try to sound breezy, but really … ten million?
‘Or that he doesn’t take care of her?’
‘Or that they just started dating?’ I fold my arms. ‘You want me to be grounded and low maintenance, remember?’
‘All right,’ he agrees finally, though it sounds like he’s speaking through gritted teeth. ‘If that’s what you want.’
‘It is.’ I suck my bottom lip into my mouth, doing a quick mental check to make sure I’ve covered all my issues, while also gazing at his perfect jawline and oh-so-sculpted cheekbones. It’s completely insane that a guy this good-looking and successful wants me to be his fake girlfriend. I can’t believe that anyone’s going to fall for it, but I also kind of want to test that theory … And I should really stop staring at his bone structure if we’re going to be business partners.
‘You think a lot, don’t you?’ he says suddenly.
‘You say that like it’s a bad thing.’
‘No, but it looks exhausting.’
‘I like things to be clear, that’s all,’ I say, jutting my chin in the air. ‘That way there’s less chance of any nasty surprises later.’ I take a deep breath and then release it again. ‘OK, we have a deal.’
‘Great.’ He grins and immediately reaches into a drawer, pulling out two folders.
‘Oh, wow, you have a contract ready?’ I gape in surprise.
‘Bo visited earlier. It’s basically a non-disclosure agreement, but you should know that it’s indefinite.’
‘Meaning I can’t sell my story if I’m strapped for cash in ten years?’
‘Exactly.’
‘That sounds fair.’ I drag one folder towards me and start reading. There are only two sheets and my address is already there, even though I never told Bo where I live, so I guess he really has done his research. The rest summarizes everything Gio and I discussed the other day: no other romantic interests, a minimum of three Grand Prix attendances, PDAs limited to acts of a non-intimate nature and a non-disclosure clause. There’s also a financial section, detailing just how much Gio’s willing to pay for my time. It’s at least ten times more than I expected.
I take the pen and release a small sigh, before I cross out the extremely large number that would wipe out all of my student loans and sign both copies, feeling a little sick at what my morals have cost me. ‘Your turn.’
‘There and … there.’ Gio signs his name with a flourish and then holds a hand out. There’s something sweet and old-school about the gesture, so I shake it, without feeling any sparks this time, possibly because I’m numb from shock at what I’ve just done. I’m only aware of the warmth of his hand as it envelops mine.
‘Now, let’s cook.’ He tugs on my fingers, pulling me down from my stool and leading me out on to a stone terrace. There’s a table out there, already laid for dinner, as well as a stone pizza oven to one side.
‘Can I do anything to help?’ I ask as he releases me to aim an infrared thermometer into the oven.
‘You can tell me about your day.’
‘Like a proper girlfriend, you mean?’ I try to recall what interesting things happened at work. The list is pathetically short. ‘One customer bought a dozen bars of Optimism.’
‘Optimism?’ He looks confused.
‘It’s the name of one of our soaps. They’re all named after emotions. Positive ones, obviously. Nobody wants to smell like dread or jealousy.’
‘How many emotions are there?’
‘It varies depending on the season, but at the moment we have ten: Happiness, Optimism, Love, Glee, Vivacity, Bliss, Exhilaration, Serenity, Summer Vibes and Ecstasy.’
‘Is Summer Vibes an emotion?’
‘There’s a degree of artistic licence,’ I concede.
‘Huh.’ He waggles his eyebrows at me. ‘Ecstasy sounds interesting.’
‘It’s our most controversial product.’ I laugh. ‘Jasmine and musk.’
‘Well, that explains it.’
I blink. ‘Explains what?’
He doesn’t answer because he’s already on his way back through the sliding doors into the kitchen. I’m only alone for about thirty seconds, however, before he comes back, brandishing a large metal paddle with a ham-and-pineapple pizza on top.
‘Explains what?’ I repeat.
His lips quirk like he left me hanging deliberately. ‘You have a distinctive scent. It’s nice. I just couldn’t place it.’
‘It’s probably a combination of all our soaps.’ I lift my hands to my nose and sniff. ‘I’m basically a walking cloud of positive emotions.’
‘Good to know.’ He slides the pizza into the oven and then goes back inside for a bowl of salad and grilled chicken, which he places on his side of the table.
‘Is that what you’re eating?’ I look from him to the salad in confusion. ‘Where’s your pizza?’
‘I have to watch my carb intake during the season.’
‘You have to diet?’
‘Not diet, just watch what I eat: the lighter the driver, the lighter the car.’ He pulls the paddle out of the oven, slides my Hawaiian pizza on to a plate, slices it with a wheel and then deposits it on the table in front of me. ‘I’d say I’m living vicariously by watching you eat, but pineapple is a travesty.’
‘I know my truth.’ I pick up a piece and blow on it before taking a large bite and groaning with satisfaction. ‘Oh my goodness. If you were actually living vicariously, you’d be feeling so good right now.’
‘I’m glad you like it.’ He grins across the table. ‘So are we ready to launch this relationship?’
‘Launch it?’ I wrinkle my nose. He makes us sound like a product. ‘Um … I guess so?’
‘Good.’ He pulls his phone out and aims the camera at me. ‘Smile.’
‘What? No!’ I start to cover my face with my hands. ‘I probably have cheese on my lips!’
‘You look perfect.’ He turns the phone round to show me. It’s nowhere near perfect, but it’s not so bad either. My hair is falling in messy tendrils around my face, which is half hidden by my hands in a way that, I have to admit, looks kind of cute. Plus I’m making a proactive political statement in defence of fruit on dough.
‘Dinner with a special lady,’ Gio murmurs, typing. ‘Is a twirling hearts emoji too much?’
‘Yes!’
‘You’re right. I need the heart with an arrow through it.’
‘Hang on. Where are you posting that?’ I feel my heart start to hammer. I’m really not sure this is a good idea, but I guess I already agreed to it …
‘My Instagram.’ Gio peers up at me, his thumb hovering over the screen. ‘Ready?’
I gulp. ‘As I’ll ever be.’
‘Then here we go.’ He taps one last time before putting his phone face down on the table. ‘That’s it. Shared. We’re officially boyfriend girlfriend.’