TEN
WE DON’T FIND OUT what Mark Haddon says. The only people who do are Gio and Luc, who spend twenty minutes in his office after the podium ceremony ‘discussing’ what just happened on the track. All three are tight-lipped when they emerge, but since no one appears to be fired the atmosphere finally relaxes and shifts to one of celebration. No matter what the circumstances, it’s still Gio’s first win and, with Luc in second place, that means forty-three points for Fraser.
The party in the team motorhome is a lot less restrained than the one in the hotel last night – and, from what people are telling me, this is only the pre-party. When Ava first told me about the motorhomes, I assumed they were basically large caravans, but they’re incredible: massive modular units that get assembled and disassembled every week or so, all around the world. There are offices, bathrooms, meeting rooms, lounges for the sponsors, entertainment rooms for the team … I feel like I need a map.
Music blares as more and more people arrive. Mechanics, strategists, data analysts, technicians, press officers, communications and media teams. I had no idea there were so many people working behind the scenes. Annoyingly, the one person I really want to speak to – Leon – is nowhere to be seen, but everyone else is friendly and welcoming. It just feels so weird to be here. It’s one thing to be a driver’s fake girlfriend, but being a Grand Prix winner’s fake girlfriend takes things up another level. People keep congratulating me like I had something to do with the race result, and I feel contractually obliged to keep smiling.
While I have a dull sense of being a fraud, fortunately it’s mostly drowned out by euphoria from the race. My ‘boyfriend’, meanwhile, is definitely enjoying himself – as in really enjoying himself. He took Ava and I all round the room, introducing us to members of the team, before being dragged away by a group of mechanics and presented with a trophy full of champagne. I guess this means his break from alcohol is over, not that I blame him for celebrating. Now they’re all standing in a huddle with their arms round each other, bellowing ‘We Are the Champions’ at the top of their lungs.
After an hour, I need some space, so I leave Ava chatting with Gio’s race engineer and head out on to a balcony. After such a grey day, the sun has finally decided to make an appearance, bathing the team village in a pale pink and orange glow.
I lean over the railings and gaze down at the TV crews and guests still wandering around. The best thing about this weekend is that it’s taken my mind off the fact that my exam results are due at the end of the week. Ava and I have made a mutual pact not to talk about it, but I’m still aware of my nerves, stretching tighter and tighter each day.
‘These parties were a lot wilder ten years ago.’
I squeak in shock and spin round because I thought I was alone, but there’s a man standing to my left, leaning against the wall with a beer in one hand. Not just any man either, but Luc Farron. I wonder if I should leave, but that seems kind of overdramatic and, besides, he looks fairly harmless, with cropped light-brown hair, a smattering of stubble and warm dark eyes.
‘Forgive me, I didn’t mean to startle you.’ He lifts his beer like he’s saluting me. ‘I’m Luc.’
‘I know. I’m Maisie. Hi.’ I mirror his gesture with my champagne. ‘What are you doing out here? Shouldn’t you be inside celebrating?’
‘Celebrating what?’ There’s a glint of something hard in his eyes.
I open my mouth and then close it again, remembering what Gio said in Ava’s interview. The first rule of Formula 1 is to beat your teammate . Today’s overtaking controversy aside, nobody competitive is ever thrilled with second place. It’s suddenly obvious what Farron is doing out here by himself: licking his wounds and brooding. If I were writing a psychological profile, I’d say that he probably feels threatened. From what I hear, Farron’s been top dog at Fraser so far this season, but maybe Gio’s performance today suggests he’s a more dangerous rival than anticipated. And maybe the way that Gio’s celebrating is kind of insensitive, like rubbing salt in Luc’s wound.
‘Sorry, that wasn’t fair of me.’ Farron shakes his head apologetically. ‘So, tell me, did you enjoy the race?’
‘It was exciting,’ I answer tactfully. ‘I’ve only started watching Formula 1 recently, but I think I’m addicted.’
‘It does that to people.’ He takes a swig of beer and then comes to lean against the railings beside me. ‘Can I ask you a question, Maisie?’
‘Sure.’ I wince as something smashes in the room behind us. It sounds like more than a few glasses, like a door shattering.
‘How did you and Gio really meet?’
The words surprise me so much that I almost drop my glass too. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
He shrugs, like it’s just idle curiosity. ‘I heard that it was while he was recording a podcast for your friend in there, only it seems odd that he would agree to do a podcast with only two hundred subscribers.’ His eyebrow arches again. ‘Not now obviously. Now she has what – ten thousand?’
‘Ten and a half.’ I try not to sound defensive. There’s no way he can know about my contract with Gio. If he sounds suspicious, which he does, he’s probably just trying to cause trouble. ‘It’s not so weird that he listens to F1 podcasts, is it?’
‘I guess not.’
‘Ava’s is really good. You should listen sometime.’
‘Maybe I will.’ He looks steadily at me for a long moment and then smiles in a way that seems practised. It doesn’t reach his eyes either; it doesn’t even get close. ‘Hey, I’m not trying to interrogate you. I’m only curious because you’re so different to all Gio’s previous girlfriends. Iris would have been dancing on the tables by now.’
‘Right.’ Unlike Iris, who was obviously a party animal, I’m pretty sure I could drink every bottle of alcohol in the room and still not be inclined to dance on tables. I don’t appreciate his ‘so different’ comment either.
‘Hey, that was a compliment,’ he adds.
‘Kind of a backhanded one,’ I answer tersely because, as well as asking awkward questions, apparently he thinks I’m gullible too.
He looks like he’s about to say something else when we both become aware of somebody else on the balcony, and turn our heads at the exact same moment.
‘What’s going on?’ Gio’s tone is hard, which makes a striking contrast to the rest of him, which is swaying slightly from side to side.
‘Nothing,’ I answer, surprised by his accusatory tone. I don’t like his expression either. He looks furious, like he just caught the pair of us making out or something. I know he loathes Farron, but right now he doesn’t seem to like me much either, which is both ironic and unfair since I wasn’t exactly enjoying the conversation.
‘We were just talking.’
‘What about?’
I frown. ‘Stuff.’
‘What stuff? I want to know.’
‘That doesn’t mean I have to tell you.’ I look past him, feeling my cheeks flush even though the temperature seems to have plummeted. A small crowd is gathering beyond the doors to the balcony, watching us argue. ‘It’s a party, Gio. I’m allowed to talk to people, aren’t I?’
‘Not him. I won the race today. Me , not him. You’re supposed to be here for me.’
‘ For you?’ There are a million different things I could say in response to this, but now isn’t the time. His brain is clearly too fogged with alcohol to process any of them. Besides, I’m pretty sure a couple of people have their phones out, surreptitiously filming us, and I’m not prepared to go viral with a rant.
‘We’ll talk about this tomorrow.’
‘No, we’re going to talk about it now!’
Wow . I hold a hand up. Glaring at me is one thing. Telling me what to do is another. I don’t care what he achieved today – he has no right to do that.
‘Luc,’ I say, through gritted teeth, ‘it was nice to meet you.’
‘Likewise.’ He raises his bottle again.
‘Now I’m leaving.’ I take a step forward, so that I’m standing right beside Gio, lowering my voice so only he can hear me. ‘And you’re acting like a misogynistic asshole.’
‘I’m not going anywhere.’ He glowers furiously back.
‘Good. Because I’d rather be on my own.’ I jut my chin out at him. ‘And, just in case I’m not being clear, you can shove your contract.’