Chapter Six England
Chapter Six England
Quick thing to know about me is that I hate liars, lying, a large amount of fiction, etcetera. I’m a documentarian with justice sensitivity; telling the truth is what I do.
My adoptive parents are old-school hippies. “Life is suffering, but I can find calmness within myself; true joy is embracing chaos” and all that. I started my own personal journey toward Enlightenment (with a capital E) and Mindfulness (capital M) when I was almost pulled out of school for my attitude and equally awful grades. ADHD wasn’t a thing in my hometown, and back then, anything and everything made me angry—lying most of all. It was an interpersonal wavelength my brain couldn’t understand, and the confusion boiled. I took my anger out on myself: shut down, stopped doing homework, didn’t talk to people.
Then there was my birth mom. Nothing makes you hate fake happiness like being forced to pretend like you feel it, particularly as a hormonal teenage girl. Or when you’re a teenager whose parent doesn’t believe in your medical diagnosis, occasionally “forgets” to pick up the medication that directly impacts your brain’s neurotransmitters, and tells you to stay positive when you’re shuffled back to a foster family’s house, since one day, everything is going to work out!
Spoiler alert: It did not work out.
But I did have time to watch a lot of movies.
This is the part where things turned around. The good bit. Some people don’t ever find their passion, the reason to stay awake working until your eyes are begging you to go to bed. I did. I was exactly the type of almost-goner who needed to fall deeply in love with something, and when I shot my first documentary in high school, it was like finding out that magic is real and I can make it.
Because you can make a documentary anywhere, with almost anything. You don’t need a fancy camera or a script, only your own ethical backbone, some sort of camera, and an eye for telling the truth.
I was hooked.
I think about that—falling in love with the truth, Arthur lying about not having watched my documentary—for the entire twenty-minute car ride to our London hotel.
It’s nice to have a dichotomy to chew on, at least. Arthur was dragged away for “post-flight physical therapy” once the plane touched down, so I have ample time to study the distinct lack of in-another-country excitement from Ignition staff. They don’t stop walking because they’re distracted by the accents churning around them. In the sleek black van that carts us to the hotel, nobody is stupefied by the fact that we’re driving on the wrong side of the road and the world looks like a Doctor Who filler episode.
So, I also try to be casual. World travel! Who cares? Suddenly finding myself in the United Kingdom? Just another day in my thrilling life.
Then we make a turn, and we’re being waved through a black iron gate, and we’re parked outside a palatial hotel, and there goes being casual. “Did they film Bridgerton here?” I ask Delaney as I follow her into the tastefully beige lobby, complete with empty velvet settees and twin crystal chandeliers.
“Probably.”
“Unreal.” I almost drop my suitcase trying to get a photo of the actual golden cherub statues above a fountain. “Did Ignition get some coupon to put us all here?”
“This is how we travel, Lilah.”
Slowly, I lower my phone. “Everyone?”
Delaney shrugs. “It takes a team to win a race.”
“You’re joking.”
“Deadly serious. Now follow me—we need to throw our bags upstairs if we want to make our reservation.”
I’m five steps behind her, cursing my short legs. “We’re going out?”
“It’s tradition,” she says, like it’s obvious. “We always have the first Team Arthur dinner in London.”
We’re in and out of our painfully pretty hotel rooms in ten minutes; five of those minutes are Delaney rifling through her clothes for something I can borrow. Then we’re in a cab, and I keep tugging down the hem of the simple lavender dress she managed to find, since none of her pants would fit me without cuffing them and apparently, “That’s a crime.” Delaney sweet-talks the driver into taking the long way from Knightsbridge to Chelsea so she can point out a string of trees that lines Hyde Park. “And Kensington Palace is back there, maybe that way?”
It hits me then, as we get caught in the evening traffic. I’m in London. In a squat black cab, next to a woman I barely know.
And I like it.
Our destination is nestled in a strip of tall, tightly packed brick buildings with shops and restaurants along the first floors. “Best place to shop,” Delaney says as I pull out my camera and get a shot of the gleaming gold store windows.
“Oh yeah?” I murmur, distracted by the view. Twilight is settling in, layering the picturesque shops, busy sidewalks, and tall red buses with diffused blue softness. I think about how this image will look after the shot of the private jet this morning—was that still this morning? Arthur’s lonely money juxtaposed with this bustling street, all these people walking together, laughing, happy, with shopping bags swaying from their arms.
“This is Chelsea,” Delaney says. “King’s Road, to be exact.”
I glare at her. “Is that a King Arthur joke?”
“No, you’re in London, Lilah. Every street is the King’s Something.”
I get a few more shots of the street, before it’s too dark and the menagerie of lighting turns into a battle with my exposure settings. Then I drift after Delaney toward a restaurant that, unfortunately, isn’t one of the smaller, affordable-looking bistros. When you have to think about your bank account whenever you eat, you get pretty good at spotting restaurants out of your budget, and this one has all the red flags: plain all-black front, shaded windows, the words Bunny Hop painted above the awning in trendy gold letters. If a place doesn’t let you see inside from the sidewalk, I can’t afford to eat there.
My fears are justified once we go inside. The warm smell of freshly baked bread and hard-to-place vegetables makes my fingers curl with want, and my eyes drop to the glossy black-and-white tiled floor as Delaney speaks with the hostess. Through the arched doorway, I get a peek of the dining room, and there are flowers hanging from the ceiling. Fat white roses. Hanging. From the ceiling.
God. I’m going to have to say I need to leave. In Delaney’s dress, after her tourist cab ride. It’ll be humiliating, but oh well, what isn’t? I start to open my mouth, stumbling toward the truth, when I hear a low hum.
“Look at you.”
I jump. Arthur’s to my right, a smug smile on his face—though his eyes are on Delaney’s dress. He’s changed out of his plane clothes, too, and now he’s in black pants and a white button-down, and the uncomplicated combination makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. Without any Ignition logos or his orange race suit, Arthur Bianco looks like a semi-normal person, and I don’t know how to react to that.
“Don’t you clean up nice,” he says, and right. Gross.
“I, um—don’t say that—also, I should go.”
His eyes widen, too hazel in the soft light. “Right now?”
Okay, I’d spoken too soon before. Telling Arthur that I can’t afford to eat here is much more embarrassing. “This isn’t exactly in a filmmaker’s budget.”
A line creases his forehead. “You aren’t paying.”
“I’m definitely paying for myself.”
The line goes away as Arthur seems to register that it isn’t that I want to skip dinner—it’s that I think I have to. “No.” He laughs, a little rougher than usual. Travel-worn, I guess. “This is my treat, for my team. That currently includes you, doesn’t it?”
“Arthur. There’s ethics. Subject matters can’t spend money on—”
I try to put up more of a fight, only Delaney appears with the hostess, and I’m collectively rich-people-smiled into silence. Okay, so a documentarian absolutely shouldn’t accept any form of gift or money, including fancy food. Staying in a five-star hotel on the company’s dime? Also bad.
But… if I turn down dinner now, the team might be suspicious. And I’d miss this chance to film Arthur’s tradition.
Would one dinner hurt?
Swallowing my integrity like an extra-large pill, I follow my group through white tablecloths and beautiful people enjoying beautiful meals, to a cozy private dining room off the rose-covered main room. I linger in the doorway, casting another look at the floral centerpiece on the ceiling. “Can I film in here?”
“Sure,” Arthur says confidently, right as Delaney says, “I wouldn’t.”
I look between them, hesitating, then take Arthur’s lead. As I lift my camera to my eye, I nearly miss his quick slip of a smile, there one second then gone the next. He stands next to me as I slowly pan the roses, only speaking when a waiter asks if we’ve received permission to film. “We’re fine,” he mutters. “She’s with me.”
When I’m satisfied, I find Arthur smirking at me. “Is there an Oscar for ‘best movie featuring a ceiling’?”
“You act like it’s normal for a restaurant to spend thousands on florals.”
“Isn’t it?”
“No.”
“Huh.” His brows lift. “I can bring your meal out here if you’d like.”
“Sure, I’ll eat in the back with the cooks. Class solidarity.”
“You know what you remind me of? We used to feed this angry stray cat out in Rome. Micetta, we called her. She bit me every time I pet her.”
“Masochist,” I mumble.
“You wish.”
Delaney is already inside the private room, next to Cameron and Merlin and a few people I don’t recognize. Orange flowers are draped over the walls, Ignition’s bombastic shade, and the blooms mingle with framed portraits of strangers—and a black-and-white photo of Arthur, Cameron, Delaney, and Sarah. It was clearly taken in the same room; they’re standing in front of the glass French doors, Arthur’s arms around Delaney’s and Cameron’s shoulders, Sarah blowing a kiss at the camera, all of them caught mid-laugh.
As I sit, I get that same swoop of longing I’ve felt on every playground I’ve ever been on, watching girls click together and trade laughter. I grew up in a one-school town. Elementary school, middle school, and high school, all in the same big building. For the kids who struck out early, clocked as imperceptibly different , first through twelfth grade was a grand psychological experiment I haven’t recovered from. Then my college years were dominated by Max and his guy friends, and I went along with it, too scared of being alone to realize what I was missing. Those were the years I was supposed to find my people.
But I didn’t, and I don’t blame anyone for that except me.
I chose to be the photographer, not in the friend-group photos.
You are so lucky , I think as Arthur pops the giant champagne bottle that’s ceremoniously delivered to our table. Lucky because he doesn’t look down as froth runs over his fingers, lucky because he gracefully orders food for the table—steaks and onion soup and coq au vin, and then, with a sly glance toward me, a vegetable platter. Lucky because his more irritating quirks are insulated by an inch-thick charm that seems to work on most people; when Merlin leaves after we finish eating, complaining about jet lag, she ruffles the top of his head like a shaggy dog.
But most of all, he’s lucky to have friends beside him as he chases his dream. If I were him, I’d treat us to as many dinners as I could afford.
By the time dessert arrives, it’s only Arthur and me and Delaney and Cameron, and Delaney asks the question I wasn’t brave enough to. “Where’s Sarah tonight, anyway?”
Arthur’s lips press together. “She couldn’t make it.”
“No kidding,” Cameron says glumly. “It’s a total media bloodbath. Uh—” He looks at me. “Sorry.”
I like these two. They feel less plastic than other F1 people. “No, it’s fine. We’re sharks.”
“You admit it,” Arthur says, leaning his elbows on the table, empty champagne flute forgotten by his plate.
“I seriously don’t get why the press goes wild when a reserve driver races,” Cameron continues—saving me from having to reply. “Journalists are lining up times to ask Arthur about which protein powder he’s taking when they need to be looking into what’s going on with Faust. When my uncle was a race engineer, people cared when drivers were sick.”
My eyebrows skyrocket up my forehead. “Your uncle was an engineer?”
“Yeah?” Cameron says, puzzled. “That’s why I started here.”
“And Arthur’s uncle is the team principal.”
Arthur groans. “Don’t remind me.”
“And Sarah’s grandfather…”
“Also raced,” Delaney finishes for me, her glossy pink lips quirking with amusement as I stare suspiciously at her. “Not mine, though. I’m probably the only non–nepo baby in Formula 1.”
“Sure, because interning at Coca-Cola because your dad knows the CFO was bootstrapping,” Cameron mutters.
As Delaney and Cameron descend into bickering, my heartbeat quickens in my throat. The luck didn’t stop with Arthur. They’re all connected. And I’m very… not. Is this why Arthur and I don’t get along? I’m nothing like the people he’s surrounded by, who radiate the inner, satiated glow of having black credit cards and safety nets.
Which is a good thing, since I’m not here for dinner and friendship. I’m filming.
I get my camera back out, needing the distraction. “Really, Graywood?” Arthur sighs. “One dinner without cameras wouldn’t kill you.”
“It wouldn’t help win that Oscar, either.”
“Touché.”
I clear it with Delaney and Cameron, then dive right in with, “Silverstone Circuit, June twentieth, Lilah Graywood,” giving myself a place to pick up when I’m editing. “I’m here with Arthur Bianco, Ignition reserve driver, along with his Ignition staff team. This will be his first—and potentially only—race of the season.”
Delaney, proving her poise, jumps right into manager mode all while ignoring the camera. “I’m so excited. It’s been far too long since fans have seen Arthur behind the wheel. He’s going to crush free practice.”
“And free practice is…?”
Silence. Delaney and Arthur exchange a look, and yeah, I said something stupid. Cameron is the one to speak first, shyly waving my camera his way. “Welcome to Formula 101. Please keep your arms and legs inside the vehicle at all times.”
“Oh, it’s okay, I’ve been researching how all of this works.”
“Sorry, doesn’t count. Life is complicated, but F1 is worse.” He smiles at his own joke. “First thing to know is that each season has twenty-something races, all around the world. Races happen on the weekend. First there are practices, then Qualifying, then the Grand Prix. Sometimes a sprint—”
“Fuck a sprint,” Arthur interjects.
“—but winning a race or scoring in the top ten gets you points. Each season has a world championship for the drivers, so the individual with the most points. The Constructors’ Championship is for the rest of us, the team, and that’s where the money is. It combines the points of both drivers. And even if Ignition did make our own cars, money is the lifeblood of Formula 1. You need sponsorships, merch sales, weird old wealthy owners.”
I’ve read about Ignition’s owner, Bob Burroughs. Old money, the only son of a Texan oil tycoon, kindly shelling out his own millions to make energy drinks and fast cars. Ignition as a drink brand has been a hit for the last two decades. The whole Formula 1 thing has had a slower start, no pun intended.
“But every F1 team is selling something,” Delaney adds smoothly. “Cars, mostly. For our sponsors, nonsensical data software suites. For the countries we visit, prestige and tourism. And for Ignition, the American dream.” She smirks. “And caffeine.”
“But obviously, I want to win. That’s important,” Arthur says impatiently. “I won two championships with Leone before I—came here.”
I pan to him. “So, each team’s two drivers compete against each other as well?”
“In theory…” Delaney starts.
“Absolutely,” Cameron finishes. “We may need them to work together, but they’re really racing against each other, too. I’m Arthur’s race engineer only. While he’s out there driving, I pay attention to him and his car. Plus, every team has a main driver—one they throw more money and stronger tech behind. Nobody admits it, but it’s strategic. And in Ignition’s case, it’s Fausto Ferreira Sanchez, the sole reason any international F1 fans root for us.”
“Well, that and Arthur. And Holmes,” Delaney continues dryly. “Benedetto ‘Holmes’ Bianco was the driver a decade ago. Everyone knew him. He was a legend for staying pragmatic and avoiding accidents, but still winning. That’s how he got the nickname Holmes.”
“And that’s not Arthur’s style,” I think out loud.
I zoom the camera out, quick enough to catch Arthur’s gaze falling to his empty glass, then Delaney’s speaking again. “No, but people like Arthur’s style. Or they hate it, if he’s driving their team off the track. But either way, they talk about him when he drives. And when he wins at Silverstone, not if, Holmes will realize that he needs to give Arthur a seat. You should be prepared to follow us to the next four races, Lilah.”
Click. That’s why Arthur is desperate for a spot on Leone. On this team, he’s living in his uncle’s shadow, fighting to prove his own worth.
I understand that.
Lowering the camera, I catch Arthur’s eyes, lens-free. “Where’s the next race after this one?”
He tilts his head to one side, almost imperceptibly. “Hungary.”
“And after that?”
“The summer break, then Belgium, the Netherlands, and—Monza.”
“Great,” I say, smiling. “I’ll keep my suitcase packed.”
Warmth dances over Arthur’s features, curling up the corners of his mouth and sparkling in his eyes, and I hold the camera tighter to myself. One smile like that on film would sell this documentary in minutes. “Hold that,” I demand. “Please.”
I pull my camera to my face, adjust the settings, get him into focus. The dark lights, the flowers behind him, his photograph on the wall. My red recording light blinking off and on. Off and on. “Can you repeat that schedule again on camera?” I ask, hoping he smiles one more time. Warm, and optimistic, and happy.
Arthur stares me down through the lens, blinks, then looks away. His smile is gone. “It’s getting late. Who wants to grab a cab home?”