Chapter Seven
Chapter Seven
In the week leading up to Arthur’s big English comeback, I learn a lot more about Formula 1. Mostly that it’s exhausting.
Staying in a luxury hotel with an F1 team is like temporarily living in a very expensive college dorm. My room is on the pit crew and marketing floor, and I meet more people walking by open doors than I have in my whole life. Thankfully, my beige room—with its free skincare routine and bathtub the size of my first apartment—is Max-free; an only-one-bed situation would’ve been my final straw. Arthur, naturally, is booked in the quieter, penthouse-level suite far above our heads, a floor only accessible by authorized key card.
And I use that card. A lot.
Arthur gets up at four a.m., so I get up at four a.m. He works out before he meets Merlin to work out, indecipherable electronic music filtering from his headphones as he jogs, deadlifts, sweats. His diet is restrictive to the point of humor—egg whites, grilled chicken, plain tofu. Filming Arthur run laps in the gloomy city sun reminds me of vintage Army recruiting ads, the unattainable peak male form chiseled into flesh for reasons , recorded to make us pedestrians buy war bonds and take vitamins.
It isn’t a bad metaphor. “You might like looking into the history of the sport,” Arthur says as he sweats down a treadmill, upsettingly conversational for a man whose footfalls send shock waves through the floor. “I wasn’t kidding about the politics.”
He wasn’t. I learn about the many British teams—there’s Static (and their infamously fast sports cars), Hughes (and their infamously filter-free owner), and Stark-Benzin (founded by German brothers, purchased by a New Zealand tech tycoon, then relocated to Surrey). Then there are the twin Italian teams, Leone and Cavalli, who’ve been locked in a rivalry since the ’50s; luxurious Leone came first (based in Northern Italy), then Cavalli (based in Southern Italy). As the legend goes, Cavalli was founded by a former Leone driver and the brother-in-law of Leone’s founder after a famously disastrous pheasant hunt that ended in the man moving south and, later, petitioning the Italian government to legalize divorce.
Like the single Austrian team, Wusch-Zack Crypto Banking Nummer Eins (Wusch for short), Ignition stands alone as the sole American representative on the global Formula 1 stage. That knowledge is slightly terrifying.
As is Arthur’s new, dedicated, hardworking side. It’s like Dr. Frankenstein flipped a switch on his laboratory table and made another Arthur, who attentively listens to Merlin as she drones on about g-force and racecraft and macronutrients. There isn’t time for Arthur and me to butt heads; his days are filled with meetings, so mine are, too. Meetings with James to discuss on-track collaboration. Meetings with Marketing, where our phones are confiscated and Sarah feeds Arthur prepared statements to eventually parrot back to the press. Meetings with Cameron and the engineers who work on Arthur’s car—and talk to him during races, apparently, since they make me leave when they start discussing “Plans A through F” for the Grand Prix.
It’s a lot. All of this is a lot. And I can’t riddle out if Arthur’s more closely knit friends on the team, like Delaney and Cameron, know about his offer from Leone. No one mentions it, and he doesn’t bring it up, and it’s starting to feel like I might’ve bet on the wrong cinematic horse. While I understand Arthur’s need to speed-run driver prep, I have thirty hours of career-redefining footage that, so far, involves people talking about cars more than they drive them.
Then we get to Silverstone.
I meet up with the team at eight a.m. the morning of the “Qualifying” race—the most confusing term yet, but nobody asked me. The sun has only just risen, and we’re all gathered by a massive Ignition Energy Drink concession stand outside the circuit. Imagine a county fair racetrack, then quadruple it, add in the most attractive people you’ve ever seen selling water bottles for ￡14, and cover the whole thing in luxury airplane advertisements. From my vantage point on the ground, the racetrack itself almost looks like a plane tarmac. The street—road? Asphalt? I have no idea—is long and shiny gray, framed in by hundreds upon thousands of seats and an impressive track-wide banner ad for “digital-first banking.” Whatever that means.
“Thoughts on your first circuit?” Delaney murmurs as we watch Arthur charm his way through his fifth interview of the morning, the female Sky Sports hostess giggling and swatting his arm. So much for hating the media. He can turn it on when a journalist is cute.
“It’s… large.” I’ve got my camera up on my shoulder, lens trained to a mic’d-up Arthur, so I try not to move too much as I talk. I also try not to outright say that this circuit, in all its capitalistic glory, feels like Coachella for people who played too many Mario racing games. “Kind of feels like a music festival for cars?”
“Bingo. And all those seats will be full.”
“No way.”
“The Brits love their Formula 1.” Delaney stops. “You have at least seen a Formula 1 race before, right?”
I bite my lip. “Um.”
“Lilah.”
“There were only highlight reels online. And the streaming service wanted me to prepay for a year .”
“Uh-huh.”
“And the hours are so different, in Texas.”
She smiles, slightly cryptic, kind of scary. “Did Sarah tell you not to watch any?”
The less I talk about Sarah, the better, so I shrug. “Typical,” Delaney mutters. “She wants you to fall in love with it.”
I must make a ridiculous face, because she adds, “No, it’s her hazing ritual. If you can, your first race should be in person.”
“That’s accessible.”
“To you, it is.” Delaney gestures to the controlled mayhem around us. Workers stocking food stands. Staff polishing the glossy Leone and Cavalli cars next to blocky race simulators. The smell of kebabs and electronics and summer sweat. The morning has been a veritable explosion of Ignition staff, sponsors, and journalists swarming to get a single picture or word in from Arthur. They adore him; every question is prefaced with how excited they are to see “the King” drive again after the practice sessions were delayed, then cut short. “This part of F1 is called the ‘circus,’ and you’ll feel like you’ve been on a merry-go-round by the end of the weekend. But it’s a culture shock, too, and you’ll know if you love it or not by Monday morning, when it’s gone.”
Interesting. I tilt my camera up incrementally, tweaking the focus on Arthur. Today has ushered in another new version of him—camera Arthur. He’s already in his orange race suit, hair camera-coiffed, a smile permanently affixed to his face. As I watch, he cracks open twin cans of Ignition with the interviewer, cheering and drinking and laughing like everything is beautiful and life is grand. I can practically hear Sarah’s prepared statements in his low, musical accent: I’m very excited to have this chance to race for Ignition. I hope you all enjoy watching me drive as much as I’ll enjoy driving.
Riveting stuff.
I shift my attention to Delaney. She’s sharp. Her blush lipstick matches her blazer which matches her high-waisted trousers which matches her stiletto heels, and her eyes are trained on Arthur like she’s taking notes inside her head. She must come from a family of brothers if she willingly sought out a career corralling men like him around all day. And as Arthur’s personal manager, it seems impossible that he hasn’t told her about Leone’s offer or our agreement.
Clicking through my audio channels, I switch on the built-in camera mic. Debate doing this. Do it anyway.
“If you don’t mind me asking,” I start, choosing my words carefully. “What do you think of Leone Racing? Arthur used to drive for them, didn’t he? This will be the first weekend he’s seen them since… whatever happened back then.”
Another cryptic smile plays across her lips. “Is your audio on, Lilah?”
“If there’s a camera around, you should assume it’s recording you.”
“True.”
I think that’s going to be the end of the conversation, but then Delaney says, “I’ve known Arthur for eight years. I was an employee at Leone at first, a liaison between the team and their drink sponsor Coca-Cola. He was Leone’s golden boy. Racing royalty and Formula 1’s future.” Her steady gaze shifts from him to me. “But I was there when Leone fired him during the post-crash season, and when every journalist hated him for taking time off, and then hated him more for taking the reserve offer from Ignition. By the time Arthur turned twenty-nine, he’d been fired by one of the most prestigious motorsports brands in the world, was living in a brand-new country under his uncle’s thumb, and had been accused of ruining the Bianco family legacy. Not by drinking or flirting, of course, because that’s forgivable in racing. But by losing.”
Heat prickles across my cheeks. I’ve read about Arthur. I researched his media archive. Tried to piece together the timeline.
There weren’t any articles about a post-crash season .
“So, the better question may be, do I think anyone should drive for Leone?” Delaney’s more professional demeanor returns. “I wouldn’t recommend it.”
Silence follows. I should say something. Any second now. But I’m speechless, my flowcharts tangling in my head, any appropriate response drowned out by those three words sprinting laps around my brain. Post-crash season implies a crash season… implies an accident big enough that it merits a “before” and “after.” I hadn’t seen anything about a specific accident when I’d been reading about him. An accident that got him fired. And he wants to be on their team again?
I clear the nervous knot in my throat. “When was the crash? What happened?”
“Oh, that.” Delaney’s eyes skid away from me and my camera. “It happened in Monza at the Italian Grand Prix. Bad place for a Bianco to wreck, as you can imagine.”
“Makes sense,” I say, mostly to free up my mental schedule- flipping. Monza is a name you remember. I’m pretty sure it’s the last race Black I don’t feel anything toward him other than impartial, unbiased curiosity. Also, he isn’t even trying to stay on this team. By this time next year, if all goes according to plan, he’ll be living in Italy, driving for a team that apparently hadn’t treated him that well.
And I’ll be back in D.C., where I belong.
“I wouldn’t bring it up,” Delaney says abruptly.
I snort. “The crash? Yeah. Not the best interview topic before a race.”
“That’s what I’m thinking.” She rewards me with a tight smile. “I appreciate it.”
Feeling oddly heavier, I turn my camera toward Arthur again, Ignition’s drink slogan waving on the backdrop behind him: You’re in the Driver’s Seat . The bright orange of his race suit has thrown off my white balance, and I have to adjust between the early sunlight and the pale blue sky and his tall, annoyingly orange brilliance, the center of the circus, a temporary sun in a far-off galaxy I hadn’t known existed this time last month. Ironic, that we call the Arthurs of the world “superstars.” They really do burn brighter, faster.