Chapter 4 Four Knights Game
SURREY, ENGLAND
“Do you mind finishing that outside?”
I look from the woman holding the door open for me to the latte I’m clutching. “My coffee?”
“Company rules.” She doesn’t blink. “No beverages in the lobby.”
“I’m almost done.”
“I can wait.”
Feeling my brow furrow, I finish my lukewarm latte in three large gulps. It’s mostly milk froth at this point anyway, but I’d hate to waste perfectly good froth in a country that prefers instant.
“Thank you,” says Mei, Stark-Benzin’s influencer relations specialist and my new boss, as she deigns to grant me access into the team’s headquarters. “And thank you for joining us so last-minute. You come with quite the recommendation.”
“Happy to be here.”
“Really?” Mei cocks her head. She’s a petite woman—though at five nine, most people are to me—with a glossy black Anna Wintour bob and owl-sharp brown eyes hidden behind impossibly cool wire-frame glasses.
I cast a quick glance down at the rest of her: gray brandless turtleneck, gray Acne jeans, white Adidas Stan Smiths.
A minimalist. Severe, but casual about it.
“Good to hear,” she breezes on. “Do you need to set your bag down before the tour?”
“I’m good.” I shrug my purse up my shoulder. I’d gone with Loewe’s Puzzle bag for today, the original design; complicated, covetable, very if you know, you know. And I figured my new manager would know. “After you?”
Mei smiles approvingly, and I resist the sudden and very-unlike-me urge to fist-pump.
As she leads me through the lobby, I catch the glimmer of a bedazzled Sandy Liang hair clip stowed on the handle of her leather briefcase.
A minimalist with a heart, who doesn’t mind throwing her short hair up to get a job done.
Too bad I’m here to emotionally destroy her race-car driver. I think we’d get along, outside that.
“By the way,” Mei adds. “I’m not planning on telling Bernard that you know Imogen. Does that work for you?”
I return her smile. “I was hoping you’d say that.”
“Good.”
Mei kicks off the grand Stark-Benzin walking tour.
It’s gray. Very shiny. Very quiet. There’s an air of museum reverence, as if this lifelessly futuristic building outside Oxshott were one of the many castles in the surrounding countryside—and demands to be treated as such.
I marvel at how gently Mei deposits my empty coffee cup into a stainless steel trash can, the inaudible whispers she trades with a smiling front-desk secretary, and the way she silently gestures me toward a long bank of chrome-plated elevators, each door nearly level with the wall.
When I first received my Stark-Benzin onboarding email, I’d almost broken down and texted Dad the news.
This was our team. The summer after I turned eighteen, when I was packing for New York, this was the one thing we could bond over without fighting.
Though now that I’m here, I’m grateful that Bernard’s nightmare-sponsorship reveal kept my nostalgia in check.
Stark-Benzin is different in person, without the engines and champagne and manufactured Formula 1 glamour.
They’ve always been the more stoic team—that’s why I liked them so much, opposites attract—but it’s freakishly quiet in here.
Like a normal office, but somehow more sterile.
Once Mei and I are inside the silent elevator, I attempt small talk. Is it mostly inspired by the Sandy Liang hair clip and hope? Maybe.
“So, how do you like working here?”
“It’s fine. I stay busy.”
“Do you usually work Saturdays? Not that I mind coming in today.”
“Weekends are our weeks. Weeks are, too.”
“And do you live here full-time?”
“No.” She gives me a curious look, like I’m the most talkative person who’s been inside this elevator, then goes back to staring at the flat gray carpet.
“Do you have a question about your relocation process? I can have our visa coordinator reach out. She works with international housing needs, too.”
“Oh, no! Thank you.” I have a thousand questions, but none of them are about my rental guest house or expedited work visas.
The top being, are all Formula 1 teams this diabolically serious when there aren’t cameras around, or is this a German work culture holdover?
I’ve crossed paths with my share of London men, professionally; I know that American levels of personality can frighten the English.
But even they indulged in a little Monty Python whimsy once in a blue moon—corgis, improv, afternoon cuppas.
And there was that time Renata’s cousin from Munich whisper-lectured us about how loudly Americans talk at restaurants.
Perhaps Vivienne Westwood isn’t on the menu. Nor McQueen. Nor Galliano.
Oh God. That’s it.
Stark-Benzin’s aesthetic is Jil Sander. And I’m being the chatty American who wouldn’t get into Berghain.
I stay quiet and business-oriented for the remainder of the tour, which Mei seems to appreciate.
“It’s March now, and the first race of the season is in Australia on the sixteenth, so we have a lot we need to onboard you with,” she says, pausing only to gesture to the large, clean, well-organized rooms we pass by.
A coffee room. A break room. A trophy room, one of them at least. “We were supposed to have another personal clothing manager already, but she decided to work with Cavalli this year. So we’re fucked, and she’s dead to me now. ”
I hold back a giggle. “Uh-oh.”
“Yeah, it’s whatever. I’m just relieved you know how influencer marketing works. You actually do, right?”
“Yep,” I say, not exactly lying. Brand deals have helped me between jobs before. Sometimes, the American dream is selling powdered electrolytes to pay for your sister’s college tuition.
“Good,” Mei sighs, relieved. “Our global marketing team is looking to maximize our drivers’ impact through fashion.
Foster parasocial relationships with fans, connect more authentically with the brands who want to throw money at us.
Our drivers have millions of engaged followers who want to buy the clothes their favorite athlete wears.
More people will watch Bernard walk through the paddock at the Australian Grand Prix than will tune into Valentino’s next fashion show.
And most of all, we don’t want fans to know that you exist. Viewers need to think that the drivers authentically chose to wear what they wear. ”
I don’t know if that thing about Valentino is true, but I bite my tongue. Because being invisible works for me, big time. “I will neither be seen nor heard.”
“And what about your own online presence?” Mei says, skeptical. “You’re okay not sharing that you work in Formula 1? It’s something we can renegotiate at your end-of-season review, when we have a better handle on how this role may look moving forward.”
I could cackle. “I have some weird exes. I was planning on keeping it low-key.”
The other woman nods knowingly. “Your compensation should reflect our appreciation.”
Excitement crackles through me. I’m raking in what Imogen’s paying me and a decent motorsports salary. “Appreciate it,” I say.
Mei shows me more rooms. Bathroom, serenity room, drivers’ meeting room, another coffee room.
“I’ve requested that you travel with us as much as possible this season,” she says as I welcome myself to the espresso machine.
She watches, mildly impressed, as I skip the electric kettle and go straight for the portafilter.
“But I can’t make any promises, and don’t request travel to any certain country. They hate that.”
“Noted. Thank you.” I try not to sound too excited, but first invisibility, now access? She’s giving me such a leg up on staying glued to Bernard’s side, I’m giddy. “Can I request generally being on the same continent as the people I’m supposed to be styling? That seems fair.”
Mei snorts. “That might work. We’re about to head to the practice circuit, by the way. It’s promo day.”
I set my coffee down. She really waited until I had it fully made. “Random guess here, but… no beverages by the circuit?”
“Quick learner.”
Outside, I finally understand why Stark-Benzin picked Surrey as their home base: they have space here.
A short practice track has been built into a dip between two rolling green hills, flanked by temporary trailers tastefully plastered with Stark-Benzin’s logo; a black droplet-shaped outline on a plain gray background.
The whole space is just big enough to let the drivers film preseason promotional material, and not an inch larger.
“In the past, we’d go to Silverstone for marketing, but we’ve been a bit—” Mei waves her hand.
I have no idea what she means by it. “So the team worked hard for this temporary setup. But it’s good.
This’ll help you get used to the sound.”
As if on cue, the noise of a jet engine taking off fills the air. I startle mid-step, almost bumping into Mei’s back, my new gray lanyard bouncing off her shoulder. She pretends not to notice, averting her eyes politely to the track. Note to self: fast cars are loud in real life. Who knew.
She gives in at the bottom of the steps. “Are you not good with loud noises?”
“No, I’m okay.”
“Good. What about film crews?” She nods to a cluster of camerapeople on the other side of the fence. “They’re with Formula 1 corporate, doing a film on Christine Fay.”
I don’t know if it’s the damp breeze or my own blood freezing my skin.
Sure, Christine. A documentary being made about Bernard’s teammate, while I’m here to commit non-crimes of passion.
Momentarily, I feel like Mei has set me on that door from Titanic and pushed me out to sea.
“Will they be here all season?” It’d be nice if my voice didn’t sound like a cartoon mouse, but c’est la vie.
“No.” Mei inspects me. “Have you seen the news?”
I’m smart enough to know that asking what news is not the answer an excited new Stark-Benzin employee would give on her first day. “Sorry, of course. I just meant—I get flustered around cameras. That was stupid.”
Mei’s expression softens, and while I got out of the frying pan this time, I’m acutely aware I’ve jumped right into the fire. What fire? I don’t know yet. “It shouldn’t affect you too much,” she says, “and you’ll learn to ignore the cameras. Just don’t do anything interesting and you’ll be fine.”
I laugh like I’m just another camera-shy ex-model—a type of person that totally exists somewhere—until Mei goes to a trailer to round up “the team.” Then my smile disappears.
It. What happened? Leaning on the fence post for comfort, I peek at the camera crew.
They’re all in black, super-serious-looking.
There’s a short brunette woman with chunky black glasses and a clipboard, talking into a walkie-talkie, and I don’t know why that makes reality click for me, but it does.
You don’t use a walkie-talkie unless you mean business or you’re a preteen actor in a Goonies rip-off.
You know I can’t come save you if this shit turns sideways.
Like a summer storm out of nowhere, my brain clouds with visions of Renata and Rowan and Maisie and Inspector Paws—who’s probably not a cop, in-universe, but certainly would snitch me out to cartoon doggy jail.
Okay. No. I’m good. So, I might’ve under-baked my Stark-Benzin research, as in, I need to google the company first thing in the morning, every morning, just in case anything newsworthy pops up.
And yes, Stark-Benzin is even more intense behind the scenes, and I’m jumping in as a stylist for an international sports company that hates color.
That’s fine. I might’ve been excited at first about this job… but it’s not why I’m in Surrey, really.
I’m here for Bernard. I’m a failed Bechdel test. Stark-Benzin’s brand-new Human Resources disaster. And I’m going to really, really enjoy smashing his heart to pieces.
Footsteps sound behind me, Mei’s sure-footed sneakers and another set I don’t recognize.
Dragging in a deep breath, I rearrange the perfectly loose Olsen Twins waves framing my face and close my eyes.
Imagine a curtain about to flutter up. Tell myself the same thing I always do before the play begins.
I’m Cat Cromwell, a totally normal fashion girl, and I’m about to meet the love of my life.
“Cat?” Mei says, and I turn around with a thunderclap of a smile.
A pair of dark eyes blink back at me and—that’s odd. I’m pretty sure the internet had said that Bernard’s eyes were green.
And they are, probably.
Because this… isn’t Bernard Baudelaire standing next to Mei. Or Christine Fay.
In my lucky red Carel heels, the man only has a centimeter on me, tops.
He’s in a gray Stark-Benzin racing suit, a sleek black helmet stowed under his arms, as nondescript as a Formula 1 racing driver can be.
But I can’t look away from his eyes, faintly sad and altogether too concerned.
And my heart thumps, once, as I realize why I can’t stop looking at him.
Right as his expression flips from uninterested blankness to full-on recognition.
“Faust, this is Cat Cromwell. She’s going to be helping you dress better,” Mei says, totally flat. “Cat, this is our lead driver, Faust.”
Also known as the man from Bernard’s wedding. Who I spoke to. Who was once, briefly, the wallpaper on my phone. Who the internet said would not be here.