Chapter 6 Pinned
That evening, I get an email from Mei to take the following day off and “get to know Surrey.” I can’t imagine Mei willfully giving a new employee time off during their first week, so I order Nando’s to my rental house, set up shop on the floor of my tiny cottage room, and watch as Stark-Benzin and Bernard Baudelaire struggle over the narrative.
Nothing about his meltdown over Faust, of course. I click back into Imogen’s get-to-know-Bernard message, and there’s the flashing warning sign I’d missed.
He idolizes his younger brother, Jean.
Thinks he’s better than Stark-Benzin.
Completely predictable.
Goddamn.
Another google reveals how much attention Bernard has netted himself.
It’s a feel-good story for the ages, per Bernard’s legion of online fans.
I love this for him. Seriously, what was SB thinking, signing 2 senior drivers?
Bernard’s doing them a favor swapping teams, says TheRedFrenchman.
From Rushhhh1: yeah we all know Bernard was getting shafted this year.
as long as Leone avoids a holmes bianco v.
arthur bianco situation then this will be legendary! !!
From FormulaOneBeginnerPlsHelp: does this mean SB is swapping in their reserve driver?
Their question is answered by 7:45 p.m.; at least, for all Stark-Benzin employees.
To our racing family,
This afternoon, Bernard Baudelaire chose to break his contract for this upcoming season and exit the team. Here are the facts as well as how we are moving forward.
Stark-Benzin was unaware that Bernard had an offer from Leone Racing. He will pay Stark-Benzin per the terms in his contract. We hope that he enjoys his future with Leone.
While this decision was made during promotional filming today in Surrey, Bernard’s statements to the team and media reflect that the car did not impact his decision-making.
We believe in the car you all have meticulously created, and are excited for the public to see its full power during the Australian Grand Prix.
Faust remains with the team.
Moreover, we have taken this opportunity to sign Christine Fay as our second driver and Eddie Dooly as reserve driver. We are thrilled with the opening that Bernard’s exit created, as we have been working to usher Christine into what we know will be an illustrious Formula 1 career.
My phone screen flashes white. Renata’s video-calling me. I set my fork into my takeout container and pick up with a sighed, “Don’t say it.”
It’s mid-afternoon in New York, and she’s on a green park bench. She’s mostly in the frame of the camera, though her phone’s in her lap and the angle is wild. Big chin, thumb face, hot-pink curls. “I’m not going to.”
“Okay, one time. But then never again.”
“Only a shitty friend would say ‘I told you so’ in your hour of need.”
“I’m not that needy.”
“Actually yeah, I agree,” Renata says. “Like, this isn’t good.
But think about this. You keep this job.
You’re a stylist now, that’s sick. And you keep trying to get to Bernard while you’re traveling with the team.
This is still your best chance, he’s just going to be—you know, not the person you dress.
And hey, maybe you love working in F1, and this is all a funny story you tell your grandkids one day about how you found your dream job. ”
“Your grandkids.”
She eyes me again. “It’s not the worst thing, finding something you love that isn’t so hard.”
Sloshy March rain drips against the bedroom’s windowpane, and I count five ta-taps before I reply.
“I don’t know,” I say, but I do. I’m not going to find something else.
I’m twenty-nine, and that’s almost thirty, and that’s maybe not that much time left—or maybe not.
Mom first got sick when she was only a few years older than me. Grandma made it way longer.
“I’m not trying to…” Renata’s forehead crinkles. “I ran into Maisie.”
“You did?”
“And I might’ve let it slip that you’d been in town. Sorry. But before you get mad”—man, she knows me well—“she was talking to me about the internship, too. Saying that she didn’t have to do it, or finish school, that it was so much money—”
“What?”
“I know.”
“She has to finish her degree.”
“I know. So, just… I get why you try so hard to take care of them all. You’re all so freaking self-sacrificing.”
“Uh-huh.” I’m checking my texts, distracted. Nothing from Maisie. She’d really tell my best friend that she’s thinking about dropping out of school before she’d tell me?
“She’s just worried about you,” Renata says lightly. “And maybe—God, I don’t know. Maybe she wouldn’t be if you told her that you’ve got this Formula 1 job and you’re working in fashion, too. You know she only got into it because of you. You’re her hero, dude.”
“Yeah, right.” If this is Renata’s grand plan to get me to settle down and give up Robin Hooding for good, it’s not not effective. I’m a Gemini. It won’t happen, but I love the flattery.
“You don’t sound convinced.”
“Well.”
“Have you done your tarot thing?”
“Not yet.”
“Go do the thing. Don’t let me be the only one saying staying is the right call.”
I flop to my side, unsure of what to say.
Because she might be right, and I’m totally fine.
But I think that’s what’s nagging me, as much as I hate to admit it.
Faust forgot me, too, and there’s a tiny ridiculous piece of me that’s stupidly bothered by having such little impact on the man of my eighteen-year-old dreams. It would’ve potentially ruined my gig with Imogen, if not my sister’s education, and he’s so much weirder in person, but alas. Tragedy.
Here’s confirmation from the universe by way of my former hero: I just don’t have it.
It isn’t like I think I failed at modeling because I’m ugly.
I’m not. I’m pretty enough to try, and that’s why I’m so good at my job.
Like a discounted Jo Malone perfume, just eye-catching enough to make you think it’ll change your life, before you remember that you’re not a floral person and, wait, don’t you own this one already?
I picked the last name Cromwell because it was just sophisticated enough without verging on Kennedy territory.
When I realized I couldn’t say I was from Waterfield without exposing my family to the potential wrath of my exes, I started saying I was from Manhattan; chic, but not Monte Carlo.
I bleach my hair, keep my nails plain, enjoy my own style on my own time, and only get tattoos where I can hide them, all so I can meet the same rich idiots repeatedly when our paths cross, and make them try florals again. In, out, gone.
Being beautifully average is a safeguard. And maybe I’d take it harder if being a few degrees away from beautiful didn’t help me—but it does.
At least… I thought I was done taking it hard.
I say goodbye to Renata and return to my internet research.
This time, though, there’s a knot in my throat.
At thirty-three years old, Faust is only four years older than me, which is news to me.
Portuguese and Spanish, also raised in England by the team, a Taurus; not news.
And he’s either “washed-up” because of his age or “the greatest driver of all time,” depending upon which online article you click on first. I find an older one—from before yesterday’s shake-up.
After a spectacularly dramatic and low-scoring stint with Ignition Energy Drink Racing, Faust is back with Stark-Benzin, racing alongside his childhood friend–turned–rumored rival, Bernard Baudelaire …
leaving many fans to speculate if the infamous “Stark-Benzin project” was ever put on hold.
Dramatic stint. Rumored rival. I don’t particularly like either phrase, on first glance.
I click through a bullet-point breakdown of Faust’s time with his prior team—something about a documentary called Slipstream, and a scandal, and a team principal caught in a seat-swapping/car-crashing conspiracy, and wow, F1 hasn’t changed a bit since I was tuned in.
Faust had a bad year. He could be the one looking out for any hiccups, e.g. , me.
Then I get to the pictures of Faust and Bernard during their karting years, and my pulse ticks up a half-step.
Two boys, a stocky brown-haired kid with his arm slung around the shoulders of a lanky strawberry blond.
They’re both in Stark-Benzin gray. Bernard is grinning, Faust isn’t, but I notice that Faust’s the only one looking at the camera. Bernard is looking at him.
And I blink. Maybe this is okay.
Might even be perfect.
They’re rivals. Bernard doesn’t like when Faust is getting attention from someone and he isn’t.
Feeling a bit triumphant, I go for another bite of Nando’s, but I’d left the lid open and the chicken’s gone cold. And my room only has a mini fridge, no microwave. That’s my sign, I decide, stashing my leftovers before I grab my tarot deck and polka-dot rain parka.
I have a ritual whenever I’m at a crossroads.
First, I go to a restaurant. Family owned, preferably.
And the one built into my rental house’s first floor fits the bill—old pub vibes, big windows overlooking the dark rainy garden, hunter-green and aged-white wallpaper.
A boyish waiter recommends the roast beef—“a little bit of Sunday on a Saturday!”—so that’s what I go with, paired with a cup of coffee and practically melting into my plush chair.
They’ve got a fire going in the stone fireplace a few tables over, and heat bakes the air, making all the people and chatter in here a touch cozier.
After I’m finished with my non–Sunday roast, I’ve almost relaxed via osmosis.
Too many life problems are invented by people who are actually just hungry.
Mine are more complicated today, though, so I move to my ritual’s second and third steps: run the numbers and then rip them up.
Using the napkin that came with my mug, I start scribbling out statistics.
There are three ways I could move forward now that Bernard’s on another team.
One, I give up. Nope. Not an option. Chance of success: zero.
Two, I call Imogen and let her decide how I proceed.
But why would I call her if so much is up in the air?
I don’t want to rebreak her heart by offering her revenge on a silver platter, then bailing when it gets tricky.
Plus, she’s volatile. I remember her angry Nutcracker pirouetting.
Chance of destroying Bernard when left up to her: fifty-fifty.
Third option. I could just… keep going.
It’s the best odds. The only odds, honestly.
Like Renata said, I already have this job.
With this much chaos, I can easily get to Australia and coordinate a perfect secondary meet-cute with Bernard.
It’s like a game of chess. Nothing too extreme—around 1300 ELO, tops.
When you can still bluff your way through, rather than go through the movements of rote memorization.
Bernard leaving is a dramatic bishop sacrifice, right at the beginning.
My pawns are doubled. The middle game will be harder for me. But the endgame’s the same, isn’t it?
I tap my pen on my neatly outlined possibilities. Clearly, there’s my answer, if I was the type of person who respects numbers. But I’m not, so I fold the napkin up, rip it in half, and pull out my tarot deck. My own personal “screw you” to statistics everywhere.
“Should I leave?” I whisper at the gilded stack.
I knock on top of it, set three cards down in front of my empty plate, then flip the one that’s calling my name. Far left, feels right.
The Tower.
“I know that one,” says my waiter, who’s reappeared to fill my water. He frowns at the illustration of a burning tower, lightning sizzling from the top of it, people leaping from the window. “Not a good one.”
“It is for me,” I say, smiling. I’ve got most of the Major Arcana memorized by this point. “It means no.”
He squints at me. “All right, then. Are you done with your coffee?”
“No, actually, can I—”
My words stumble to a standstill.
Because right then, like the rolling thundercloud he is, Faust walks into the restaurant.
It’s like my neurons are trained to his silhouette already.
Like I know big shoulders, brown hair, dark clothes, that outline means trouble.
My back stiffens as he slouches to one of the small tables, way across the dining room, and slips into a chair.
And I wait. He’s going to look up and see me, right?
I might not be memorable or intriguing, but as of today, I am someone he officially knows.
A name and a face and a coworker-slash-employee.
He’ll look up, I’ll wave, he’ll scowl, that’ll be that. It’ll be polite. Quick.
He leans forward. My breath catches.
He—leans back.
Pulls out his phone.
And… starts clicking around.
“Miss?”
I look back up at the waiter, my face prickling with embarrassed heat. Not even a glance. I’m not even worth one glance to this rich, entitled, rude man who uses his phone before he opens a menu. Fucking billionaires. Hate one and you hate them all. “Sorry. I, um. Another coffee, please.”