Chapter 14 Caro-Kann Defense
JAPAN
Mei meets me by the Suzuka Circuit with a sigh. “I have bad news.”
“I would prefer good news?”
She key-cards us through the staff entrance. It doubles as a Paddock Club checkpoint. Fitting. “The team wants you to head to New York after this race.”
Her back’s to me, so I squeeze my eyes shut, allotting myself one second of stress. “Did they say why?”
“Faust’s agreed to go to the Day Gala.”
“He has?”
Mei throws me a knowing look—she’s as surprised by this as I am. “Take credit where credit’s due. You’ve had an impact on him.”
Did he say that? Or is she assuming that’s his reasoning after his little television-namedrop bombshell?
I stare at the pit building’s pristine white tile floor as I follow Mei down a hallway lined with subtle skincare ads; up-close, black-and-white photos of the drivers, tiny print espousing hyaluronic acid.
Bernard is in most of them. Faust is in none.
“Also, Antient’s happy with how the Paris show played out,” she adds.
“They’re considering a sponsorship for next season, so we have to keep proving that Faust is fashionable and reliable. Ergo, gala.”
“Great. That’s… so good.”
It really is. There hadn’t been any photos of Faust and me together at the show, and I’m not about to squander this gift from the universe.
I’m done with him and—whatever happened back there.
Detoxed. It’s a new day. We’re in a new country.
I have drinks scheduled tonight with Bernard, and I will only be around Faust when I have to. And so far, I haven’t had to.
“The team wants you to be back at home base planning the look,” Mei continues. “I’ll send over a list of potential designers we want to collab with. The theme for this year’s gala is Garden of the Gods. Think mythology, Greco-Roman, Celtic, fables, whatever. I have some books. Clear?”
I nod, going for my water bottle.
“Good. You’ll be attending the gala with him.”
My water almost slips from my hands.
“Mei, that is so sweet—really—but I can’t do that. I’ve barely worked here.”
“Please. This works better for my schedule, anyway. The gala falls on April twenty-eighth this year, so whoever works with him misses three races while they’re in the States.”
I fiddle my water bottle’s cap. I used to dream of going to the Day Gala.
Watching my designs walk down those famous, white-carpeted steps outside the Day Art Museum.
My life can change in a million different ways, but the last Monday in April is still the best day of the year.
And one day—after Maisie’s internship, once she graduates—she might get to live that dream.
Three races away will do me good.
“So, I’ll be back for Miami?” I ask. “That’s the weekend after the gala, right?”
“Correct. And please don’t sing the Will Smith song. It got stuck in so many people’s heads, they banned it from our office.”
That night, I meet Bernard at the cocktail lounge close to my hotel.
It’s already been a thirteen-hour day, what’s one more?
I paste on a smile, change into an airy Issey Miyake dress, and find my date tucked away with a lowball of Hibiki whisky.
The lounge is dark, hazy and red-toned, with waiters that politely ignore us and a vinyl record player spinning city pop.
“You know this song?” I ask when I’m back with my sparkling water and lime; a fake gin and tonic if you’re delusionally hopeful.
“I think it’s called ‘Lipstick Message’ in English. ”
Bernard chuckles, shaking his head. “Can’t say I do. Makes sense that you like it, though.”
His gaze has settled on my lips, and I tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear, smiling. “I like the color red.”
“It looks good on you,” he says. “Though blue does, too. Can you explain that one to me?”
I lift my arms. My finely pleated sleeves shift, rippling like two immaculately crafted accordions. “It’s from his Pleats Please line. Do you like it?”
“It’s very…” Bernard sips his whisky, frowning. “Interesting.”
He’s flirting. I can see it from a mile away.
This is a game I’ve played a thousand times before: man pokes fun at how little he knows about something that he’s deemed feminine but is actually deeply universal, like Miyake’s desire to create clothes that are wearable but fun.
Woman gently scoffs at the gulf of understanding between our sexes.
The gulf is reinforced, the subject matter has been inadvertently demeaned as too unimportant for him to know about, and we all keep playing our roles.
“Interesting,” I repeat, rolling my eyes.
Bernard grins. “Is that not the right word?”
“No, no, it works.”
“Maybe I am good at clothes, huh?”
I lazily stir my fake cocktail. “Maybe.”
We talk, though in the back of my mind, I marvel at how boring this all is, and how quickly it’s working for Bernard.
When we finish discussing—in detail—his second-place finish in Australia, he confesses that he’d gotten my Paris hotel whereabouts from a friend still at Stark-Benzin. “Just a mechanic, no one you’d know.”
“You’re talking to the team about me?” My voice doesn’t betray how my heart has dropped.
Bernard’s mouth twitches. “Is that okay?”
Of course. I want him thinking about me, sinking his network into this connection. Those are the residual fall-outs after a heartbreak. Friends at an old team, who know how hard and fast he jumped into this. “Yeah. Sorry. I was just—” I search for something complimentary. “Surprised.”
My shyness fuels him, though, painting his stalker-lite behavior as serious romance. “I told you, I date to marry,” he says. “I’m serious about this. As serious as you are.”
Something about the way he says date to marry sends a red flag waving in my gut, but I ignore it.
I can manage desperation, and him rushing into relationships isn’t new information.
Like his speech about our kids’ hair color didn’t give that away.
“I’m serious, too. But then I should probably tell you,” I segue, “the team is sending me back to New York for a few weeks. You won’t… forget about me, will you?”
“Of course not,” he says, all wide smile and reassurance. “Did they say why? It isn’t me, is it?”
Oh, he’d love that. Me, reprimanded for fraternizing with the enemy.
God, if I was really doing this, he’d get off on making me quit Stark-Benzin to be his next abandoned bride.
“No, I haven’t talked to anyone about us.
” I let that word settle in, smiling coyly. “It’s something for Faust. Gala prep.”
“Oh.” Bernard’s voice has gone cold. “I see.”
Saying Faust’s name here, in a cocktail lounge, has a strange effect on my stomach. Or the space below it. I hide my hands under the table and twist my bracelet until it stops. “You aren’t jealous, are you?”
I can’t help but think of what Faust said over our chess game as Bernard shifts around for the right words.
Jealousy can really turn a guy on. And then I’m thinking about asking Faust in that changing room if he’d been jealous of me going after Bernard—how angry he’d been; how he’d looked like he’d burn me up if I touched him—and I keep twisting my bracelet.
“No,” Bernard says stiffly. Then he smiles again.
“I wasn’t sure if I should ask you this, but seeing as we’ll be separated for a bit…
I do have this event coming up, before the race next week.
It’s, well, it’s a gala, too. But you’d get to be my date.
” He clears his throat. “It would be a bit more public than this, though. Maybe… really public. But no more than ol’ Faust chattering away about you on TV. ”
“Public! That sounds…”
I trail off, the end of my sentence right there.
Good. It sounds good. I could be done with Bernard after a few more public dates and be on my merry way.
Only, if the team hears that I went on a date with Bernard—they might actually fire me.
And I don’t care about that, I’m not thinking about Mei’s reaction, or Christine’s reaction, or Faust—it isn’t like this job is growing on me…
I just wouldn’t get to go with Faust to the Day Gala. As his stylist. If I got fired.
I speak before I’ve thought this through. “I would love to meet you there, but I’m not sure if I’m ready for publicity yet. I’m so new at my job, and with everything that happened with you and the team—I really need this job.”
Bernard’s eyes soften. To him, I’ve just constructed the perfect, eventual, quit-your-controlling-job trap. “Of course you do. I’m sorry. I didn’t think.”
“No, don’t say that. You’re so thoughtful.” I let my brow furrow. Put on the innocent air of a girl desperate to date him, caught in a hard place. “Can I meet you at the gala? And we can do something more public in Miami, after I come back? I love Miami.”
“Perfect.” Bernard’s eyes gleam, extra green against the red lights. “I still get to take you out first.”
After we finish our drinks, Bernard surprises me with a moonlit walk through a local garden.
The cherry blossom trees are in bloom, pink and weepy and lit from below, and it’s stunningly beautiful and not at all appropriate for the heels I’m wearing.
Seems to be Bernard in a nutshell: he gives me his idea of perfection, and I have the luxury of saying thank you.
I make a mental note to see the cherry blossoms again before I leave, without him.
Against all odds, he makes it all the way up to my hotel room doorstep, too. I blame my shoes. I’m in a weakened state, my feet mutinying. “Well,” Bernard says as he leans against the wall. He sucks in one cheek, eyes what has to be Faust’s closed hotel door, then mine. “Can I…?”
I blink twice, waiting, like I don’t know what he’s implying.
Maybe, if I keep blinking, this won’t happen.
Or, maybe, Faust isn’t in his room, awake at this very moment, listening to a conversation outside his door.
Maybe Stark-Benzin has decided to spare my mortal soul and put him on his own floor.