Chapter 1 #2
I can joke all I want, but I know basic biology.
Growing older means this process will only get more complicated.
It’s why I finally said to hell with waiting to find the perfect partner to do this with – I just had to go for it before I lost my best window of opportunity.
I’m grateful that there are procedures and techniques that allow me to do this as a single woman, but even still, it’s starting to feel like a task that only ends in heartbreak.
I’ll be okay, though, no matter the ultimate outcome. Like my mother always liked to remind me, it’s okay to stumble down the path of what you want, as long as you keep going.
‘My mum had my youngest sister when she was in her forties. You’ll be fine,’ Edith reassures me. ‘Besides, if it doesn’t work, you can just take one of my kids. I don’t really need any past the heir and the spare.’
I purse my lips to fight a smile. She loves her four beautiful, hell-raising children dearly, though she’s very glad to be away from them tonight.
If my future kid turns out like any of hers .
. . Well, I’m going to have a riot on my hands from day one, but I welcome it.
‘Still considering that,’ I admit. ‘They’re pretty cute. ’
‘Take the littlest. She’s already talking about wanting to be an F1 driver like her Uncle Thomas. You and your dad can make her into a champion.’
I’m not sure how useful I’d be, considering I’ve never worked in any sort of driver development department and my brief karting career wasn’t particularly successful, mostly because I was more interested in playing racing video games than actually being on-track.
My dad, however, might have better luck, considering he turned Axel from a kid with an attitude problem into a world champion (with an attitude problem).
‘Let’s see if Dad will talk to me long enough to even bring it up,’ I say dryly before taking a sip of my champagne, savoring the fizz. I might as well enjoy myself tonight before going back to my structured life of no booze and preemptive prenatal vitamins soon enough.
‘Things haven’t got better between you?’
I shake my head. ‘It’s the whole reputation thing, you know? I embarrassed him, the team, the Farahani name . . . I think he’s still trying to get over it. It was easier to push me away than stand up for me.’
Edith huffs her disappointment, but our conversation is interrupted by applause carrying from the other side of the massive event space, where the next pair of drivers and team principal have taken the stage.
They’re being interviewed by the host for this evening, some British comedian who’s clearly been instructed to be on his best behavior, if his lackluster routine is anything to go by.
‘God, this is painful,’ Edith mutters as we listen to yet another set of media-trained drivers say nearly the exact same thing as the last batch. ‘Had I known it was going to be this terrible I wouldn’t have asked you to be my date tonight.’
Bad as it is, I’m glad she insisted I stay in London for the week after the wedding so that I could be her plus-one to this horror show.
It’s not often we get to spend this much time together, and it’s even rarer for me to take an extended – but much-needed – vacation from my freelance graphic design job.
Being your own boss has some perks, but it can be tough running a business as a one-woman show.
‘I’ll never understand why they make them do this.’ I take another sip of champagne to keep from wincing in secondhand embarrassment, even if part of me is gleefully enjoying it. ‘If they want to talk, let them, but this feels like torture for everyone.’
‘I would never tell any of them to their faces to shut up and drive,’ she says, ‘but fucking hell, please shut up and drive. They’re much better at that.’
She can claim that she wouldn’t say it to their faces, but I know better than to believe it.
In the five years Edith Maxwell-Brown and I have been friends, she’s never once been anything but blunt.
We met in the paddock at the Spanish Grand Prix when she marched up to me and pointed at the embarrassing coffee stain on the white shirt of my team uniform, quickly declaring it unacceptable for me to be seen with.
She then whipped a stain-removing pen out of her handbag to fix it for me.
She only introduced herself in her posh English accent after I stuttered my thanks, and even then, it was with curt directness and a handshake so firm I swore my bones squeaked.
It’s what makes her an excellent businesswoman. And minus the handshake, it’s what makes her a great friend too, because I’ve never once had to wonder what she really means. She just says it.
She’s right about how boring this is, but it’s not stopping me from basking in it.
Of course I’ve missed the racing and on-track action, but I’ve longed for the little things too, like the awkwardness of the drivers and the interviews that show that their talents are best displayed behind the wheel.
The world at large puts them on such a pedestal, and in some ways they deserve it.
It’s a sport with only a handful of spots available – you have to be the best of the best just to make it here.
But underneath it all, they’re still remarkably human.
Every driver I’ve worked with, including the ones I secretly couldn’t stand, has had the same typical wants and needs and fears as the rest of us mere mortals.
Even my little shit of an adoptive brother, a champion with more inevitable accolades in his future, is just flesh and blood like the rest of us.
They’re undoubtedly special people, yes, and I’ve missed being able to see that up close and personal, but I’ll always cherish the moments when I saw them as only human. It’s one of the things I miss the most.
We clap politely when the Omega Siluro drivers wave to the crowd as they conclude their interview, but the applause picks up when they leave the stage and the Specter Energy boys take their place.
‘Oh my god,’ I groan when I spot that Axel has somehow found and added a bow tie to his outfit, as if that were the missing part to make his ensemble black-tie appropriate. ‘I didn’t think this could get worse.’
Edith snickers, eyes flicking over him. ‘He’s lucky he’s cute.’ Then her eyes cut to me. ‘How have you never been interested in him?’
‘I’ve told you before,’ I say patiently, keeping my voice low.
‘While Axel is a very handsome man, he’s’ – I lift a finger to start counting – ‘one: not my type, and two: my dad’s favorite child.
He even speaks Farsi better than I do, the bastard.
’ I clear my throat to dislodge the bitterness and add a third finger.
‘Three: He’s eight years younger than me, and I’ve known him since he was a teenager, which is bad enough on its own.
And four’ – I raise a final finger – ‘having a child with an F1 driver does not sound like fun, which is arguably the most important factor at this stage in my life.’
Besides, just the rumor of being romantically tied to a driver can be nearly life-ruining. I’ve already learned my lesson.
Edith contemplates my list. ‘I get it. Not sure I’d want to raise a kid with a man who’s gone nine months of the year either.’
Exactly. I wouldn’t wish that part of how I was raised on any kid, let alone my own.
We listen, occasionally rolling our eyes, grimacing, and even chuckling as Axel and his teammate Raphael Marchand go through the motions of the interview.
When it comes to charisma, the Frenchman wins ten times over, but Axel’s wit and dry humor are charming in their own way, especially when he discusses how it feels to be racing again after last season’s crash at the Singapore Grand Prix, one that could have ended his career, just like it did for Lorenzo Castellucci.
‘Shit,’ Edith swears under her breath, and I glance over to find her frowning at her phone. ‘Something’s come up at work. I’m so sorry, but I have to go.’