Chapter 5
Chloe
In the quiet of the long bar at the Singapore Grand Prix, I wave the bartender over for another drink.
The post-qualifying debrief was a hot mess.
Nobody understands what happened to Matt out there.
I certainly don’t. My heart was in my throat when he hit the gravel after a crude error out of turn six, too much understeer sending him careering off-track.
And despite what he says, it wasn’t the tires.
I’ve analyzed the data. His pace was all over the place, and his vitals were too.
I watched in horror with the team as his oxygen levels dropped, a sure sign of stress beyond what we would expect from a driver at his level.
But Matt is not answering his phone.
And he’s not in his room.
And I’m worried that I have royally fucked up by not talking to him when he practically begged me to.
“Singapore sling?” The handsome bartender slides it in front of me.
“Xièxiè. And a chili crab with rice? I might take it to my room. Is that okay?” I ask. It’s just after one a.m. but the kitchen is open all night on race weekend.
I find a seat at a quiet, cozy table and quickly work through some emails.
Key qualifying data from the strategist. An update on regulations for next season.
A sale at Saint Laurent, which distracts me for five minutes as I fantasize about a team principal look.
Then, I spot one from Barry, who always puts the entire message in the subject line.
To: CHLOE
From: BARRY
Subject: What in the name of fucking Hamilton happened to Matt out there? I thought you were better prepared. Don’t make me come back there.
Message: [blank]
I sigh. Barry does not trust me at all, and after I failed to intervene on that tire choice, he probably has a point.
The next email is from the media producer. A brief hello, plus several attached clips—rushes, apparently, of Matt doing his first publicity stint. I look at the time stamp. Jeez, Barry had that ready to go fast. And right before qualifying, no wonder he was in such a mood.
I click open the first short film. It’s a banal cookie-cutter response from Matt about how he’s “glad to be racing with Arden.” It’s the second clip, however, that makes me want to throw my phone against the wall.
The producer asks him what he thinks about working for me, a woman boss—I hate the question, the question sucks—but it’s Matt’s response that is so .
. . disappointing. There is a long, pregnant pause as he appears to squirm in his seat, his mouth straightening into a tight line.
It takes several seconds for him to pull himself together, and then he answers as though he’s being held hostage: “It’s great. ”
I hit pause and place my phone on the table, picking up my drink and downing half of it in one gulp. It’s sickly sweet and churns my empty stomach, but it’s nice to have something cool in the relentless heat.
“Shithead,” I mutter. “Stinking turd bucket. Misogynistic asshat.”
“Hey there!”
I look up to see my old racing friend Jack Sheppard. “Who are you calling a turd bucket?” he says, nodding at my phone and the image of Matt frozen mid-expression, one eye shut, his mouth gaping. I start laughing, mostly out of embarrassment.
“Mind if I sit?”
“Sure. Hi! Go ahead,” I say, quickly turning over my phone and gathering up my paperwork to make room for him. I wave toward the bartender, but in a bar full of nobody, he’s already on his way over.
Before I have a chance to protest another round of drinks, Jack points at my cocktail and says, “Same.” He smooths his cropped hair back with both hands.
I see a few sprinklings of gray at his temples.
He’s still that long, lean, elegant handsome.
A gentleman who crosses his legs and moves his body with slow intention. Like a sloth in a Panama hat.
Looking at him now, it’s hard to believe Jack was a racer back in the early go-karting days.
The son of Mick Sheppard, a two-time world champion and the stuff of legends at now-defunct Honda Racing, Jack had the pedigree but never the killer instinct.
I’ve always liked him, though. He was a fun gossip and a hilarious drunk.
In a paddock full of bullish alpha males, Jack was reassuringly self-effacing.
“How have you been?” I ask, glancing at the press pass around his neck. “You’re at F1 Daily now?”
“Yup,” he says, turning the plastic card to look at it. “Living the other dream.”
“Ah well, we all had to pivot.”
“Quite,” he says, motioning toward my paperwork. “How is it all going?” Jack holds his hands up as if to say, I’m not here as press, then he pulls off his FIA lanyard and shoves the pass into the pocket of his linen slacks.
“It’s been a day, all right,” I say, grimacing.
“Well, congratulations anyway.”
“On the bad qualifying run?”
“On the new gig, stupid,” he says, chuckling. “Really. I know it isn’t Mercedes or whatever, but it’s F1. You’re in the fucking room.” He smiles a broad, earnest smile and lifts his glass. “Be proud of yourself. It’s an incredible achievement.”
I feel a little warm glow flow through me at this kindness, which I realize I’ve had virtually none of today. The only message I got from my family after the press conference was from my dad, who was thrilled about me working with Matt.
Matt Warner! Great news. Tell him hi from me. Love Dad.
Dad could never get over the end of my driving career. I suppose after all the years, all the money, all the sacrifice on his part, he felt he’d failed or lost something too.
“I loved what you did in F3. I followed the whole season,” Jack says as he takes a sip of his drink. “You were always going to do the best out of everyone in our era.”
“Stop it,” I say, as feel-good hormones flood my every cell. God, I needed a bit of this. Fuck it. I’m having a third cocktail. I deserve to revel a bit in my achievement after a day that feels as though it was purposefully designed just to undermine it.
“There’s a double-page profile on you in F1 Daily tomorrow. ‘Arden Racing’s New Leading Lady.’” He chuckles. “I hate the headline, bloody editors, but the content is great. Your background, your rise through the ranks. Barry says surprisingly coherent stuff too.”
“Thank you, Jack. Really.” Blushing with pride, impostor syndrome be damned, I pick up my drink and take another swig. “I absolutely hate talking to press.”
“I know,” he says, chuckling. “You looked nervous as hell at that press conference.”
I grimace. Damn it. “Ugh. How embarrassing.”
“I take it you didn’t know about Matt?” Jack asks.
“Nope.”
“How is he?”
I scoff. “He continues to meet my expectations,” I say, with mock magnanimity and a wry smile. Jack laughs, stretching back into his chair.
“All the likability of a global famine.”
“All the charm of a dishcloth,” I say, enjoying myself more than I should.
“What a pain. I’d hate to be forced to work with him.”
“Nobody wants to work with him.”
Jack and Matt never liked each other much.
The jealousy, I suspect, worked in both directions.
Matt had insane raw talent that Jack coveted, and Jack had money and deep connections in the industry.
But we waste time being jealous of the wrong things; Matt made it without all the money and the connections, and now he has both in abundance.
“I don’t think he’s happy working for me,” I say, sighing. “I’m no Ron fucking Dennis, but it’s pretty annoying.” I pause for a minute, calculating the risk of sharing the video with Jack. I suppose since they’re going out on socials anyway, it doesn’t matter. I hand him my phone and hit play.
“Christ,” Jack says, as he watches Matt squirm on camera. “Sorry, but I can’t stand the guy.”
I laugh, shaking my head at his brazenness. “Well, we can rectify the situation at the end of the season. I’m not sure I understand why Barry spent all that money on someone so out of form.”
“It’s panic-buying,” he says, shaking his head.
I laugh feebly, but then think on his comment. “What do you mean panic-buying?”
“Well,” he says, tipping his head, his eyes narrowing a smidgen. “Seems like he’s making a final play, don’t you think?”
“Final?”
Jack puts his drink down. “Maybe it’s just rumors.”
“Are you gonna keep me hanging? What rumors?”
He scans the empty bar and then lowers his voice. He looks so fucking serious all of a sudden, the hairs on the back of my neck start to prickle.
“The word is Barry is running out of money.”
“Explains my modest hotel room,” I quip, as my heart starts to sink.
“You didn’t hear it from me, Chloe, but word is if Arden isn’t in at least the midfield and Matt doesn’t attract a major new sponsor before the Vegas Grand Prix, he’s going to need to fold.”
“Vegas? That’s four or five races away,” I say, aghast. “No. It’s not possible.”
“You know what this sport costs. Barry’s been trying and failing for five long years. He struggles to attract sponsors because, well . . . who the hell is Arden? And who the hell is Barry, really? He’s not one of us.”
I cringe a little at that. Jack, like many in this sport, can come off really fucking elitist sometimes. I sigh. “We actually lost a sponsor less than three minutes after Matt was announced,” I admit, but then I dig deep, sucking in a breath.
“You’ll need more,” Jack says, squeezing his lips together with a pity that embarrasses me. “But I’m sure if anyone can turn it around, you can.”
“There’s only so much anyone can do in a handful of races.” And with a driver who is seriously out of form and unlikely to court any sponsors the way he’s driving. And frankly, the way he’s behaving.
“Maybe it’s not that bad,” Jack offers.