Chapter 8
Matt
Thirty-four minutes and counting.
That’s how long Chloe and I have been trapped in this tiny damn box of a room.
Barry told us to meet him here in the garage at ten a.m., packed and ready to head to Texas.
I thought we were going to debrief, and was awake half the night planning my retirement speech.
But instead, Barry lured us into this little room on the promise of those doughnuts over there on the small table, the strong black coffee, and an honest “chat.” Okay, the venue seemed a little strange, but the neutral territory of the garage, away from the prying ears of gossipy reporters, made some insane sense at the time.
As Chloe and I stood there awkwardly exchanging glances, Barry asked for our mobile phones, to “keep us focused.” Then, before we knew what was happening, he was on the other side of the door, locking it from the outside with a key.
“Come together, you two. If you learn to work as a team, you’ll get out,” he said as he grinned, before running off on his tippy-toes like a teenager mid-prank.
“It’s like a PG version of that movie Saw,” I said, looking around the empty room as Chloe rattled the door for the hundredth time.
“At least there’s no dead person in the room,” she said dryly. “Yet.”
“Just a dead career,” I muttered to myself. Chloe’s head spun around so fast it nearly did a 180. “My career,” I said quickly as I took in her mortified face.
“Are you really done?”
“You didn’t watch the race? I’m done.” It came out uneasy, my voice hitching slightly. Chloe’s eyes narrowed on me, and she folded her arms across her chest.
“I’m afraid I just don’t believe you, Matt,” she said.
“Believe what you want. As soon as we’re out of here, I’m on a plane back to England.”
“Going back to Brackley? Finally. Gracing your family with your presence at last.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Chloe didn’t answer, she just pulled on the door for the hundred and first time.
“It’s locked,” I said slowly, irritated, dropping my head into my hands. “I think we’ve established that.”
Chloe rolled her eyes and tossed her hands in the air. “Fine. Let’s wait for a janitor. Or maybe next year’s circuit? Perhaps there will be a dead body or two in here by then.” She shoved at the door, before shouting, “Barry, you are a monumental shit stick!”
Then she blew hot breath onto the glass window that looked out across the garage, steaming it up and writing HELP before kicking the wall and then whimpering like an abandoned puppy.
Now we are trapped in this box until such time as Barry decides to let us out. I accepted that half an hour ago, and now Chloe finally has, stubborn as she is.
I’m sitting on the floor, elbows resting on each knee, head in my hands, flight-ready in my chinos and Lacoste tee.
Chloe is against the opposite wall playing with a discarded screwdriver she found among a sea of construction junk littering the room.
The sweet smell of the doughnuts and coffee is tempting, but I’ve cornered myself into a one-way silent standoff with Chloe, so I’d rather starve than move first. I hear only the sound of a low electrical buzz and a vacuum somewhere in the distance until Chloe breaks the silence and taps the glass with the screwdriver.
“Shall I smash the window?”
I sit quietly, waiting for her to come to terms with the fact that she’s not going to do that. Her shoulders slump.
“Never ceases to amaze me how quickly they pack down the garage and get everything into the crates ready to move on to the next country,” she says, her whispery voice trailing through the silence.
“Especially if they lose.”
Chloe looks at me and tips her head, raising an eyebrow. “Are you speaking now?”
“No,” I say quickly, trying not to grin as I look away. “Thinking aloud.”
She huffs. Then she slides down the wall and lands on her bum.
I glance sideways at her; she’s in coffee-colored soft cotton joggers and a matching T-shirt, her hair down and still damp from the shower.
Traveling clothes, I suppose, for the jet we’re due to catch after lunch.
She’s casual but there’s something about the soft fabrics that adds to her softness, her effortless beauty.
I suddenly want to be closer and feel her for myself, but then I quickly snap out of my unexpected daydream and back to reality.
“Is he even coming back?” she says, finally seeming to lose her temper, tossing the screwdriver against the wall and glancing up at the coffee. “Fuck it.”
She pulls herself back up and walks past me to the box of doughnuts on the little table, a cloud of sweet-smelling perfume trailing in her wake.
The light catches on a thin gold ankle bracelet sitting just above her left trainer.
I let myself imagine holding that ankle for a moment, sliding my hand up her bare calf.
Fuck. Why am I even having these thoughts of her? Where is this coming from?
“It’s still kinda warm,” she says, nodding to the coffee after she takes a sip. “Tastes like a punch in the throat, though.”
I want to laugh, but I’m also stubborn.
I push myself up the wall and swipe the other coffee and a chocolate-glazed doughnut with all the visible reluctance I can muster. Then I struggle not to spit out the coffee.
“Was this filtered through Barry’s underwear?
” I say, and Chloe laughs, a high, fluttery giggle that warms me through.
I’m hit by this sudden wave of nostalgia, recalling that sweet laugh when it was so easy to extract from her, way back when we were kids.
I smile at the thought, and our eyes meet for the briefest of moments before she looks swiftly away, her grin vanishing.
Just as I catch her, the old Chloe, she slips through my fingers again.
“We need to talk, Matt,” she says, serious now, biting into her doughnut, then removing the sugary glaze from her lips with a finger.
I narrow my eyes on that finger, as something begins to uncoil in the pit of my stomach.
Jesus. One minute she’s that teenage girl I grew up with, the next she is a very adult woman who is doing very adult things to my body.
“I know,” I concede, my eyes firmly on the floor now. I have to get a grip.
“We should have talked earlier.” I watch as she pulls out one of the chairs and drops herself heavily down into it. “You wanted to, and I fucked up.”
“It’s doesn’t matter.”
“It does matter,” she says. “Please. I should have made time, even if you really want to retire. . . .” Her voice trails off as she eyeballs me. “Do you really want to retire, Matt?”
I meet her eyes, but again, they slide back down to her coffee, pretending it’s the most fascinating thing in the world.
“No,” I say, truthfully.
I can’t quite tell if this has pleased or panicked her until her mouth stretches into a smile, her eyes still on that coffee. “Well, then.”
“Are we still friends, Chloe?”
I watch her body go still, almost imperceptibly, before she replies, “Sure.”
“Convincing,” I say wryly.
“We’ve known each other since primary school, maybe even before because of our dads,” she says.
“True, but there’s a difference between someone you once knew and someone you’re currently on good terms with.” I lean in, smiling at her, trying to understand where she’s coming from. “You seem to dislike me, if I’m honest.”
Chloe squeezes her eyes shut for a beat. “That’s not . . . not true,” she says, stumbling over the words as she clears her throat.
“Even more convincing.” I raise an eyebrow.
“I’m sorry if I gave you that impression.”
She still hasn’t denied it. I watch her closely as she pulls herself together, placing the coffee on the table and tossing the half-eaten doughnut into the box.
“Was it the press video?” I push her.
Chloe tips her head, turning to face me now. “It didn’t make me feel great, if you want the truth.”
I need to clear that misunderstanding up, at least. I slide in opposite her at the table, tilting the coffee cup side to side as though it’s a glass of whiskey. I wish it was a glass of whiskey.
“When she asked me if I was happy to be working for a woman, I didn’t hesitate because it was a problem,” I say slowly and clearly. “I was thinking about how amazing you’d done and how dumb the question was, if you really want to know.”
Chloe tips her head, her face curious, her cheeks pink. “You were not.”
“It’s the truth.”
“Really?”
“Yes. And I’m proud of you, if that’s not a weird thing to say now that you’re my boss.”
She says nothing for a while, but I can see the flush in her cheeks deepening a little, and I feel glad I told her. I should have said it yesterday.
She lets out a little huh. A half laugh. “I’ve wanted it all my life, and the word boss doesn’t sit well on me,” she says finally, picking her coffee back up.
“It should. By all accounts you really deserve it.”
She ignores the compliment, pushing her hair back from her face.
“I don’t know how to do this, Matt,” she says finally, quietly.
“Please just be honest with me. If you don’t want to stay, I can work with that.
I can look for someone new. But Arden Racing is on its last legs.
The money is running out. The sponsors are jumping ship.
I have heard from two people now that we have only a few races left before this is all over. ”
“I heard it too,” I say quietly, nodding.
“You can retire now; your career has been incredible. But I’m just now getting started, and I’ve come too far for it all to come crashing down this soon.”
My chest tightens with guilt.
“If you want to go, please just go. The crew can see there’s tension, and it doesn’t help my bloody fear that I’m not cut out for the job,” she says, her eyes misting a little.
“I’m very well aware I’m a PR exercise, but I thought, maybe stupidly, that I could prove them all wrong.
That I am good enough.” She drops her head into her hands, and I reach my hand across the table, my fingers outstretched toward hers.