Chapter 18
Matt
It’s ridiculous that Chloe is taking her own car from Heathrow to Brackley, but I’m not sure I’ll be able to stop her. Especially after our fight, if you could even call it that.
After the race, she sat me down. I was still sweaty and frustrated, with half the bloody media watching me. She tried to calm me down and convince me I needed to go see Stavros.
“Stavros doesn’t want to see me,” I replied, wiping my brow with a towel and glugging down a good liter of water in seconds.
“How do you know that for sure, Matt?”
“I sent him loads of messages.”
Even as I said it, I knew it was pathetic.
Stavros, the man with the enormous Greek family, who once flew halfway around the world to attend his grandmother’s ninety-third birthday brunch, who handwrites his own damn Christmas cards, deserved more than a few calls and text messages.
But I’m a fucking gutless bastard and I can’t face him.
And Chloe knows it.
“Get on the plane,” she said. “Go to him.”
But I didn’t want to hear that. I just walked off, pushed myself up off the floor and left her there, standing on the lot with about a dozen eyes having witnessed what surely looked like a fight.
Since then, I must have checked my phone a million times. No message or missed calls from her, though. I’ll get in touch with her later to apologize.
To make matters worse, coming home always makes me nervous. It’s been a while since I saw Mum, and I know she’s been missing Archie and me over the past few years. I’m not really up for seeing Dad at all, but I have no choice but to face him.
I drive the two-hour trip from the airport and am reminded how nice the countryside can be after being away for so long. I pass ancient oak-lined winding roads with huge, overgrown hedgerows. Everything is turning autumnal and beautiful and familiar. This I missed.
My parents’ house is exactly the same when I pull up to it. The same climbing pink rosebush almost eating the whole of the redbrick facade, the garden wild and overgrown. The shiny black door with the number 7 in silver. I tried so many times to upgrade them, but they weren’t having it.
Mum flings the door open before I have a chance to knock.
“We heard the car,” she says, pulling me in for a hug, her body soft and comforting, her arms a little too tight around my body. “Dad’s made room in the garage.”
“It’s fine there for now,” I say, taking Mum in. She’s the same, her gray hair dyed warm brown, clear-rimmed glasses.
“No, it isn’t. Brackley isn’t what it was, I’m telling you. The Clarksons had their electric bikes stolen last month. And Gail saw a flasher at the station.”
“I’ll put your fancy car in,” says Dad, appearing from behind her, reaching out a hand to shake mine. “How much did those cost?” He nods to the Gucci sunglasses on top of my head.
“Not as much as the car,” I say sheepishly, taking his heavy hand in mine.
“Nice of you to turn up,” he says with a wink, as I fish the keys out of my pocket and hold them up for him.
“Nice of you to tidy up for me,” I say, nodding to the overgrown front lawn.
“It’s about your turn, don’t you think?” he says, folding his arms.
Dad. On the one hand, he’s a grounded, salt-of-the-earth type, who has never liked the high-flying life of F1 and whose circle of friends make a sport of mocking rich foot-ballers.
And on the other, he’s a massive F1 fan, a trained mechanic who cannot easily hide the huge pride he clearly has for me and Archie.
And so, when I’m home, he prods and teases me about my clothes and my cars and my money—his way, I think, of trying to remain a mechanic from Brackley and not the father of Matthew Warner.
He’d never say it, but he’s probably disappointed on some level that I’ve been dropped from Rossini.
Mum’s laughter breaks the banter, and she tugs me inside the house.
It’s a strange snapshot of nineties England: huge old tube TV as deep as it is wide; wood-paneled kitchen cabinets.
The hallway is a collection of celebrity autographs: signed photo of the Spice Girls (Mum), signed photo of David Beckham (Dad), and signed photo of the Wiggles (me).
Mum has scones laid out on the slate-topped kitchen island, with clotted cream and raspberry jam.
Fresh flowers on the kitchen table. The radio plays Elton John softly in the background.
Everything is the same as it always has been.
Routine, constant, safe. The only thing that is wild and unpredictable in this room is me.
“There’s tea too,” Mum says, pushing the pot with the pink knitted tea cozy in my direction.
“There’s something wrong with the engine in that car.
I can hear a rattle when you move to third gear,” Dad says, joining us, sliding onto the stool at the kitchen island opposite.
His gray hair is more obvious these days.
Still, his eyes are bright as ever, his steely gaze strong and penetrating like he’s always got more to say. Because he surely does.
“You needed three gears to roll her into the garage?” I tease, laughing, knowing he would take her out for a quick run. What he really wants is to get her into the workshop and have a good poke around. It isn’t often someone rolls into his workshop with a vintage Jaguar.
“Maybe you could take a look for him?” Mum suggests, playing along.
“If I have time,” Dad says, reaching for the scones.
Mum gives me a look, rolling her eyes, and I laugh, reaching for the tea, and pour myself a cup.
I accept a scone piled high with cream and jam and take a greedy bite.
“I’m sorry I’ve not been back more,” I say, frowning at Mum. “It was kind of hard to say no to the free holidays the company liked to send us on.”
“That’s okay, love. You’re here now. We just love having you home.”
“I like you at Arden, son,” Dad says, crashing in like he can’t keep the thought in his brain any longer.
I swing my head around to him, cocking it in surprise. “Really? I thought you’d be disappointed.”
“He likes Chloe,” Mum explains. “Even if her dad is the local competition.”
“I like her family,” Dad elaborates. “And it isn’t just her, anyway. It’s watching you have to fight again. To build up something. It’s better for you.”
“There’s a lot to build,” I say.
“Ninth is their best-ever result,” dad counters, enthusiastically.
His delight lifts me a little. “True. It’s not as bad as I thought it might be. I kind of like the battle.”
“And Dad likes Chloe,” Mum whispers again, behind her hand.
“She’s good,” Dad remarks, eyebrows raised as if I ought to know the truth.
“She’s good. Yes,” I agree, trying not to sound irritated.
“She’s good for you,” Mum says. “Always has been. What’s it been like working with her again?”
I picture her climbing into the car a few hours ago, her red hair blowing in the wind. I wonder if I should just fucking call her. Maybe take her out one night while we’re home. I imagine taking her on a date to a little English pub. I smile a little too wistfully and Mum catches it.
“Oh,” she says, eyes wide. “So, it’s going well?”
I feel a sting of embarrassment and shake my head wildly. “There are a lot of problems. Not with Chloe. With me.”
My mum’s face drops. Sympathy is radiating off her, and I really don’t want to hear anything about that right now.
“Have you heard from him yet?” she asks gently.
“Don’t push him,” says Dad. “Stavros will call when he’s ready.”
“Darren!” Mum shoots back.
“Wow, that took, like, five minutes,” I say, checking my watch dramatically.
I just knew she would bring up Stavros and the accident. She can’t bloody help herself. How is it that mums know exactly where to jab you to get a reaction?
“You know what? I’m super jet-lagged.”
“Honey, I only care about you,” Mum says, reaching across the counter and gently holding my hand by the wrist as though I might try to escape. “Archie says you’re getting better. That you’re not thinking of retiring anymore.”
“I am a little better,” I say, nodding slowly. And then I sigh, dropping my head to my hands. “And yes. I do need to see Stavros. Chloe is on me about it too.”
I catch Dad looking at Mum, and Mum giving him an I-told-you-so look, with a raise of her eyebrows.
“You’ve always avoided emotionally difficult things,” says Mum.
I bank that little insight to share with my therapist.
“Not everything needs to be discussed endlessly,” my dad counters, sighing heavily. “Another problem with today. Everyone is so self-absorbed. Better to get on with things rather than rake over them endlessly.”
I bank that one for the therapist too.
“It’s never as bad as you think it’s going to be,” she continues, ignoring my dad. “Stavros will forgive you, darling. You’re best friends.”
I nod, turning my tea around in my hands. And then I try to fight off a yawn.
“I’m going to go . . .” I thumb toward the upstairs.
“Take a shower,” Mum says. “You just shut down, baby. Put your feet up. Dinner is at six.”
“Six o’clock?”
“Yes, we’re over sixty now,” my dad mutters.
“We eat at six and fall asleep watching EastEnders,” Mum agrees.
After my shower, I dry myself down and put on a fresh tracksuit and hoodie. I pull back the curtains in my room, which is also technically still shared with Archie when he visits too. At least Mum finally upgraded from bunk beds to two singles.
I can smell the roast chicken wafting up through the floorboards. I pull up the sash window, let the breeze blow in, and kick back onto my bed, when I hear a buzz from my phone.
And there it is. A message from Chloe. Even with the awkward way we left things, I still wish more than anything she was here with me now.
C: How’s Brackley?
M: Scones. Tea. Roast Chicken. You?
C: Toad in The Hole x
I glance at my watch. Dinner is in an hour, not enough time to race across town and see her. Tomorrow, maybe?
M: Let’s catch up while we’re both home.
Pint at the Fox and Oak?
C: Maybe . . . Mum has a lot planned.
It’s enough of an opening. I sit back and listen to the sounds of the birds and their evening song as I contemplate asking her to meet me for dinner tomorrow. Or maybe a pint at the Fox and Oak is better?
A nightingale continues its jaunty song on a branch just outside the window. The breeze is cool and damp, a long way from the heat of the Italian summer.
Everything is so still. It could be like this, my life. Quiet.
I try to imagine leaving F1, making this my final year.
I like the idea of it, but there is something so grating about going out on a low in my last year.
It’s a depressing time to walk. Like that tennis player who won’t give up, even when half his body is strapped with tape and he can’t chase down the ball.
I lift a hand up behind my head, feeling the call of sleep not too far away. I settle back, contemplating retirement, when my phone buzzes.
C: Do you still know where the holes in the fence are?
I grin. She’s fucking perfect.
M: Can you get your hands on two go-karts?
C: See you around 9.