Chapter 25
Chloe
The next few days are a blur. Matt has jetted off to who knows where, and I travel to Vegas sad and defeated. My bones are heavy, my eyes permanently strained from tiredness. When I do sleep, it’s patchy and dream filled.
On one hand, I think about the career I have flushed down the toilet because I was too angry, too hurt, too juvenile to move on from feelings about a teenage unrequited love.
I lashed out, a little drunk, too stupid to focus on the professional gift I’d been given.
No. Not a gift. A reward for my years of grit and hard work.
And on the other hand is the impossible reality I’ve found myself in.
Falling back into those feelings with Matt and having him finally, deliciously reciprocate them.
My heart overruling my head. My pathetic demands that we stop, cool off, overruled by my heart and my fucking insatiable desire for him. Then I went and messed it all up.
Of all the stupid things I’ve done, this takes the cake.
As I slide open the balcony door and look out over the strip, with its garishly bright, twinkling lights in one direction and the track visible in the other, I feel the tug of two lives—one where I’m team principal of an F1 team, and one where I’m happily in love with my first driver.
Deep down, I know they can never become one.
My phone rings. Barry.
“You got my gift for the event?”
“Yes,” I say, looking back inside at the dress I was sent to wear.
In a couple of hours there will be a hosted party at some fancy mega-hotel on the strip.
All the main sponsors will be there alongside potential new sponsors.
I have to go with Barry and charm them, basically begging for money on the back of a terrible performance in Brazil.
We’ve made the job so much harder than it needed to be with Matt’s catastrophic placement collapse.
Which is my fault.
His already fragile state on the track was completely upended by that article.
“I’ll be there.”
“You’ll be collected at seven,” he says gruffly, before hanging up.
When you feel on the outs with everyone, it’s easy to fall into a mode where you’re happy just taking the shit. Like a dog with its ears flat and its tail between its legs.
My hair is blow-dried. Makeup perfectly applied thanks to the stylist Barry sent over. Feels a little over-the-top, but if this really is our make-or-break moment, I’ll do anything to win.
“Nearly finished?” I say, looking up from my screen, trying not to sound desperate.
“Nearly,” says the makeup artist, spraying my face with a mist. “There! Slay, you F1 queen.”
“Thanks. It kills me that Barry will have had a two-minute shower and pulled on a suit,” I say, grumbling as I head over to the dress bag and unzip it. I am almost blinded by sparkles. Oh, good god.
I unzip a little more tentatively, frightened of catching the fragile sequins in the zipper. Inside is a very short silver dress, which moves like molten metal as I free it from the bag and hold it up.
“Wow, is that a Stella McCartney?” she asks, gasping.
“It’s beautiful,” I say as I put it on. I glance at my face in the mirror and am shocked at the reflection.
I look good. The blowout is voluminous with soft bouncy curls, and my makeup is subtle with smoky grays and muted neutral lips to match the dress. My eyes pop out even more than normal. “Gosh. Thank you. You’re a makeup wizard.”
“I know.” She grins a wide toothy grin. “What’s the event for?”
“It’s a pre-race mixer for sponsors and teams. A chance to woo new investment in your team.”
“Will the drivers be there?”
I turn to her, and she flutters her eyelashes playfully. “I have a big crush on Lando, though my best friend is more of a Lewis girl.”
I laugh. The first laugh in days.
“You probably find them all a pain in the ass,” she says bashfully.
I raise my eyebrows and grin wryly. “Absolutely not.”
I pull the dress down fully and it smooths like still water against my curves. I turn to check out the back, and yank the hem down a little.
“It’s immoral,” I mutter.
“You’re a long way from church,” she says, thumbing toward the view of the strip.
Well, I think, sliding my stockinged feet into a pair of shiny silver heels, I’m going to go enjoy what might be my last night as team principal of an F1 team. I might as well go out there and schmooze my ass off.
There is a knock on the door, and then a gruff “Let’s go” from Barry on the other side.
Ginger the greyhound is in a silver bow tie, Roger in a black bow tie, and I walk alongside Barry, who is not wearing a bow tie or even a tie, and has instead opted for something you might wear to a summer wedding in Spain: a pale blue linen suit and fedora.
We walk to the lift and I step in, feeling self-conscious and slightly uncomfortable. I don’t think I’ve gotten this dressed up ever, certainly not for an F1 event.
Barry is quiet, for once, until the lift dings for the top floor, and we exit into the rooftop foyer. “You go out there and you be charming,” he says.
“It’s okay, Barry. I’ll do what needs to be done for Arden.” “Good,” he says, offering a slight smile, then reaches down to pet Ginger. I’m reminded that Barry is a man whose entire character is built on loyalty and trust. He saved those dogs, and he gave me a shot, and he needs to hear more than
I’ll do what needs to be done.
“Barry,” I say, as he looks up from stroking Ginger’s ear. “I want you to know that I am so grateful to you. And that I will never forget what you’ve done for me. And that I am loyal to Arden until the end. Whatever that looks like. Okay?”
He stands and shrugs, petulant, as if it’s too late for all that. But I don’t care. I want him to know. “Okay. Go get me a sponsor, then,” he says. “You’re quite the golden girl on the circuit now, it seems.”
Sarcasm, I presume.
I nod, and push through the glass doors and out onto the roof terrace, walking as confidently as I can directly to the bar to order a martini. A drink that hopefully says, “I know I made my shit team the laughingstock of F1 but I’m a chic professional who’s still here to do her job.”
The terrace is spectacular with its fairy lighting, subtle F1 branding, complimentary bottles of champagne on every high-top. I wish Keyla was here, I think, as I clutch my drink, the liquid sloshing around in my unsteady hand.
I see the team principal of Rossini chatting in a circle, and the McLaren management a little farther down, looking across at the view.
I should have done this more. I should have been brave and stepped out into the circus just as Matt had pushed me to do.
I may have become more at ease with the press, but it’s this room, full of these people, where the deals happen, where the teams are built. I owe my team that maximum effort.
“Hey there, Chloe Coleman.” I turn my head and see two definitely not F1 men, suited and booted in matching pinstripes. One of them holds out his hand.
“This is Darryl and I’m Ali,” he says, smiling.
“Am I under arrest?” They look like a couple of undercover policemen, to be honest. “You gonna pull out a badge?”
Darryl, the taller one with blond hair, laughs a warm, open laugh. “I know, I know. We somehow bought the same suit,” he says.
“Somehow?” Ali says. “You stole my motherfucking tailor.”
“Excuse him,” Darryl says, pushing Ali slightly, before turning to me and clearing his throat. He seems . . . a little nervous. “We wanted to meet you because we’ve been following your success at Arden.”
“Oh?” I say, feeling the drink start to rattle in my hand all over again. I turn back to the bar to put it down.
“Yeah. We represent a few brands back in the UK, and one of them—Burberry—was interested in coming in.”
I scoff. “Burberry? You’re kidding.”
“Not at all. A British gal at the top of her game in a men’s sport? The dog logo? It’s all very Burberry.”
“I’m sorry.” I frown, confused. “You’re saying you’d be keen to sponsor the team, or me?”
“The team,” Darren says quickly. “But we’d love to bring you into the press campaigns. Matt and Noah are strong, of course, but no one focuses on the team principal, and you’re as much a part of the Arden story as anyone.”
“You’re actually the real story,” Ali says.
“He’s right. I don’t want to take anything away from the boys. But the story is you.”
“Especially with Matt’s performance last race,” Darren says, pulling a sympathetic face.
“He’ll give it everything this weekend,” I say, panic starting to claw at me.
“But you’d replace him for next season, anyway, right? I mean, you didn’t want him.”
“Are you referring to the article in F1 Daily?” I gulp. That fucking article. It’s done more damage to Matt than I realized.
“Well, sure. Sounds like you want to take Arden in a different direction.”
“But he’s one of the best drivers of his generation,” I say. “Was,” Darren says. “With all due respect.”
“It would be great to see someone fresh, don’t you think?” Ali says, before chuckling. “But you’re the expert. Maybe he’ll pull something out of the bag.”
I glance over at Barry, who is deep in conversation. And then, one of the men steps sideways and I realize Matt is there next to him. I suck in a breath, my heart in my throat.
He looks beyond sexy, almost unreal in a black velvet dinner jacket and open black silk shirt, with a silver chain just showing against his tanned skin. But he also looks tired, drawn. I cannot believe I had him, really had him in my arms, and fucked it up so royally.
“He’s a hot—I mean huge, experienced asset,” I say, sipping on my drink. “But yeah. We need results. Every team needs results.”
Darren exchanges a satisfied smile with his colleague.
“Well, we don’t want to keep you,” he says, following my eyeline back to Matt, who has seen me now; our eyes are locked in an expressionless standoff.
His eyes drop down to my feet and then make their way back up to my face, slowly, his gaze leaving sparks along my skin in its wake.
Please smile. Please smile. Please smile at me.
After what feels like an eternity, he does. There is some warmth there. Some thawing, I hope. He lifts his hand in a small wave before getting pulled back to his conversation.
“Oh, it’s fine,” I say, turning back to pick up my drink, shaking hand spilling a little on my arm as I turn and take a sip.
“Well, I think you have a line,” Darren says, pointing behind me, and I turn around to see a woman in a red suit waiting patiently for her turn to chat with me.
“I won’t keep you either,” she says, as the two men smile broadly and make their way through the crowd. She slinks in next to me and drops her voice. I can smell strong floral perfume and cigarette smoke as she leans in. “I’m just here on behalf of Haas.”
I stiffen slightly.
“Not because of anything in particular,” she says with a wink, handing me her card. “We’d love to take you for dinner sometime.”
“I can’t be seen—”
“It’s okay, I’m off,” she says. “Call me if you’re intrigued.
” I quickly slide the card down my cleavage and into my bra, glancing around to see if anyone has noticed.
Then I look back to find Matt, but he’s no longer in the group.
In fact, I can’t see him anywhere in the room.
But before I have a chance to really pine for him, I am touched on the arm by someone else.
“Sorry to interrupt,” says a Southern drawl. “Have you got a moment?”
I glance back at Barry, who tips his drink toward me in approval at the attention I’m getting.
If only he knew I just got approached by Haas.
That piece in the press may have ruined me inside my team, but it has raised my profile out of it.
When Barry said that I was quite the golden girl, did he already know?