Chapter 7 #2
The machine chirps again, mechanical and smug: “Please remove item from the bagging area.”
Francesca turns toward me, expression flat as stone. “Am I the item?”
It blindsides me. Before I can stop it, a breath slips out—a short, quiet laugh I didn’t mean to give her. Just bloody great.
Her head snaps up, eyes locking on mine, sharp and triumphant. “Was that a chuckle? A real, human sound?”
I force my face blank, shake my head like I can erase it. “It was a system glitch.”
She doesn’t buy it. “No. It was a moment of personality. I knew you weren’t entirely made of granite.”
I grab my bottle of Drivex, swipe it harder than necessary across the scanner. If I keep my movements clipped, controlled, maybe she won’t see the crack she just found. “Don’t get ahead of yourself.”
Her mouth curves as if she’s already won. “I’m simply saying… that might’ve been the highlight of my day.”
Christ. Why does that make me feel… things? “You should set higher standards.”
Her grin widens, bright, wicked, impossible to ignore. “You’d be surprised how low they were going into this.”
And there it is again—a pull I don’t want, don’t need. I focus on the scanner’s beeps, on anything but the truth.
She’s getting to me, and worse, she knows it.
My phone buzzes in my pocket and out of habit, I pull it out for a peek.
Vivienne.
I answer quietly. “Hello?”
“Darling,” she coos, words slurred and thick as sludge. “I can’t find my charger. The little silver one. The long one. You said you’d bring me one, remember?”
My teeth clench hard enough my temples ache. “I left two on the nightstand… the braided one and the fast charger.”
“They’re not here,” she whines, her voice pitched with petulance. “You probably forgot, which is typical of you.”
The accusation is the same as always—sharp, unfair and exhausting. I drag in a slow inhale through my nose, willing myself to keep even. Losing patience with her only fuels the spiral. “They’re there. Look again.”
There’s a clatter on her end, drawers or maybe glasses, before she mutters, “I hate this place. It smells like lemon and disinfectant. I think the staff is watering down the gin, if truth be told.”
My eyes slip closed. A muscle ticks in my cheek as I picture the empty bottles I know she hides under cushions or tucks behind curtains, the ones the staff probably clear away before I arrive. “You’re not supposed to be drinking, remember?”
A beat of silence, then a softened response, cloying and damning all at once. “Don’t scold me, Ronan. You always sound like your father when you scold me.”
My throat works around a hard swallow, the words I should say lodged uselessly beneath it. “I have to go. I’ll call you later.”
“I just wanted to hear your voice…,” she says, trailing off. I have a moment of pity for what she’s become.
But I don’t let her finish. For my sanity, my thumb presses the screen and the line cuts. The silence is heavier than her ramblings.
When I turn around, Francesca is watching me. “Is everything okay?”
“Fine,” I mutter, shoving my phone back in my pocket.
“Because you sounded a little worried…”
I meet her eyes for a second longer than I should. Her expression isn’t smug or amused. It’s… curious. Like she’s seen witnessed she wasn’t supposed to.
“Mind your own business, Accardi,” I reply, but there’s no heat in my tone.
Part of me wonders what she heard to make her concerned about me.
That call was nothing… just another day in my life.
But clearly, Francesca picked up on the fact that my mother isn’t normal.
Although she doesn’t really know it was my mother on the other end.
“Sorry,” she says, throwing up her hands in surrender. “Nose firmly out of your business.”
“Good,” I mutter.
“Good,” she snaps back, and just like that, we’re enemies again.
?
The shoot wraps a bit past five and everyone’s buzzing with satisfaction. Even I have to admit, it will be cheeky fun when it airs. Formula fans will eat it up because they love the off-track vibes almost as much as the on-track.
Timmy reminds Francesca and me that we’re meeting in the morning for still shoots, then we walk out of the store together.
“That wasn’t so bad,” she says, and I glance at her in surprise. Is she trying to make conversation?
“I had better things to be doing,” I reply, angling left toward my car.
“Hey, listen,” she says. I stop, turning to face her. “I’m going to meet Nash and Lex for dinner. Want to join us?”
I stare at her, trying to determine if the offer is legitimate. An offer of what… friendship? Doesn’t matter, though. Lex doesn’t want to break bread with me.
“I’ve got to head back to Woking,” I lie, tossing my thumb toward my Aston Martin. “But thanks.”
“Sure thing,” she says and offers a genuine smile. “See you tomorrow.”
“Yeah… tomorrow.”
I take my time getting into my car, pretending to look at my phone, waiting for Francesca to leave. She’s new to the scene and a rookie driver, but the Titans have her in a sweet ride… a McLaren Artura, which is a hybrid supercar. If we were indeed friends, I’d ask her to let me drive it.
When she’s out of sight, I turn and head into the small pub I’d tagged across the street.
I am indeed heading back to Woking, but there’s no rush.
My mum’s deep into the gin and I don’t really want to deal with her.
The irony of me wanting a beer to cope with my mum drinking isn’t lost on me, but there’s a distinct difference between the two of us.
I don’t let alcohol rule my life. While I have definitely done my share of partying, as does any respectable young formula driver, those are in specific situations and only when appropriate.
For tonight, I’ll be satisfied with a pint to relax where she’ll drink the entire bottle of gin to escape.
I can go days without thinking about alcohol, and she’ll get the shakes if she goes more than eight hours.
The pub sits tucked between a bakery and a betting shop, its painted sign weathered, the door slightly ajar.
Inside, it’s dim—just the low hum of conversation and the clink of glass behind the bar.
The place smells faintly of wood polish and chips, and there can’t be more than six people scattered across worn leather booths and high tables.
I make my way to the far end of the bar, away from the telly playing a rugby match, and slide onto a stool. Alone. Quiet. Just the way I want it.
I order a pint, and the first sip is cold, clean and grounding. I scroll absently through my phone, checking messages I really don’t care about before diving into social media. I let my mind drift, hoping it doesn’t settle on my mum.
Today should’ve been a disaster. Ordered from some corporate bullshit, a camera in my face all day and Francesca Accardi insufferably smug through every take.
But somehow… it wasn’t.
We went at each other, yeah—but there wasn’t real heat behind it. Not the venom I expected. It felt more like playground shit. Like when you’re six and the girl next to you says something smart, so you steal her pencil and pretend not to notice when she kicks your shin under the table.
It felt juvenile and… almost funny, when I think back on it.
I take another sip of my beer, not sure what to make of that. By all accounts, Accardi seems like a decent person. Maybe I just wanted to pull her pigtails, and I haven’t the faintest idea why.
My attention drifts to the telly and I think about tomorrow. We’re going to be working together again and I should be dreading it.
But I’m not.
And that’s probably the strangest part of all.
I glance toward the door when it opens, brightening up the interior of the pub for a few seconds, and I freeze when I see her.
Francesca. Standing in the threshold and scanning the room like she’s not sure what she’s looking for.
Until her eyes land on me.