Chapter 4 First of Your Kind
First of Your Kind
“If this is about the cream puffs,” Juliette said, “I can explain.”
They were hurrying down the corridor, their footsteps echoing off the stone floors. Simmons moved surprisingly quickly for a man of seventy. Even so, she hadn’t quite appreciated his cardiovascular stamina. He moved like a squirrel on cocaine.
“Let me guess,” Simmons said dryly. “It wasn’t your fault.”
Juliette took a left. “It was an accident.”
The headmaster raised an eyebrow. “I see. And I suppose this is like the time the golf cart in the lake was an accident.”
“Sir—”
“Or the haggis in my office.”
“That was on purpose,” Juliette allowed. “But it was Burns Night.” Also, the boys had dared her, and she’d been thirteen.
Simmons pinched his lips together. It was a facial expression that Juliette had become intimately acquainted with since she’d arrived at the academy.
Unlike most racing academies, Taurus offered full-time boarding to students.
An experimental approach. Or, at least, that’s how the racing scout had sold it to her parents when he’d spotted ten-year-old Juliette on the go-kart track.
“Our students live racing,” he’d explained.
“In addition to studying a regular curriculum,” he’d added hastily, spotting her mother’s To Tea or Not to Tea flask, “which includes a robust range of English literature. Our students are anywhere from eleven to twenty-five. Some even stay with us up to undergraduate level.”
Her parents were sold on the free tuition. Juliette was sold on the free chocolate biscuits. Anyway, Cap had joined a prestigious racing program the year before, and she couldn’t stand how large their bedroom felt without him. Taurus had offered her admission, and she’d begun the following autumn.
Juliette glanced at the headmaster, who was still doing the stern-lips-pressed-together look. Bet Simmons heartily regretted extending that invitation.
He pushed open the office door. “Inside, Marchmont.”
Juliette started inside, and then halted.
Holy shit.
Ranya Silva sat in an armchair.
The woman in question looked up. She was shorter in real life, her shiny dark hair swept back in barrettes.
She wore a navy skirt and a pair of designer flats that looked like they cost more than a month’s rent.
A golden cane leaned against the desk. Juliette watched, stunned, as Ranya raised an eyebrow at Simmons.
“This is her?” Ranya held up a hand. “Wait. Stupid question. There’s just the one female driver at the academy.”
The headmaster grimaced. “I’ll leave you to it.”
Simmons shut the door with a click. Ranya poured a second cup of tea. Even her nails, Juliette observed, were perfect.
“Right,” Ranya said. “Introductions. I’m—”
“I know who you are,” Juliette interrupted, and then wondered if that was rude.
Everyone knew who Ranya Silva was. She was a legendary Sri Lankan driver, the first woman in motorsport to drive a Formula 1 car (albeit for only a few races as a reserve driver in 1997, but even so).
Hell, Juliette had a poster up of her in her childhood bedroom.
She could recall trying to fight through a crowded pit lane to get Ranya to sign it after the British Grand Prix.
Ranya was also the first female team principal in history. She looked after the Toro Significa F1 team, the feeder team for Taurus. And if Ranya wanted to speak with her…
Juliette’s heart pounded so fast that she felt sick. Don’t get too excited. She might just want to chat.
Too late.
She was definitely going to throw up.
Ranya held out a cup of tea. Juliette took it, settling in a chair.
“I watched your race,” Ranya said. “You’ve got good instincts.”
“Thank you.”
Ranya stretched out one leg. “I’ve tracked your progress through the academy, you know. Very impressive. The most gold ribbons out of everyone in your year.” She took a sip. “Your brother’s a driver too, isn’t he?”
Juliette nodded. “Cap drives for Duro Stallion.”
“Do you come from racing stock?”
Juliette shook her head. “My parents are theater directors. They met staging a production of Romeo and Juliet.”
She watched Ranya put it together: their strange names, the Shakespeare T-shirt that her father was wearing…Even her family dogs were called Hamlet and Ophelia. Further proof, she reflected, that her parents really shouldn’t have the authority to name living creatures.
At least her parents had spared her the indignity of having a brother named Romeo.
Small mercies.
“So you’re a self-starter,” Ranya said. “I like that in a person.” She took another sip. “Shame that Taurus is taking the Von Galen boy on as their second driver. You deserved that place.”
Crushing disappointment filled her, although she should have expected it. There was no way to prove that Frederick messed with her car, which meant that it was her word against his. If she complained, she’d only look bitter.
“Frederick is a good driver. I’m sure he won’t disappoint.”
Ranya’s dark eyes observed her. “You struggled at the end.”
This, Juliette thought, must be how it felt to swallow her pride. Couldn’t say she liked it. “My rear suspension blew.”
“Interesting,” Ranya said. “You look tired. Late night?”
Juliette shrugged. “Couldn’t sleep.”
“Any reason?”
“Adrenaline. The usual.”
“I see,” Ranya said slowly. “Do you know that we keep cameras in our team garages? There’s a lot of expensive equipment in there.
Wouldn’t want anything to get stolen.” Her dark eyes were unreadable.
“Our security team told me something interesting. Apparently a driver snuck into the garage yesterday and spent all night fiddling with a car. It looked as if he was sabotaging another pupil.”
The clock ticked. Juliette looked down at the cup of tea. Her heart had migrated somewhere into the region of her throat. Was this a test? Had Ranya been sent to make sure she’d stay quiet? God, she hoped not.
“But you knew that already,” Ranya observed.
Juliette hesitated. “Yes.”
Ranya leaned forward. Outside, the distant fanfare of the trophy ceremony rose, but she didn’t seem to notice. “And you didn’t come forward?”
Juliette shrugged. “Frederick had already won the race. I didn’t see the point.”
“In telling the truth?”
Juliette’s smile was wry. “Who would believe me?”
For a long moment, nobody spoke. Birds squawked outside, fighting over ketchup-smeared cartons of chips. The trophy ceremony had ended, leaving only the rustle of wind through the trees. Ranya set the teacup down.
“How much do you like racing?”
Er. “What?”
“How much,” Ranya said evenly, “do you like racing?”
Juliette had the oddest urge to laugh. Where to begin? “I spent most of my childhood sleeping in a race car bed. If that answers your question.”
Ranya looked satisfied, as if Juliette had provided the correct answer on a math test. “I want to offer you a position on Toro Significa. Taurus’s feeder team.
” She paused. “Not quite as glamorous as Taurus, but it’ll give you a chance to compete on track.
And you can work your way up after this season. ”
Juliette blinked. “I—what?”
“We have a seat available for the upcoming season. I’m offering it to you.”
She stared. The words wouldn’t penetrate. Toro Significa was the worst team on the grid, but it was still a team. And if Ranya was offering her a position…
Blood roared in her ears.
Fucking hell.
“Is this a joke?”
Ranya’s dark eyes were assessing. “I’m not saying that it’ll be easy.
F1 cars are bigger than what you’re driving.
Harder to control. They’re complex machines, and the learning curve will be difficult.
” She swiveled her cane. “If you can’t get to grips with it after a few races, then I’ll pull you. Is that clear?”
“You’re being serious,” Juliette said. She was gripping the teacup so hard that the pads of her fingers burned.
“I’m being serious,” Ranya said.
“Where do I sign?”
Ranya rose, leaning heavily on her cane. “We’ll do the paperwork on the plane.”
“The plane?” Juliette echoed, rather stupidly, because her brain seemed to have vacated the premises.
Ranya produced lipstick, seemingly from nowhere. “We fly to Bahrain next week. Preseason testing starts the week after that, but there’s a drivers’ dinner beforehand. The press will want to speak with you.”
“Right,” Juliette said, as if it was a perfectly normal thing to jump on a private plane and fly to a different continent. Perhaps it was.
“Here.” Ranya slid a contract across the table. “You can read it over the next few days. Do you have a lawyer?”
Juliette laughed, then paused. Oh, good lord.
Ranya was serious. She tried to imagine a lawyer sitting in her parents’ thatched cottage in Kent, drinking her mother’s rose-and-hibiscus tea out of a chipped Taming of the Brew mug.
Admittedly, her parents had begrudgingly accepted the occasional financial gift since Cap started racing, but the idea of having a fancy lawyer on speed dial…
Yeah.
No.
Juliette glanced down at the contract. A figure was bolded at the top, and she was suddenly glad that she’d finished her tea because she might have choked. “Is this my salary? Before tax?”
“After.” Ranya frowned. “Is it not sufficient?”
“No, I…”
Juliette stared at the figure. She knew what Cap made, but foolishly she hadn’t realized that midfield drivers made a good chunk of cash too. Her academy stipend covered a decent amount, but this?
Bloody hell.
She could buy a small private island with this.
“It’s sufficient,” she said weakly. “I’ll look over the rest while I pack.”
“Good.” Ranya swiped on some lipstick. “I’ll meet you outside in thirty minutes for some preliminary publicity photos. Wear something less…” Her eyes flicked over Juliette’s race suit. “Sweaty.”
“Got it.”
Ranya shook her head. “The first of your kind. We’re going to do great things together, Juliette Marchmont.
” She turned and walked to the door, her cane tapping against the floor.
“Oh, and one more thing. We’ve confirmed your teammate.
We’ll brief the media this afternoon, but I wanted you to hear it first.”
Juliette waited. Her palms were sweaty. She’d been following the news, obviously; half the students at the academy had placed bets on it.
Would it be the Swedish veteran who came out of retirement last year?
Or maybe the American NASCAR racer who was looking for a change?
She hoped the latter. She had fifty quid riding on it.
“It’s Dominic Hastings,” Ranya said.