Chapter 15 Allies
Allies
Juliette wove through the crowded paddock.
Everything was the click of cameras, accompanied by the low buzz of the crowd.
Bahrain wasn’t the glitziest track, but you got a few celebrities for the big Sunday race; she could see two women from a basket-weaving competition show posing in matching white sundresses, tinged orange by the dying sunlight.
“You know,” Baz said, “I’ve seen satellites smaller than that thing.”
His eyes were on Capulet’s wrist, who held up the watch obligingly. “Sponsored, thank you very much.”
“By who?” Baz asked dryly. “NASA?”
“Montessori.”
Baz let out a low whistle. “Mierda. Most people would sell a kidney for one of those.”
He rubbed his eyes. Red paint splattered his wrist like winter poppies, and Juliette’s stomach twisted.
Baz must have been up late painting, which was never a good sign.
She could recall summer nights in Cornwall when Baz’s midnight screams had woken the whole cottage.
After his parents’ accident, Baz had suffered debilitating nightmares, although he refused to discuss them.
Not that the Marchmont family hadn’t tried.
An extra cup of tea in the morning. A few gentle questions.
After a particularly bad nightmare, Rosaline had moved all her stuffed teddy bears into Baz’s bedroom.
Deer Baz, her younger sister had written.
I’m sarry about your Mum and Dad. Pleas feel better soon. Roz.
She’d talk to him about it later. Not that it would do any good. Baz only opened up when he was ready, and as far as she could tell, that was never.
Cap lowered his wrist. “Clyde tried to eat it the other day.” His voice was cheerful, either oblivious to Baz’s mood or giving him space. “That dog has exceptional taste. Although I’ve had to start keeping the watch in a shoebox in the closet.”
“Say the word,” Baz said. “I’ll look after it for you.”
Cap raised an eyebrow. “I thought you already had a sponsorship deal. With that Swiss watch brand.”
Baz shrugged. “I’m always willing to trade up.”
Juliette shook her head. Cap had always attracted a slew of sponsors, ranging from men’s boxers to cologne.
Amazing, really, that she’d never begrudged him for it.
When they were children, competition had been its own language between them.
Who could hold a handstand the longest? Who brought the better prize to show-and-tell day?
Who could bike soonest, who could run farthest, who could fit the most carrots in their mouth?
It had driven their mother mad. I should have known you’d be like this, she’d said, throwing down a kitchen towel. It was the same in the womb. Always competing to see who could kick me hardest.
Yes.
There had always been potential for resentment.
For envy. They were the same age, but Cap had always seemed two steps ahead, forever glancing over his shoulder as he cycled away.
Some of that could be chalked up to gender, of course—there were simply fewer opportunities for women in the sport—but she couldn’t deny that some secret part of her feared that it was talent too.
As if their genetics were an orange, and Cap had squeezed all the best juice out and left her with only rind.
But Cap was her twin. The flipside of her pillow.
He’d picked her up from her first party, sneaking her in through the laundry room (although having Cap hold her hair back as she was sick in the wash basket was not a memory that she cherished).
She’d squeezed Cap’s hand as his first dog, Ginger, was put down.
Hell, when they were fourteen and she’d burst into tears reading a eulogy at their grandfather’s funeral, Cap had been the one to rise from his pew, squeezing her shoulder as he came to stand beside her.
“Don’t worry,” he’d murmured, taking the speech. “I have it.”
And Cap did have her back. Always.
Now, he paused by a throng of fans. Several women thrust pens and baseball caps at him, and he signed each one, leaning in to smile for selfies. Baz nudged her shoulder.
“Nervous?”
Juliette considered. “A little.”
“I was bricking it before my first race,” Cap offered, glancing over his shoulder. “I threw up in a baseball cap.”
Baz gave him a look. “My baseball cap.”
Cap gestured with the pen. “Don’t look at me like that. It’s not like you were wearing it.”
“Excuse me!” a voice called.
A harried-looking mother waved. A young boy held her hand, licking a raspberry ice cream cone, and a girl perched on her hip.
The child was three, or maybe five; she’d never been good with kids’ ages.
Still, she recognized the girl’s top: a navy shirt with a stag’s golden horns. The Toro Significa logo.
The mother smiled. “I’m sorry to bother you, but my daughter’s a huge fan. Would you mind taking a picture?”
“Of course,” she said.
She smiled as the woman snapped a selfie. The young girl looked pleased but embarrassed; she was sucking on her sleeve, just as Cap had done as a child, and Juliette hid a smile.
“What’s your name?”
“Teagan.” The girl bounced on her toes. “But everyone calls me Tiggy.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Tiggy.”
The girl shook her hand gravely. “I’m going to be a race car driver just like you.”
“Oh, no,” Juliette said. “I bet you’ll be better.”
The boy made a little noise. “Don’t be stupid, Tiggy. You won’t be a race car driver.”
Her brother licked his ice cream with the same apathy that one might display when looking at wallpaper samples. Juliette straightened.
“Oh? And why’s that?”
The boy stared as if Juliette had failed to answer a basic math equation. “Because girls can’t drive cars.”
“Jack,” the mother said. “That’s enough.”
She shot Juliette an apologetic look, but she waved her off. “It’s all right.” She turned back to the boy. “I drive a race car, don’t I?”
“Yeah.” The boy licked his ice cream. “But you crashed it. And anyway, my dad says they only let you in for di…diversity met-tricks.”
The boy stumbled over the last two words, as if the shape was foreign in his mouth. His mother gripped his shoulder. “Jack! That’s quite enough.” Her cheeks flushed. “I’m so sorry. He doesn’t mean that.”
Juliette offered a small smile. “No offense taken.” She nudged the girl. “I’m sure I’ll see you on track one day.”
Tiggy’s eyes fell to her sparkly shoes. Her mother ushered her son into the crowd, chastising him in a low voice. Baz leaned over, and there was an unbearable amount of sympathy in his eyes.
“You okay?”
Juliette watched as the boy’s ice cream pooled crimson on the hot asphalt. “Fine.”
“He’s just a kid,” Baz offered.
Juliette shielded her eyes. Jack was chasing a pigeon, waving his raspberry ice cream cone wildly. God, he was so young to be learning lessons like that. At what age did those sorts of beliefs become embedded? “Yeah, I know.” She gave his arm a quick squeeze. “Find me after the race, okay?”
The next thirty minutes passed in a blur: Ranya’s pep talk, their warm-ups, the national anthem…
Juliette climbed into the car, her hands shaking.
The sun was sinking behind the stands, bleeding across the horizon like a cracked yolk.
The boy’s sticky raspberry-stained face appeared in her mind, along with Frederick’s smug voice.
Second place isn’t bad. As a woman, you’ll be lucky to finish at all.
Her hands tightened on the wheel.
She started the engine. Five lights flickered on overhead. She could hear Hamish’s breathing through her radio, accompanied by a crinkling sound, which was standard: Her race engineer ate crisps when he was nervous.
“Any advice?” Juliette asked.
Hamish’s voice was grim. “Don’t crash.”
Well. She supposed that was fair enough.
The radio crackled. “Juliette?” It was Ranya this time. “How are you feeling?”
Like she might puke. “Fine.”
“You remember our conversation?”
As if she’d forget it. Ranya’s voice haunted the darkest parts of her nightmares. I need you to finish in the top ten. Do you understand? She wondered if Robert Von Galen was watching her from the garage, pouring a beer to toast her demise.
No. That was silly.
It would be champagne.
“I remember,” she said.
“Good.” Ranya was drumming her nails. “Good luck.”
The lights went out. Juliette shot forward.
The world was a crush of cars. Front wings and tires and the roar of engines. She swerved to avoid an orange Hydra Auto, her heart pounding. Fuck. Fuck. Where the hell was the racing line? She couldn’t see shit. She barreled into the first turn, her car kissing the wall. Her radio crackled.
Hamish’s voice was terse. “Avoid the—”
“Wall,” Juliette finished tightly. “Working on it.”
She hurtled through the first lap. Her breath came in gunshots, her gloved hands numb on the wheel. How the hell did people do this for fifty-seven laps? Especially at night. A Romulus Alto came into view, glinting like a golden coin.
“Overtake available,” Hamish said, which would have been encouraging if he’d sounded even a little enthused about it.
Juliette gripped the wheel. “Not yet. I don’t want to push the tires too hard.”
There was a long pause.
“Hamish?”
“Aye. Noted.”
Another three laps passed. Sweat trickled down her neck.
The golden exterior was growing closer. A half-second gap, if Juliette had to guess.
But who was the driver? Matteo Sanchez? Igor Petrov?
She sized up the upcoming turn. Not a simple place to make an overtake, but the driver wouldn’t be expecting it.
Sod it.
Juliette switched gears. “I’m going for it.”
Hamish sounded incredulous. “Now?”
But she was already moving.
Force rattled her teeth. Her skin felt like it was clawing backward, melting into her cheekbones. Thank fuck Dominic had made her do all those neck exercises; it was the only reason her head wasn’t back against the seat. Not that she was prepared to admit that to him.
The golden car sped up. Juliette could see the number: thirty-two. Sanchez. A bloody good driver, but he would underestimate her. That was her in.