Chapter 2 #2
She knew as soon as she entered the pub that it was a mistake.
First, because it wasn’t a pub at all. Red neon lights reflected off the polished floors, and a sort of noisy, humming sound filled the air.
Several women reclined in black leather seats, staring intently at individual screens, which appeared to be showing some sort of…
bicycle race? No, not a bicycle race, Rosaline realized, her heart sinking; a Formula 1 racetrack.
Blast.
This was a Formula 1 bar, wasn’t it?
She glanced at her phone. Barry had only sent the address and for a horrible moment, she wondered if he knew. Was this an elaborate ploy to meet the younger sister of the famous Marchmont twins? It wouldn’t be the first time someone had asked for free tickets to the Las Vegas Grand Prix.
Sod it.
She should just go.
She was already turning for the door when someone shouted her name, and she hid a grimace.
Barry waved from a table. His dark hair was more styled than it was in the photos, as if he’d run a hefty amount of gel through it.
When he hugged her, he smelled of leather and something that reminded her of hand lotion at expensive restaurants.
Was he from money? Or did he just earn a lot of it?
Then Barry smiled, revealing white teeth that hinted at years of perfect dentistry. From money, then.
“It’s cool here, right?” He was gesturing to a screen. One that showed cars whizzing around a track. “Are you a Formula 1 fan?”
She took a seat. “I follow along.”
“Well, I hope you don’t mind. I have a bet riding on it.” Barry held up his phone, as if presenting it as evidence. “Anyway, I thought it might be fun to do something different. What can I get you to drink?”
“A Crodino, please.”
“I’ll be back in a second.”
She studied Barry’s back as he chatted to the bartender, saying something that made her laugh. He seemed nice, she thought. Perhaps she was overthinking things. Coincidences happened, didn’t they?
A raised voice caught her attention. A gaggle of young women had moved to a nearby table. Empty champagne flutes decorated the wooden surface, and the tallest one was waving one around, shouting to be heard over the din.
“Cap is unfairly handsome.”
Another laughed. “I would do bad, bad things to that man.”
Rosaline suppressed a wince. Gross. Not for the first time, she wondered what people would think if they knew Cap had once insisted on boiling a potato in a kettle because “surely it’ll be faster.”
If only they knew.
“It’s Baz for me,” another woman said. “I would let that man do whatever he wants.”
A sigh. “Camilla St. James is so damn lucky.”
She turned away, cheeks burning, as laughter rose. The women had moved on to discussing a car design, but she couldn’t shake the sick feeling. Don’t think about him, she thought firmly, which was impossible, of course. She might as well have been trying to forget her own name.
Relief filled her when Barry returned with the drinks. He took a sip of something caramel colored. Whisky, by the look of it. Baz’s favorite, Roz thought, and then wished she hadn’t.
“So.”
Barry smiled. He really did have perfect teeth. “So.”
She gestured to the television. “Do you bet on a specific team?”
“Drivers, mostly.” Barry draped an arm over the back of the booth. “But you can bet on anything you want, really.”
“Anything?”
“Sure.” He shrugged, taking another sip. “My mate made a thousand quid from betting on the exact lap that the Australian Grand Prix would be red flagged. The greater the odds, the bigger the pay.”
“And who’s your bet on today?”
“Dominic Hastings.”
“Ah.”
“Do you know who he is?”
Yeah. He was cooking lamb tagine at my house last week. He’s marrying my sister, so he’s kind of my future brother-in-law. “He was the last world champion, wasn’t he?”
Barry took a sip. “Yeah. After Juliette Marchmont, who won the year before. He—” A shout went up, and her heart leapt into her throat.
Was it Juliette? Or Cap? But no, she realized, her heartbeat slowing; it was only Liêm Yang, who’d overtaken for fifth place.
Barry gave a mournful smile. “My mate will be pleased. He’s got forty quid on Yang. ”
“A solid bet,” Rosaline murmured. She wasn’t sure her heart had restarted yet. This was why she didn’t like to watch races; her cortisol levels couldn’t survive it.
“So, you’re a dancer,” Barry said.
Her head snapped up. “What?”
Barry gave her an odd look. “You do ballet, don’t you?” He must have read the panic on her face because he exhaled. “Shit. Now I’m wondering whether I mixed up your profile, but I could have sworn…” He pulled out his phone. “There’s a photo of you in a white leotard thing? Performing on stage?”
She didn’t need to look at the screen. She knew exactly what photograph Barry was referring to; her father had taken it during her last performance before the…incident. No. The question was how Barry had seen the photograph.
And then it struck her.
Winnie.
How long had Winnie been holding her phone? Two minutes? Three? Just enough time to swap out a photo. She could picture Winnie’s smug face. It’s a sexy photo. You’re welcome, Rosaline.
Barry was waiting. She cleared her throat. “I…Sorry. I’d forgotten about that. It was from a few years back.”
“How long have you been dancing?”
“I don’t.” Her voice was quick. Too quick. “Anymore, I mean. I’m a physiotherapist.”
“Ah. Why the career change?”
She shrugged. “Just fancied something different.”
It was a clear end to the conversation, but Barry was reaching for his phone. “I used to go to the ballet with my sister sometimes.” He was scrolling through something. Messages? “She’s like, a ballet fanatic. She knows every up-and-coming dancer in London. What’s your surname?”
Bloody hell. From bad to worse. She took a large swallow of the bitter spritz, supressing the urge to cough. “Oh, I don’t think you would have seen anything I was performing in. I did small productions. Community theatre, mostly.”
Barry raised an eyebrow. “Is it the surname thing? I promise I’m not a stalker.”
His smile was playful, but sweat was beading under her collar. “That’s exactly what a stalker would say.”
Barry folded his arms. “Come on, Rosaline. I’m on tenterhooks. Are you famous or something? Am I dating a celebrity?”
Her throat was dry. “Well—”
Colors spun on screen.
She heard the shout before she saw it: drinks sloshing, coins jingling, a roar of delight or discontent.
And there it was, the smoking green car, half-crumpled against the barriers like a crumpled tissue.
Her stomach plunged. She knew who that car belonged to.
Get out, she thought desperately. Come on.
Get out of the car. The cameraman—clearly realizing too late that the driver hadn’t emerged—cut away, but too late.
The image of the wrecked car was seared into her brain.
Barry groaned. “Shit, was that Sebastian Moreno? I had a tenner on him.”
“I…”
The room spun. Someone elbowed her. She hardly felt it.
“Hey,” Barry said. “You alright?”
Yes. No. She couldn’t stop staring at the screen.
The race had been red flagged. Marshals were rushing onto the track with fire extinguishers.
Was Baz out of the car yet? Why weren’t they showing it?
She was vaguely aware of Barry touching her leg.
She must be standing, Rosaline realized, although she couldn’t remember getting up.
Blood roared in her ears. The commentator was saying something now about the medical staff arriving on the scene, about how they trained for circumstances just like this. Would he feel the need to reassure the viewers if it wasn’t really bad?
Nausea crawled up her throat.
“I need some air,” she managed.
She fled toward the door. May sunshine beat down on her face, and Rosaline bent over the pavement, her head spinning. Her skin was too hot. Too cold. Candy-colored buses whizzed by, competing with crowds of tourists jostling for space, and nausea clawed up her throat. She heaved, her eyes stinging.
A man blew out a cloud of smoke. “You had the mystery pie then? My mate Gary had that. Spent the whole train journey back to Newcastle with his head in a Ziploc bag.” His face was sympathetic. “Some things aren’t meant to be eaten.”