4. Chapter 4
4
Chapter 4
CAMILLE
W e’re cruising at thirty-five thousand feet, and we are fifteen minutes in on an eight-hour flight.
I need to sleep.
Bahrain passes in a blur. I have my first video conference call with Dixon and the team at WebFlix Max and bring them up to speed on our footage thus far and our filming schedule for the month ahead. They ask me to send them some footage, but I ask for an extension. If we film this right, we can only start putting together episodes after more filming.
“I want each episode to encapsulate the racing season for each team.” I’m on a roll, passionate. “If we show the same year, but from ten different perspectives, I think it’s going to provide such a big contrast. It’s the best way to showcase the differences and what sets each team apart.”
“That means we won’t get full episodes until filming wraps up.” It’s Mr. High Up, Dixon’s boss, and he doesn’t sound happy about the idea. “By the time it airs, the new season will have started. We won’t know if this investment will pay off. ”
Shit.
“Not necessarily.” I’m grasping at straws. This project is Dixon’s baby. If I fuck it up, he’ll be so disappointed. “I think we can use the footage every week to make short and sweet videos for our social media channels and start building an audience with it.”
He mulls it over.
“Film Shanghai, and send the footage over. We’ll take it from there.”
Now here I am, sitting on an aeroplane, wedged between a window and a middle-aged woman who has literally taken off her shoes. She’s just kicked them off.
I have my laptop out, my earphones in, and I’m drawing up call sheets for the race this weekend.
The crew is really growing on me. We got all dressed up and went out as a group. Jay and Evan had also dressed for the occasion. Casey spent the evening between Evan and the sound slash lighting tech, who took turns buying her drinks. I was worried, but it proved a waste of time. By the time we were all drunk and tired, Casey was just getting started and she ditched us for a new group she met at the bar. After our disastrous red eye from Australia, I had her do our bookings two weeks in advance and I had to sign off on them. She’s doing a lot between being the production assistant and the makeup artist, but she isn’t into details. The lady next to me gives a polite laugh, and I look up from my laptop screen.
It’s Irish.
He’s standing with one arm casually draped over the headrest of the lady’s chair, and he’s leaning in and speaking softly.
I whip out my earphones.
“Can I help you? ”
I hear Jay snigger in the row of seats behind me.
“No,” Irish says. “But she can.” He nods at the lady, who is busy putting her shoes back on.
As he’s leaning over her, thick strands of dark hair tumble loose and fall over his forehead. His dark brown eyes are all soft and chocolate as he looks at her, like she’s the only person in the world.
Oh, he’s good.
“What’s going on?”
“Such a gentleman,” she pronounces, both her shoes back on.
He holds out a hand and she takes it, and I watch him wrap long fingers around hers as he steps back and politely helps her up.
“Where are you going?” I ask her. “Where is she going?” I demand from him.
“We’re trading seats.” His accent is heavy again. Why?
“I’m sorry?”
“Don’t be,” he taunts me.
She steps away, and he collapses into the seat next to me.
He smells like green grass and sunshine and whiskey. Something smoky and dark.
“What the fuck is going on?”
The lady leans over him to talk to me. “It’s first class, dear. I have to take him up on his offer.”
I turn to him, confused. “You’re giving her your first-class seat?”
He shrugs.
“Why?”
“We need to talk.”
“You couldn’t send me a message? ”
“Don’t have your number, like.”
“An email, then?”
“Don’t have it.”
I’m speechless.
“Look, Curls, it’s fucking with me. It fucked with the race.”
“My name is Camille.”
“I know.”
His skin is roughly textured, but it looks soft. He has slight scarring. That, along with the five o’clock shadow across his jaw, is distracting me. He has laugh lines around his eyes, so he must have laughed at some stage in his life. His thick bottom lip twitches up at the corner in a grimace, but only for a second, and he smooths it away with the tip of his tongue at the corner of his mouth, running it along the line of his upper lip.
“Then say it.” What is wrong with me?
“Camille,” he obliges. He says it offhand, with a shrug of his shoulder.
It’s gorgeous when he says it. It sounds like someone else’s name.
“What do you want?”
“Rheese.”
“Right.” That helps. He was kind of drawing me in there. Having him throw this in my face is like having a bucket of cold water poured over me, jolting me right back to the present.
“I’m…” I make air quotes. “Not his type.”
He nods.
“I’m sorry.” I lower my voice. “But I don’t know what the fuck that means.”
He blanches. Makes to speak, but I’m angry. I interrupt him before he starts .
“We all know what your type is.”
“What’s that, then?” He looks genuinely interested.
“Dark straight hair, curves, red dress.”
“What?”
“The woman you fucked in Melbourne.”
“I didn’t fuck anyone in Melbourne.”
“The one from the elevator?”
“Inez?” he asks incredulously. “We didn’t fuck.”
“You were practically fucking in the elevator.”
“Okay, this is getting away from me. Let’s leave Inez out of it. I just wanted to say that you misunderstood Rheese’s intentions. I think there’s a pool.”
“What?”
“A bet.” He shuffles uncomfortably in his seat. “I think there’s a bet amongst the guys on who fucks you first.”
It’s like a slap in the face. “What am I, a toy?”
His black eyes flash thunder and he leans in close.
“I never said that.”
I lean in closer. Our faces are inches apart, my voice low and angry. “You’re insinuating it. Like I’m nothing more than a plaything.”
His black eyes narrow and they latch onto mine.
“No.” He says it with finality. His voice brooks no argument.
My throat aches and I lick my lips. He glances down at my mouth, but his eyes flicker back to mine immediately.
I hate it when men make me feel like this. Like everything I have done, worked for, like it’s nothing. Because all I am is a body, a plaything.
It makes me furious.
He can tell.
“I just wanted to tell you that.” He licks his own lips, settles back in his chair, looks away.
“Why?”
“Because you thought I was being a dick for no reason.”
I thought about the girl. “And thinking that would be wrong of me?”
He turns his head to look at me. He knows what I’m insinuating.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.” His voice is louder, angry.
Jay kicks his chair from behind and we both round on him, heads together, looking back at Jay through the gap where our seats meet.
“You guys are being loud,” he says apologetically.
We turn back towards the front of the plane.
He’s a sullen, taciturn guy. But I’ve seen him amongst his peers. He says the right things and acts as one would expect. It just lacks animation. As if he’s going through the motions.
“What’s the pool?”
He shrugs. “I’m not in on it.”
Relief floods through me.
“Well,” I say. “that will never happen. I never mix business with pleasure. Besides, I won’t be here for long.”
He turns to me with an eyebrow raised.
“I’m temporary. I’m filling in for my boss, Dixon. He’s…facing some personal issues. As soon as that’s resolved, he’ll take over the project.”
Irish grunts and folds his arms.
“Well, I won’t be around long, either.”
He says it with finality, and it sparks curiosity in me.
He’s back to looking unbothered, staring down the aisle at the other passengers. He kicks his long legs out into the aisle .
The air hostess scurries over to reprimand him, but she recognises him on sight and slows down. Her whole demeanour changes.
“Mr Brennan. Is there anything I can get you?”
He turns to me expectantly. “Champagne?”
* * *
FINN
She smells like candyfloss. I like musk and florals, but she smells sweet, like burnt sugar.
Like something to eat.
We’re on the last dregs of a bottle of champagne and it’s growing on her.
“I never really liked champagne.” She crinkles her nose. “It smells like farts.”
I snort. I can’t help it.
“I thought you said you were well travelled.” I bring my own glass to my lips, taking a sip.
She nudges me with her shoulder.
“Let’s continue the game.” We’re naming the places we’ve been to and our favourite dishes from there.
“Shanghai,” I say. We’ll be landing there in two hours.
“Shengian Bao,” she says immediately.
“Braised abalone with brown sauce,” I counter.
Her turn.
“Bruges,” she says.
“Easy. North sea crab with endive.”
“Frites.” She laughs. “Man, we do not eat in the same places.”
“Give me your phone,” I hear myself say.
Surprised, she hands it over and I type in my number .
“When we get to Italy, I’m taking you for Passatelli in Brodo,” I say casually.
I just want to see her face when she eats it.
Great. Now I have to stay alive till the Italy race. Fuck.
Jay’s light snores sound up behind us.
Casey came by earlier when she made her way to the loo. Her eyes nearly popped out of her head. She slinked back to her seat but keeps throwing us glances over her shoulder from her seat up front.
While I’m seated in economy, and not enjoying its comforts, at least I’m still being served from first class. The glasses we’re drinking from are crystal and we get offered a thick, soft blanket that Camille throws over her legs. She’s clearly sore and uncomfortable. I get it. Economy isn’t made for comfort.
She stretches and I can see a thin sliver of skin at her waist as her shirt rides up. She rubs at a crick in her neck. I run a hand through my hair.
I should have given her my seat in first class instead.
She’s twirling a big claw-toothed hair clip, her curls loose around her shoulders. She clips it onto the food tray and leans down to ruffle through her backpack at her feet.
While she’s turned away, I reach for a curl, entwining it around my finger like Rheese did.
I suppress a small growl, recalling how he smiled at her.
She finds what she’s looking for. I pull my hand back.
She draws out a hair elastic and a small notebook. She offers me the elastic and I take it, tying up my hair. She gives a nod of approval and grabs the notebook and flips through it.
“Can I ask you some questions?” she asks genuinely.
“Off the record?” I jerk my head behind us to where Jay’s fast asleep. “No one’s filming. ”
She nods.
“Sure.” I take another sip of champagne.
“You raced for Velocity?”
I nod. “Their team principal, Felix Weber, he gave me my first shot at Grande Prima racing.”
“How long were you with them?”
“Six years.”
“And then two years at Peakstone?”
I nod.
“Why’d you leave Velocity?”
“My contract ended. They opted not to renew.” I can hear how dead my voice is. She looks at me earnestly.
“I’m sorry,” she says.
“For what?”
“Oh. Nothing.” She blanches and looks down at her notes. “And after Peakstone, you got the contract at Delta Victor?”
I nod again.
“It says you had a massive crash in your fourth year of racing.”
I nod again. Set down my glass. Look down the aisle towards the front of the plane. Anywhere but at her.
“You’re a solid driver.” She states it. It’s not a question.
I don’t want to talk about this anymore.
I take another sip.
“Never married?”
I shake my head.
“No supermodel arm candy?”
It makes me smile, almost.
“No. No supermodel arm candy.”
“Guy like you earning what you do shouldn’t be too hard to find someone to hang around. ”
“I’m earning a tenth of what I used to earn, racing for Velocity. Besides…” I take another sip, then drain the glass. “I couldn’t ask that from someone.”
It’s either having a family, or racing.
“I’m sorry,” she says again. “I don’t mean to pry.”
She’s a journalist. Of course she means to pry. I shrug her off.
I would never ask that of a woman, much less a woman like her.
How enthralled she is with mundane life; how different her perspective is on everyday things. I wonder if she loves like that, effortlessly and freely. Suddenly, I’m angry again. My hands on the glass are steady, not a tremor in sight.
I’m furious.
I want her furious, too.
“I like to fuck.” I place the crystal champagne glass neatly on the food tray and turn my shoulders, so that I’m squaring off against her. “But I have nothing to offer women, long term.”
Her eyes go from a merry brook to a stormy sea.
Her hair looks like a halo around her head, and I watch as a glorious, furious red blush blooms up her neck, over her cheeks.
She’s angry all right.
I look at my hand, flipping it over.
It’s steady.