5. Chapter 5
5
Chapter 5
CAMILLE
W e film through two wet days in Shanghai and Irish apparently drives like a rockstar. He places tenth again. Eleventh at Barcelona, the race after that, just missing a point. Barcelona is rough filming. Both Rafael “Rafa” Navarro, who drives for Skorost, and Alejandro Torres, who drives for Russell, hail from Spain, and we spend two days back-to-back filming them at their luxury homes. Casey’s eyes nearly pop out of her head when we film Rafa’s girlfriend’s walk-in closet. She practically drools all over the Birkin bag collection and has to excuse herself.
We’re still on schedule, but barely. All of us are tired, stressed, and overworked.
After I send the Shanghai footage to WebFlix Max, we have another long video meeting.
Dixon is happy to proceed, approving of my plan.
“I see what she means.” His delayed voice comes through the microphone. His image freezes, and there are a couple of seconds of quiet before the deep timbre of his voice continues. “ Initially, I understood your concerns, but she’s focusing heavily on the human aspect of the drivers and their lives, the pit crew and the spectators. By making an episode for each team that covers the year from their perspective, the nuances will be brought to the forefront. The public will see what it takes to survive in this industry, the stakes involved.”
Mr Higher Up still isn’t sure, but he promises me another three races before he makes up his mind. In the meantime, I have to upload all the footage to an online server where the WebFlix Max social media managers can start getting their hands on promo footage.
I make Jay and Evan do it.
We’re in Monaco now, and we have five days before the next race. It’s a short breather, but one we’re all grateful for.
We plan to spend it lounging around the pool area of the Magnifique H?tel Monaco, but I get an email confirmation from Rheese Knox’s agent that he will allow us to film at his house, right here in Monaco. He will be our first top-ten driver and I’m eager to get him on film. He had to concede another foul to a fellow driver in Barcelona and he is all over the media trying to convince the public that the stewards have it in for him. Rheese Knox doesn’t like not having his way.
I notify everyone on the group chat.
CAMILLE (12:18) Knox is a go for Friday. I’ll send out the call sheet ASAP.
CASEY (12:21) Rheese Knox?
JAY (12:22)*Crying Emoji* You said no filming this week until race day.
EVAN (12:24) *Thumbs down emoji*
The sound tech sends a GIF of a toddler throwing a tantrum.
CAMILLE (12:26) I know guys, I’m sorry. Drinks on me Friday night!
I smile. They’ll rally. I spend the rest of the afternoon drawing up the call sheet, booking our group bus, and working through Rheese’s agent’s long list of dos and don’ts for filming at his villa.
I’m the first one ready and waiting in the lobby on Friday morning. I’m wearing a plain white sundress. The Magnifique H?tel Monaco did not appreciate my casual style and had gracefully pointed out their dress code. It had shamed me into a full shaving regimen and eyebrow plucking, and I spent last night straightening the curls, which now lay soft and glossy and straight halfway down my back. I have the claw clip in my backpack, just in case.
Casey arrives first. She’s always in a good mood. She’s wearing a large satin shirt only, very short and slightly see through. Her red hair is piled up into a carefully arranged messy bun and she eyes my straight hair enviously. She’s wearing large gold earrings and strappy stilettos.
“Where’s your makeup kit?”
She blinks at me, surprised.
Before she answers, the sound tech slash lighting tech arrives with his heavy kit bag over one shoulder and Casey’s makeup kit in his hand.
I give her a grin and she grins back.
I’ll have to talk to her about mixing business and pleasure. It was a hard lesson to learn for me, and there is no reality in which it works out.
Evan and Jay pitch up afterwards with the heavy cases on wheels containing their cameras and the van pulls up shortly after that.
We pile in and give the address to the French driver who blatantly refuses to speak English. Finally, we drive up the gorgeous Princesse Grace Avenue in Monte Carlo, and I point out Villa Azure, Knox’s luxurious villa, all glass and white stone, reflecting the blues of the ocean and sky. It’s a modern villa that looks out over the Mediterranean, and when we step inside I admire the large open living space, the floor-to-ceiling glass walls and the pure flamboyance of ultimate luxury.
Evan’s setting up outside to film the house and Jay sets up a tripod at the front door to pan slowly through the living space.
Rheese walks up. He’s all southern charm and smiles, and his easy familiarity draws us in even if we know it’s for show.
He shakes everyone’s hand genially and I explain again, as I did to his agent. We want a look into his life, so he needs to pretend we aren’t there.
His girlfriend trots up hurriedly when she spots Casey. She’s a local from Monaco and her French accent makes her sound sensual.
Her name is Valentina.
She takes Jay’s admiration as her due and joins Rheese by the breakfast bar where a private chef serves them egg white omelets and fresh fruit. Rheese never bothered to learn French. He puts on his public persona like a mask. His accent intensifies when we film them at their meal, talking about a private event, an upcoming Blackjack evening by invite only, the proceeds going to charity. She wants to show him her dress, coyly suggesting it might be too revealing. He laughs and scoops her up and we film him carrying her through the vast mansion all the way to their bedroom, where he throws her playfully onto the bed.
He’s good. He manages to give us a casual house tour, all while pretending to be caught up in play, professionally ignoring us.
She squeals and trots into the walk-in closet, allowing us to film her as she strips off her shirt and jean shorts, revealing matching black underwear. She’s brazenly shameless, and her awareness of the camera presents us with her good angle at all times.
She’s been professionally trained, that’s for sure.
Rheese leans on the doorframe, teasing her about how much she spent over the last week or two.
The amount is absurd.
She shimmies into a black sheer dress that is completely see through, showing her underwear plainly.
It’s so well planned, it’s ridiculous.
“Hope you plan on wearing underwear tomorrow night.” He grins at her.
We pan from him to her as she acts shocked and confirms that, of course, she will wear underwear. She slaps him playfully on the arm as she trots past towards a full-length mirror to admire herself from every angle.
“Well,” she concludes happily, “you’d better hope I’m wearing underwear tomorrow night, otherwise I might just end up on someone else’s arm.” She winks coyly but waves an empty ring finger suggestively at the camera.
We take a break as they change into swimwear, and we set up the cameras next to their infinity pool, looking out over the ocean, and film them swimming lazily in the sun, until he pulls her close. She wraps her long legs around him under the water and he hoists her up, water beads pearling over her back and chest, leaning down to kiss her behind her ear.
While Evan and Jay pan from the couple to the view, the chef scrambles behind us to set up a barbeque and a table heaving with side dishes and disappears quietly.
We film them drinking wine while Rheese turns over thick steaks marbled with fat.
She takes a nibble from a small piece he slices off for her and proclaims it perfectly done.
I give them a thumbs up from behind Jay’s shoulder.
They abandon the farce and make themselves comfortable in lounge seats under the shade while the chef reappears and removes all the uneaten food.
We film them lazing in the sun and then Valentina jumps up to head back towards her dressing room to change.
We join Rheese at the table for drinks and small talk while we wait.
“Pity about the penalty.” Jay pulls deeply on a tall glass of water with lemon in it that the chef carries out for us on a silver tray.
Rheese crosses his arms angrily.
“First that fucker Finnegan, and then Kenji? It’s unbelievable.”
The last time I spoke to Irish was on the plane after he riled me up. How he treats women is absurd. He buckled in for the landing but was led away the moment we landed. I saw how he raced in Shanghai and Barcelona. He seemed consistent, but others remarked he was taking more risks than usual.
“I heard you and Finn were rivals when you got on the scene.” I take my own sip of water. It’s cool and clear and refreshing. Rheese scoffs but looks at me intently. Like he’s taking me in for the first time.
“Is that what he told you?” he asks, crosses his arms over his chest.
“Just paddock talk. ”
He’s grinning cruelly. “We might have come up together, but I surpassed him ages ago.”
“Does he live like this too?” Jay asks, taking in the azure ocean stretching out ahead of us.
“I doubt it,” Rheese says drily. “It’s not about the money for him. It never was. He must have millions squirrelled away.”
“He’s a scrooge?” Jay asks curiously.
Rheese scoffs. “Well, he’s not a spender. Lives like a-” Rheese pauses, taking all of us in. “Lives normally,” he ends lamely. “But it’s not like he’s earning the way he used to anymore. Delta Victor doesn’t have a big purse.” He smirks, but his smile fades slightly.
Something’s bothering him.
“You remarked that his driving style is different.” I look out over the ocean, leaning back comfortably. But he’s guarded when he takes me in. I’m being too casual about it.
“On the record,” I add. I know Rheese won’t be mean if I can quote him on it. All the drivers seem to have exemplary media training. They’re all smiles and grace when they’re in public. Rheese smiles at me, wide and cruel, like I told him a secret nobody knows.
“No comment.”
* * *
CAMILLE
The sound tech slash lighting tech’s name is Bruce, and because I’m on my fifth coffee martini, I’m finding it hilarious that it took me almost two months to learn his name.
I’m still in the sundress and we’re seated at oceanside tables at a street cafe, taking in the view. We start off admiring the army of yachts in the harbour, but somewhere around our third drink we switch to people watching. We think, after almost two months of being exposed to wealth and luxury, that we can comprehend what it is. Being in Monaco proves us wrong. The yachts tower stories high into the sky, most of them lit up and hosting lavish parties of their own. On race day, they line up and provide their billionaire owners a prime trackside view of the race. The people strolling down the streets in designer clothes or driving impossibly exotic cars are all well dressed, well spoken, and absolutely dripping with diamonds and luxury watches. The entire city is rich and looks it.
Casey is studiously ignoring Bruce and pulls her chair just slightly out of our circle, so that if she turns her shoulders from us she looks like a solo traveller, openly admiring the ocean view. It’s obvious that she’s baiting for a wealthy man and Bruce isn’t taking it well.
“Six o’clock,” Jay whispers behind his hand and as one we turn to take in a woman dressed in a bubblegum pink leather mini skirt and impossibly high heels. The dress has a bow at the front, but it’s so big she has to hold up the loops on either side with each hand.
“Guys!” Jay groans. “Don’t all look at once!”
“It can’t be fashion,” I say incredulously.
“It’s a Giacomo,” Casey offers from her spot. Her voice is awed.
We break into giggles.
“I don’t get it,” Jay says.
“Me neither.” I raise my glass and he taps it with his glass of beer.
Bruce and Evan end up leaving together and Casey, upset at being left behind, storms off after them in a huff at being abandoned. Jay can drink about twice as much as any normal man and I’m lagging behind. He orders us a round of tequila which is served in crystal shot glasses. He is trying to get me to hide them in my backpack to send home to his mom and we’re laughing; me trying to talk him out of it, him amused at my fear of being caught.
“How do you think they do it?” Jay asks me.
“Hm?”
“Living like this, always on the move.”
“I don’t know,” I say tentatively. “I think it must get exhausting, year after year, but it’s exciting too.” I take a sip of my drink. “Besides, it’s not like they’re slumming it.”
We laugh again. I spill a few drops of the espresso martini as I bring it to my lips and the dark droplets taint the pure white linen tablecloth. I wipe at it hurriedly, but it smudges.
“Shit.”
Jay shrugs and moves a small side plate to cover the stain.
We laugh again. We are both drunk.
“Finn’s doing good,” he says unexpectedly.
Surprised, I cock my head.
“Well,” he continues, “at Barcelona, I filmed him in the pits after the race. You were with Evan at the podium. He smiled.”
I snort. “No way.
Jay laughs. “He did, I swear.”
“Proof, or it didn’t happen.”
We’re laughing and it occurs to me I could ask him. I could speak to the source, as they say. My alcohol addled brain is delighted at my resourcefulness.
Under the table I drop Irish a text.
CAMILLE (21:56) I heard you smiled !
He texts back almost immediately.
IRISH (21:56)?
CAMILLE (21:57) In Barcelona. After the race. I have it from a reputable source that you actually smiled.
IRISH (21:57) Are you drunk?
I snort. I am beyond drunk. I am shitfaced.
I’m finding it hilarious, and I show Jay the texts and we laugh together, ordering another round of tequila.
My phone rings. It’s Irish.
Shit.
“What do I do?” I ask Jay helplessly.
“Shit, don’t ask me.”
“I’m gonna ignore it.” I nod my head. It’s a good plan.
IRISH (21:59) Answer the phone.
CAMILLE (21:59) Don’t tell me what to do.
The phone rings again and I’m giggling, but Jay snatches it and answers.
“Hi, Mr Brennan. It’s Jay.”
I burst out laughing. “You call him Mr Brennan?”
Jay shrugs helplessly but his eyes are narrowed in concentration as he listens to Irish on the phone. He jumps up to read the name of the restaurant on the overhead awning and gives it to Irish.
It spurs me into action. I leap up to snatch the phone from Jay, but when I put it to my ear, the line is already dead.
“Shit.” I grab Jay by the front of the shirt. “What did you say to him?”
“Nothing.” Jay holds up his palms in a symbol of peace. “He just wanted to know where we were.”
“Jay!”
“What? ”
“Urgh.” I snatch my backpack and start rummaging around for my wallet.
“Oh, come on, Cam.” He smiles his easy smile. “It’s not like he’s going to pitch up here. He’s racing tomorrow.”
I pause.
“You know what?” I’m laughing again. “You’re absolutely right.”
I plonk down on my chair, and we raise our glasses in a toast.
“What’s he gonna do?” I ask, holding up my hands.
We order another drink before I realise that I have had way too much and hit that sweet spot where I either have to eat immediately or sleep immediately and I am overcome by the humongous challenge that lies ahead, getting back to my room.
Irish sits down next to me.
He’s in an evening suit and he’s missing his tie. He unbuttons his dinner jacket when he sits down. His hair is tied up, and he’s freshly shaven. He smells like night air and the chemical floral smell of men’s cologne. His eyes are pitch black, his brows low and he’s taking me in slowly.
Shit.
“Time to go,” he says.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Aren’t you guys filming at the race tomorrow?” He turns to Jay.
We think it over.
“Yes,” I say.
Jay nods along.
“That means an early morning, right?”
We nod again.
Irish brushes a hand tiredly over his face .
“That means it’s time for bed.”
“Actually, me and Jay were just wrapping it up,” I say professionally.
The server arrives with our fresh round of drinks and sets them down with a flourish.
Irish raises his one eyebrow.
We can’t help it. Me and Jay burst out laughing.
Irish pulls a black credit card from somewhere on his person and talks to the server in French. It’s sexy as fuck.
The server’s eyes widen in recognition, but he’s a professional. He doesn’t let on that he knows who Irish is.
He disappears with the credit card and Irish rises to his feet, buttons his jacket, and holds out his hand to help me up. I slap it away and come to my feet, give a slight sway, and I startle when he grabs me by the upper arm. His grip is firm, and frankly, I’m grateful.
The server returns swiftly with the credit card and Jay rises too. Irish bids him good night and hauls me steadily towards a black car parked discreetly by the curb. He opens the back door.
“Wait!” I say as he makes to help me inside.
“What about Jay?” I ask.
Irish sighs as if I am asking him to donate his kidney. With a pained expression, he turns around.
“Jay,” he says with a metered voice. “Would you like a ride?”
Jay’s face lights up and he nods eagerly.
Jay and I are standing, looking at each other. Irish is looking between us.
“Will either of you please just get in the fecking car? ”
We burst into laughter.
* * *
FINN
She deteriorates fast. At the hotel, Jay makes his own tortured way to his room, but Curls isn’t being very helpful.
“Which room?” I ask again. She’s driving me insane. I want to shake her by the shoulders.
She’s digging through her backpack under the interior car light and pulling out tons of shit.
Sunscreen, sunglasses. A wallet. A passport. Chewing gum.
“Camille.”
“Oh my God,” she says softly and looks up. “Why do you say it like that?”
“Like what?”
She shakes her head, laughs. Leans forward to put her forehead against my chest and groans. It reverberates through me.
“Feeling a little defeated, are you?”
She groans again, but it ends on a laugh.
“All right.” I push her upright. “Let’s go.”
I grab her stuff and haul her out of the car and the driver pulls away slowly.
We make our way inside to the lobby and she’s leaning heavily on my arm.
I haul her to the elevator and lean her against the wall as I press the button for my floor.
“Where are we going?” she asks curiously.
“My suite.”
“Oh my God, aren’t we forgetting something?” she asks, glancing around.
“What? ”
“Where’s the girl in the red dress?” She bursts into giggles.
I sigh. I don’t think I’ve ever met someone who just irks me like this. She’s so perceptive .
“Oh, come on,” she taunts. “It’s just a joke.”
She wraps her arms around herself.
I unbutton my jacket and shake it out, holding it out to her to put on. She misinterprets and steps forward, allowing me to drape it over her shoulders.
I do so.
When I bring the collars together under her chin, she looks up at me, her grey eyes a murky river.
“You’re shitfaced,” I growl.
She snorts and bumps up against me.
I place a hand on the small of her back and she leans in to me.
There’s that burnt sugar smell again.
I lick my lips.
When the door opens, I guide her to the suite, swiping us in. She gives a low whistle as she makes her way to the glass wall and looks out at the harbour, lights twinkling from every yacht.
“It’s gorgeous.”
“Hm.”
“You don’t like it?”
“I prefer it curly.”
“What?” She turns to me, confused.
“Nothing.”
She gives a small stumble and I step forward to grab her arm again.
“Time for bed, Curls.” I guide her towards the bedroom. She pauses on the threshold, but I haul her forward .
Her eyes are large when I push her down on the bed. I kneel to undo the clasps on her sandals.
“Don’t.” She leans forward and runs her hand over her feet, undoing the clasp herself.
“I don’t mind.”
“I do.” She looks at me. Our faces are very close together. “It’s too intimate.”
“To touch your feet?” I ask, curiously.
She nods and tucks a strand of gold behind an ear, but it springs loose immediately, hanging like a curtain in front of her face.
I reach up and untie my hair, handing her the elastic band.
“Is this mine?” she asks with a smile.
I don’t answer her and she ties up her hair messily. When I stand up, she holds out a hand and I help her to her feet.
Her grey eyes are a storm. She looks at me daringly, challenging. She lifts her arms like a child.
It’s a bad idea.
“Touching your feet is too intimate, but this is okay?”
She smiles at me, a big grin, playful and confident.
I can’t resist.
I pull the dress up. The hem creeps up her legs as I’m scrunching it together and when it’s a tangle of material at her waist, I lift the whole thing up, pulling it over her head.
She gives a languid arc as the dress gets pulled free and a shake of her head when I pull it over her head.
It’s a plain cotton thing and I throw it aside.
She’s wearing plain panties and a bra, and long tendrils of golden hair hangs down over her chest and her breasts. Her nipples are showing through the thin material.
Her eyes are dark and fastened on mine.
If I glance down, she’ll win.
I keep my eyes on hers, fighting a raging erection. I remember how her flesh trembles with each step, how soft her arms are.
I want to kiss the curve of her neck, at her shoulders.
I want to dig my fingers into her thighs and watch the flesh there bulge and I want to pull them apart and kneel there.
Not while she’s drunk. And never before a race.
Because I know she wants me to, I don’t touch her again.
I step back and give her a nod. Turn on my heel. Stride out the room towards the living room, falling down on the couch.
I am gloriously, furiously angry.
Fuck. I think, drunk on how much I want her.
Tomorrow I could win.