8. Chapter 8
8
Chapter 8
CAMILLE
“ S he’s doing better.” Dixon’s voice is factual and emotionless.
“Well, that’s good, right?”
He sighs. His face is blurry, pixelated, the signal weak. They’re out in the countryside at his parents’ house. They love his wife like a daughter.
“Not really, Cam. There’s often a period where people get stronger. It gives you this false sense of hope.” His voice takes on a dull tone. Hopelessness. Things are progressing a lot faster than the original diagnosis.
“Is there anything I can do?”
“You’re doing it already. I saw the footage so far. They’re dividing it up chronologically and by each team. The edits are starting already.”
I’m impressed. “Must take a big team.”
“Huge.” He grins. “It’s going to be great. By the way, hows Spielberg?”
I am sitting on the small balcony of my hotel room in Spielberg, Austria, and looking out over the village nestled below the hill. The races follow summer weather, so it’s a sunny day. We’d had a heavy shower earlier, but the sky cleared up nicely. I take a sip of coffee from a big cup and give him a smile.
“It’s great. I thought nothing would beat Le Castellet, but this view is breathtaking.” After Montreal, we filmed the race in France, and now Austria.
I have been filming for three months straight. After Monaco, we had really gotten into the swing of things and gotten used to the pace. Now we grew restless and bored on off days.
“Did you see the crash last week?” I ask, sitting up straighter. “We all knew Ollie was going to have a podium finish, but that overtake from Lucien Rousseau in the last lap had all of us on our feet.”
“Home soil.” Dixon smiles. “It makes them push harder.”
“The Vanderbilt team went crazy. It’s their first podium finish of the season.”
“You know…” Dixon grins. “I never thought I’d hear these words come out of your mouth.”
We laugh together.
“I’m very appreciative of you, Cam,” he says quietly. “I know you were pitching hard for the Silk Road project.”
A year and a half ago, I had purchased a scarf and I was intrigued by the sewn-in label. When I had researched the brand, I located the maker, an elderly man who, along with his youngest grandson, weaved silk scarves. His grandson was the only family member who expressed an interest in learning about the dying craft. Pretty soon I’d found a potter and a blacksmith, the only remaining artisans, relics from a time where hand crafting items were the only way to make them, long overtaken by the speed and precision of modern technology. They were all located along the famous Silk Road, the last of many generations before them, and their blatant refusal to join the contemporary world held, for me, a very particular kind of magic. I had planned to spend a year with them to film them at their craft, show their heritage, preserve their histories.
They were all quite old, and I feared their end could come before I could film them, their histories and skills then lost to time forever. And yet, when Dixon called and asked, I couldn’t say no.
“You’re very welcome, Boss.”
We sign off and I sit quietly for a moment, taking in the view. I had signed on for a year, but with Dixon’s wife deteriorating, there is a big chance I will be able to walk away sooner. The thought left me restless. Unsatisfied.
Filming starts in two hours. Today we’re filming the wives and girlfriends, or WAGS, as they are affectionately known in the media, at their annual spa afternoon.
The luxury hotel we’re staying at is famous for its mineral waters and it has become an annual tradition for the women to get together for an afternoon to relax and unwind.
The hotel also has an impressive wine cellar, and a sommelier would be present to give the ladies an exclusive wine tasting while they relax and catch up.
I’m happy I asked the team to be early, because we filmed Ollie’s heavily pregnant wife arriving in a helicopter. Dressed in all neutral colours, with her long blonde hair styled to perfection, she gives us a friendly wave before making her way inside the hotel, her older sister following on her heels.
We head towards the spa to set up for filming. They have agreed for us to film them arriving, and a scene where they convene to drink wine while in their dressing gowns. Then we’ll leave them in peace and privacy until about three hours later, where we’ll film them as they leave, looking all relaxed and recharged.
From the get-go, it’s tough.
They arrive in drips and drabs, seven women, including Rheese’s girl, Valentina. Ollie’s wife’s name is Sophia, and she introduces her sister who keeps out of the shot and prefers not to have any attention on her at all. Sophia gets along famously with everyone and pretends not to notice Valentina’s envious looks at her belly.
The sommelier serves her grape juice with a flourish.
They sit around awkwardly in their white fluffy gowns in a small sitting room, stacked doors thrown open to invite in the sunny summer air. They feel uncomfortable with us watching them. They will need some help to get talking naturally.
“Hey, Sophia.” I step from behind Jay but keep clear of the shot. “I saw Ollie’s win last weekend. He pulled a pretty dangerous maneuver when the race kicked off.”
She purses her lips. “I swear, that man seems to forget he has a baby on the way and I need him alive to help me raise it.”
“Is it a boy or a girl?” a petite French girl asks. She has a prominent gap between her front teeth and a distinct cupid’s bow, her short hair styled with classic finger curls. She is stunning.
Sophia gives her a kind smile. “We don’t know.” She rubs her hands over the enormous bulge in her belly. “We’ll find out when it comes!”
“It’s so weird to call your baby ‘it.’” Valentina quips.
“Well,” Sophia says with a blush, “we don’t call our baby ‘ it’ in private. We have nicknames we use.”
“I would think that’s pretty obvious” a black woman, ebony skin exquisitely dark, throws back at Valentina. She has a shaved head and a septum ring. She is tall and lanky and has a derriere so famous, it has its own social media following. Her accent is as heavy as her black eyes, narrowed in animosity.
Her name is Nakato, and she’s from Uganda. I know because I follow her derriere. It’s exquisite.
She winks at Sophia and the French girl smiles. “I hate when Matteo takes risks like that.” She steers the conversation away. “Sometimes I swear these guys have no fear.”
“They can’t do what they do and be afraid,” another woman adds.
“Actually,” I hear myself saying, breaking my rule of interrupting while filming. “I think that the fear gives them a healthy balance between risk and reward.”
I’m thinking of Finn.
Don’t.
I haven’t spoken to him since Monaco. In Montreal, he finished so well and I couldn’t find him amongst his team when they celebrated. They didn’t know where he was and couldn’t reach him at the hotel.
In France, he placed well again. This time, however, the public was ready for it. A stream of young women came dressed in his colours, screaming his name when he made his way to the car. They practically mobbed him on his walk to the paddock. If he was surprised he didn’t show it. Nothing but mild contempt and calm resignation for his fans, I think sarcastically.
I can’t help but be one of them. I admire how he’s racking up the points, especially now that I know he hates being a race car driver.
But something is different. Something is wrong. I went through his stats the last five years and sat through hours of footage of his races. They are solid and nondescript. I went back further, to before his accident.
He’s driving like he used to back then. He’s slower, but he isn’t in as good a car.
It bothers me, this sudden change in style.
I’ve established he hates being a race car driver, and here he is driving as if his life depends on it.
I need answers, and I cannot let it go.
The women are all comfortably weighing up the risks their husbands and boyfriends take, and the lives they lead because of it. Sophia has managed to build a very solid life with Ollie, despite him being on the move constantly. Her biggest fear is going into labour on race day. She wants him present.
“The intensity he brings to the racetrack…” She looks at the other girls for confirmation. “He’s like that by nature. He brings that intensity to everything he does. I’ve never experienced anything like it, and it’s hard to describe, but I think it adds a depth to our relationship that makes it worthwhile.”
Rheese’s girl and the French girl are discussing how their lives changed when they met their guys, the parties and the clothes and grand romantic gestures. It has blown them cleanly off their feet, how they’re being treated.
The French girl spices it up for us. “They push the limits, and being with someone like that, someone who chases a thrill…well. It translates very well to the bedroom.”
They burst into fits of giggles.
Nakato summed it up .
“The sport they chose is solitary. They rely on no one but themselves. We could never,” she says, making quotation marks in the air, “‘own’ them, like you’d expect from a normal relationship. But we aren’t alone. We have each other.” She gestures around her. “There are other women here who know what it’s like, who know what you’re going through. Just knowing that we have that makes it bearable when you go through scary or difficult times.”
They fall into pensive silence.
Faced with their beauty and their luxurious lifestyles, I have, for a moment, forgotten that they are just beautiful women who love men who love to race.
Men who risk their lives for it.
* * *
CAMILLE
I’m going through the footage from the race two days ago. Evan filmed Reese as he strode past Finn. After completing the cooling down lap, Finn is absorbed in conversation with Jack. I was with Jay as Evan filmed this, over at the podiums, filming the spraying of champagne and hoisting of trophies.
I haven’t seen this footage yet.
Rheese is frustrated and disappointed, and it shows. As he walks past Finn, he sneers.
“Bit of a risky overtake in that last corner, don’t you think?”
Fin gives him an offhanded glance. “It’s only a risk if you’re inexperienced.”
Rheese’s face turns redder, an angry flush. He spots Evan filming and walks on.
My neck is sore from sitting hunched over my laptop and I push it aside, lying down on the flat of my back on the bed.
My phone vibrates.
Amy (13:12) Can’t wait to see you next week!
I smile and reply with a GIF of a puppy twirling excitedly.
The next race is at Silverstone, back in the UK, and I’m heading home for a short break before the race.
But first we have to film a ball. As in, an actual ball, being hosted in a ballroom in Vienna. It’s a charity ball, and it’s a big event on the social calendar. The Annual Grande Prima, being the major sponsor, expects all the drivers to attend.
It’s black tie, and if we want to film, we have to dress appropriately.
None of us have anything black tie.
Casey manages to rent the guys’ tuxedos for the occasion, but she doesn’t rent anything for me and her.
“Won’t it be fun to go shopping for something?” She’s bouncing up and down on the balls of her feet. “The theme is Masquerade!”
She practically twirls out of the room.
So I need to find a place in Vienna that will rent me an evening gown before the ball in two days’ time.
Ugh.
Screw that. We’ve arrived by train to Vienna this morning and I have been working through the footage on the train right until now. I need a break.
I grab my backpack and head out.
The hotel is in the inner city, and I admire the building facades as I make my way towards my favourite little cafe. Wurstel Wunder is a small family-owned cafe situated opposite the Stadtpark. The usual melodies of buskers drift over me and the faint hum of people haggling at the market stalls gives me a very serene sense of peace.
I love Vienna, the monuments, the historic buildings, the horse-drawn carriages.
When I cross the street and step into the dusky cafe, the smell of sizzling sausages has my mouth watering. I order bratwurst on a fresh roll with a side helping of K?sesp?tzle. It’s a macaroni and cheese dish that’s very rich.
When I stand off to one side, I spot him.
“Finn?” I ask tentatively.
He looks up lazily from the table in the back corner. He’s guarded, but not unfriendly. I don’t want to intrude on his privacy, but he stands up to greet me, and now I’m compelled to walk over.
When will I learn to shut up?
It’s awkward.
I feel like I can’t just stand off to one side and wave, but a handshake would be too formal. A hug too intimate.
I settle for the dreaded side hug, and it’s embarrassing for both of us.
He’s drinking a large beer, and he has a half-eaten bowl of…
“Bratwurst and K?sesp?tzle?”
“I had a recommendation to try it.” He smiles carefully, indicating for me to sit down.
I glance at the counter and take a tentative seat.
“Oh, right! The plane. We were talking about food.”
He nods. His eyes are black, but they lack the usual scowl. He wipes his palms on his pants and sits down.
“Look, Camille-”
The owner’s young daughter, the cafe server, approaches me immediately. She has round cheeks and a wide smile and blonde hair tied up into a neat ponytail .
“Beer?” Finn asks me. “Please?”
“Uh, sure.” The server writes it down and gives Finn a cheerful smile.
“It’s good your friend finally came.” She turns to me too. “You are very late,” she admonishes playfully.
“I beg your pardon?”
“It’s nothing.” Finn shoos her away and rubs his neck. His hair is untied and hanging over his forehead. It’s lush.
He takes a big pull on his beer and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.
“Is that my elastic?” I point at his wrist.
“No.”
He reaches up and ties his hair up. His forearms ripple as he twists it around. He’s watching me watch him and I look away, clearing my throat.
“I wanted to explain,” he begins tentatively.
We’re both thinking about the last time we spoke. Back in Monaco when I fetched my backpack and realised he hated his life. His anger at my realisation of how cold he was.
How cruel.
“Look, Finn. I shouldn’t have been there. As a rule I never…get involved on a personal level. I’m supposed to observe only. Me being in your private space, I crossed a line.”
He just looks at me with narrowed eyes.
“So, uh…” I’m reaching for something to talk about. “You going to the ball?”
He grunts, then, “You?”
“Were filming, but I don’t know if I’m going. I need to rent a dress and I don’t know where to find one yet.”
“You can do that?”
“What? ”
“Rent clothes?”
I snort.
“Not everyone can afford luxury clothing, Finn. Especially not black tie.”
He mulls it over.
“I can help.”
“You didn’t know that you can rent ball gowns all of a second ago and now you can help?”
“I’ll buy you one.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Look…” He holds up his hands in peace. “Let’s say it’s my way of making it up to you.”
“I can’t accept. I’m sorry. No-” I push on when he makes to speak. “It’s okay. We’ve moved past it. It’s behind us.”
He’s quiet for a moment.
“No,” he states.
“Finn.”
“What happened to ‘Irish’?”
I blanch.
“What happened to ‘Curls’?” I counter.
He leans over suddenly, intensely. “It’s all about the project, right?”
I nod tentatively.
“Let me show you firsthand.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Let me buy you a dress and give you firsthand experience into the lifestyle.”
“I genuinely cannot accept your money. I’m sorry.”
“Oh come on, it’ll be grand. We’ll make a trade.”
I raise an eyebrow.
“Leave it out. ”
I go still and look up at him, expecting him to have that cold fury. His eyes are black, but not angry. They’re open and bare and he holds my gaze.
He continues. “You’re too curious to have let it go.”
He’s talking about his accident. I glance at his shoulder, the one that’s scarred, now covered by his shirt.
He’s right. I know everything. Everything except…
“Then tell me your side.”
He’s thinking it over.
“No.”
I sigh.
“And stop pushing,” he adds, but he’s smiling. One corner of his lip lifts and he has a dimple.
My stomach flutters.
Shit.
My meal arrives and I dive right in, taking a sip of my beer. He watches me eat in peaceful silence.
We’re both wondering how it will play out.
“It’s unethical,” I say.
“It’s respecting my privacy.”
“Not if I take something in return for it.”
“The dress?” He raises his eyebrows.
I nod.
“Then consider it a trade.”
“A trade for what?”
He gives me a wicked grin. “The dress for your hair tie.”
“I knew it was mine!”
* * *
FIN N
She steps blinking onto the sidewalk, and I jerk my head towards the car parked down the block. It’s a black SUV and when I open the door for her, she hops inside and dumps her backpack on the back seat. We open the windows and don our sunglasses as we make the drive to Eleganz. It has a nondescript facade but when we step inside, I see Camille marvel at the polished marble floors and the soft lighting that bounces off the ornate gold-framed mirrors.
The floor is divided into fashion houses with rails of gowns and tuxedos lining the walls. Some of the more exquisite pieces are on display, with their own personal lighting, twinkling like precious jewels.
When a young saleswoman approaches us, I can see her eyes travel alarmingly over Camille’s jean shorts and tank top, but when she takes me in from the shoes up, it gives her pause. I’m in trainers, slacks, and a shirt, unbranded, but I can see her calculate the worth of everything I’m wearing.
I pass the test.
“Good day. My name is Brigitte. Welcome to Eleganz. How can I assist you today?” Her accent is mild and her tone is neutrally professional.
“The Viennese Charity Gala, le Masquerade.”
“Of course. And will both of you be looking for attire?”
I shake my head and hold up my palms.
She turns her full attention to Camille, taking in her curves. “Will you follow me?”
We make our way to a private dressing room, and she sits Camille down as they discuss what impression Camille wants to give, her preference in style and colour, and whether she would be dancing or not.
Brigitte pours us some champagne and disappears back towards the storefront.
Camille is giving me a curious look.
“What?”
“Is this how you shop?”
I shake my head. “I used to, many years ago, but I have a shopper now who buys on my behalf and sends it over to my house.”
“You have a house?”
I raise my eyebrows at her, and she blushes. “I just assumed that with all the traveling, you wouldn’t have bothered. I heard you are a conservative spender.”
I grin at her.
“Not so conservative as to not own a house.”
“Where is it?”
“It’s in Faenza.”
“Oh. Italy sounds wonderful.”
I nod.
Brigitte returns with a garment rack, various gowns hooked on neatly. She comes to a pause with a smile.
“Shall we start?” she asks happily.
Camille is still uncomfortable with the experience, I can tell. But she gamely gets up and takes the first dress from Brigitte and disappears behind a heavily embroidered privacy screen. I sit back and take in the gold leaf on the ceiling trim and the masterfully painted mural on the ceiling, reminiscent of castles throughout Europe.
When Camille steps back out, she’s dressed in a floor length sapphire gown that accentuates her eyes. The deep V-neckline draws attention up towards her face, where her eyes are roving my face uncertainly. The dress cinches at the waist, hugging the curve of her figure, before flowing down into a softly draped skirt. The dress has sheer sleeves of chiffon that give it a dreamy quality. Paired with her golden curls, it gives her an ageless elegance.
When she turns, it’s backless. She looks back at me over her shoulder.
It stirs something in me.
It makes me want to fuck her, just like that, the way she looks back at me. I could press her against the wall, back to me, and just slowly start pulling up the hem.
I would prefer for her to wear nothing underneath.
When I look at her face again, her eyes are locked onto mine and she gives a slow, intentional smile.
“You like it,” she states.
I shrug. “It’s about what you like.”
Brigitte points out some small details on the dress and the two of them make their way over to the garment rack to select another option.
She whips behind the screen.
“Need some help?” I can’t resist the tease.
She laughs but doesn’t answer and steps out soon wearing a rose gold dress with a scooping neckline. It’s sleeveless, and cinched around her waist, celebrating her fuller figure, with a full flowing skirt, dotted with sequins that catch in the light. It’s simple and elegant. It has a slit up to mid-thigh and she inspects it curiously by stepping forward with her leg, her creamy skin exposed as the golden skirt parts.
If I twitch it aside, I could kneel there, bury my face in her.
Fuck.
This isn’t going as planned. It’s supposed to be a peace offering, a truce.
Was it, or had you hoped for something more ?
Either way, I’m hard and have the ruthless urge to act on it. I adjust myself in the seat and give her a neutral nod.
She’s been watching me.
Daringly she inches the slit up higher, pulls out her leg, and points a toe.
She’s teasing me.
Blood starts pounding in my ears.
Brigitte approaches her, and they go over more details on this particular dress. I don’t get it, but it gives me a moment to collect myself.
She disappears behind the screen again, and I drain my glass of champagne. Brigitte tops me up.
When Camille steps out again, it’s in a black dress, a velvet sheath that clings to her and contrasts perfectly with her pale complexion. It has a boat neckline, her collarbones and neck peeking out above it. It skims all the way to the floor, where it pools just a little around her feet, the length made for high-heeled shoes.
It is simplicity and grace, and she steps over towards the mirror to admire herself in it.
She’s wrapped in it, a conservative fit, yet it plainly shows every curve of her body, tight under her breasts, hugging her ribs, surging down towards the smooth bump of her belly, and lower over her thick thighs, hugging her calves as she walks.
It would be an absolute drag to get her out of it, and I want nothing more than to try.
We make eye contact in the mirror. Her eyes are large and blue and serious, the teasing gone.
We look at each other.
I lick my lips.
“I think this is the one, yes?” She startles us out of it .
“Wait,” I say, my voice thick. I clear my throat. “Shoes?”
Camille makes to speak, but Brigitte gives a small exclamation. “Of course. We cannot decide unless the length is fixed.” She steps over to Camille and kneels, adjusting the hem pooling on the floor and jumping up eagerly.
We don’t speak as we wait for her. Camille pretends to inspect the dress, running her hands over the velvet as she smooths out imaginary wrinkles.
Still looking away, she speaks. “We agreed on a dress only.”
“The dress won’t work without the shoes. It’s a means to an end.”
A smile tugs at the corner of her mouth.
Brigitte comes back with a box, and I rise to take it from her. She hands it over politely and watches me walk over to Camille. I see the alarm in Camille’s big blue eyes as she watches me kneel and open the shoe box.
It’s a pair of strappy stilettos. The soles are oxblood red and when I hold it out, she pauses a moment before stepping into it. I cinch the tiny golden buckle at her ankle, and she steps back, raising the dress to just above the floor, as she waits for me to ready the other shoe. After finishing with the second buckle, I leave my fingers on her ankle and look up at her in the mirror. Her eyes are a stormy ocean and her lips part.
A blush blooms up her neck.
More than anything I want to take her other ankle and then run my hands up her calves, her thighs, her stomach, her breasts and take off that god-damned dress and then I want to fuck her up against the mirrored wall, in the shoes, with her hair loose and her eyes looking at me like that.