Also by Paige Toon
Lucy in the Sky
Johnny Be Good
First published in Great Britain by Pocket Books UK, 2009
An imprint of Simon & Schuster UK Ltd
A CBS COMPANY
Copyright © Paige Toon, 2009
This book is copyright under the Berne Convention. No reproduction without permission. ® and © 1997 Simon & Schuster Inc. All rights reserved. Pocket Books & Design is a registered trademark of Simon & Schuster Inc.
The right of Paige Toon to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2
Simon & Schuster UK Ltd
1st floor
222 Gray’s Inn Road
London WC1X 8HB
Simon & Schuster Australia
Sydney
www.simonandschuster.co.uk
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
ISBN 9781847393906
eBook ISBN 9781847399526
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, events or locales, is entirely coincidental.
Typeset by M Rules
Printed by CPI Cox & Wyman, Reading, Berkshire RG1 8EX
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
For inspiring me, for encouraging me, for believing in me . . .
This one’s for you, Dad
Prologue
‘YOU SON OF A . . . Figlio di puttana!’ That jerk in a yellow Ferrari just cut me up! ‘Yeah, that’s right, you heard me, you testa di cazzo!’ I shout at him as he pulls into the petrol station opposite me. His window slides down.
‘What the hell are you saying to me, you crazy bitch?’
How dare he! He nearly squished my scooter and me to a pulp with his fancy car!
‘You nearly ran into me, you coglione!’
He gets out of his car, looking cross. ‘Cogli-what?’
‘Coglione! Dickhead!’ I shout at him from across the street.
‘Why don’t you speak in English?’ he shouts back.
‘Because we’re in BRAZIL, cretino!’
‘I’m Brazilian! And that’s no language I know!’ He throws his hands up in the air.
Well, okay, it’s Italian, if he’s going to be fussy about it. I always swear in Italian. But that’s beside the point.
Oh no, he’s coming over here.
‘You almost ran over me, you arsehole!’ I plaster my angry face back on.
‘That’s better,’ he says sarcastically. ‘At least I can understand what you’re saying to me, now.’
It’s then that I notice he’s quite good-looking. Olive skin, black hair, dark-brown eyes . . . Don’t get distracted, Daisy. Remember where you’re at. And where I’m at is mightily annoyed.
‘You almost killed me!’
‘I didn’t almost kill you,’ he scoffs. ‘Anyway, you didn’t put your indicator on. How was I supposed to know you wanted to go over there?’ He points to the petrol station.
‘I did SO have it on! Va fanculo!’
‘What?’
‘Va fanculo!’
‘Did you just tell me to fuck off?’ He looks incredulous.
‘Ah, so you do speak Italian?’
‘Hardly any, but I know what that means. Va se lixar!’
‘What?’
‘Piss off!’ he says, angrily, and starts to cross the road to get back to his car.
‘Piss off? Is that the best you can do?’
He casts a look over his shoulder that implies he thinks I’m seriously deranged and then opens the door to his Ferrari.
‘Hey! You!’ I shout. ‘I haven’t finished!’
‘I have,’ he calls.
‘Get back here and give me an apology!’
‘An apology?’ He laughs. ‘You owe me an apology. You almost scratched my car.’ He gets into his Ferrari and slams the door. ‘Silly woman driver!’ he shouts through the still-open window.
‘How dare you! You, you, you, STRONSO!’ Translation: bastard. ‘I hope you run out of petrol and get car-jacked!’ I scream after him, cleverly realising he didn’t fill his Ferrari with juice. But he can’t hear me. He’s long gone.
Some people. Argh!
How dare he imply I can’t drive! I’m still angry. Not angry enough to forgo my hotdog, mind. I pull out of the lay-by and cross the road to the petrol station, ignoring the stares from onlookers who witnessed our altercation.
Stupid five-star hotel . . . It doesn’t do junk food, so I borrowed one of the team’s scooters and sneaked out.
I shouldn’t have to sneak out, but I work in hospitality and catering for a Formula 1 team, and we don’t do junk food either. I’m supposed to be setting an example, but I’m American, for Christ’s sake. How can I live without it?
Partly American, in any case. I was actually born in England. As for the rest of me, that’s hot-blooded Italian. That’s the side you just witnessed, there.
I arrive at the hotel fifteen minutes later and my friend and colleague Holly is waiting on the front steps. She hisses at me to hurry.
‘Sorry!’ I hiss back. ‘Had to run an urgent errand!’
‘Doesn’t matter!’ She beckons me towards her.
It’s then that I catch a glimpse of yellow in the car park. Yellow Ferrari. Oh, no.
‘Quick!’ she urges, as my heart sinks.
I knew I recognised him from somewhere. He’s a driver. A racing driver.
‘The rumours must be true,’ she says, gleefully pushing me into the lobby.
And at that moment, I see the Ferrari Fucker walking in the direction of the hotel bar with the team boss.
‘Luis Castro is signing with the team!’ Holly squeaks as I dive behind a potted palm tree.
Shit, damn, fuck, tits.
Not even Italian is going to cut it this time.
Chapter 1
‘Don’t you dare,’ Holly warns, as I suppress an unbearable urge to crawl under the nearest table.
We’re in Melbourne, Australia, for the start of the season, and Luis Castro has just walked into the hospitality area. I’m desperately hoping he will have forgotten all about me during the last five months, because until early November when we end up back in Brazil for his home-town race, we’ll be seeing a LOT of each other.
There’s no getting away from it – I’m going to have to face him sometime – but just not now. Please, not now.
‘Daisy!’ Frederick barks. ‘I need you to run an errand.’
My boss! My saviour! Thank you, thank you, thank you!
‘The look of relief on your face,’ Holly comments with wry amusement as I scuttle away in the direction of the kitchen.
‘Where are you going?’ Frederick asks in bewilde
rment as I duck under the arm he was resting against the doorframe.
‘Just in here!’ I reply brightly, waving my hands around to denote the kitchen, which is excellently out of Luis’s line of vision.
Frederick looks perplexed, but continues. ‘Catalina wants some popcorn. And I don’t have any goddamn popcorn. Go and get some from one of the stands.’ He hands me some money.
‘Yes, boss!’ I beam.
He gives me an odd look as I hurry out of the kitchen and back through the hospitality area with my head down.
Catalina is Simon’s wife. Simon Andrews is the big boss and he owns the team. But Frederick – Frederick Vogel – is my immediate boss. He’s the head chef.
Frederick is German, by the way. And Catalina is Spanish. Simon is English and Holly, while we’re at it, is Scottish. What a multi-national bunch we are.
The Australian Grand Prix takes place in Albert Park, and yesterday I spotted a popcorn stand being set up on the other side of the shimmering green lake. I grab one of the team scooters and start it up.
It’s Friday, two days before race day, but the track is still packed with spectators, here to watch the practice sessions. I drive carefully, breathing in the fresh, sunny air. It’s the end of March, and unlike Europe and America which are swinging into spring, Australia is well into autumn. We’ve been told to expect rain this weekend, but right now there’s barely a cloud in the sky. Melbourne’s city skyscrapers soar up in the distance ahead of me, and behind me, I picture the ocean sparkling cool and blue.
I can smell the popcorn stand before I see it, salt and butter wafting towards me on a light breeze. Mmm, junk food . . . I wonder if I could also squeeze some for myself in the scooter’s storage box? I consider it while the guy behind the counter scoops the fluffy, white kernels into a bag, but eventually decide it’s a no-go.
I pay for the popcorn and stuff Frederick’s change into my pocket, then unlock the box under my seat. Hmm, this popcorn is going to spill out – the bag’s full to the brim and I need to be able to fold the top over. I suppose I could ask for another bag to wrap over the top . . . Or . . . I could eat some! Yes, that’s the only logical conclusion.
I lean up against the scooter and delve in. The guy at the popcorn stand is watching me with amusement. What the hell are you staring at, buster? My glare wards off his gaze, but he’s still grinning. I stuff another handful into my mouth. It’s so warm and so . . . perfectly popped. I’ve probably eaten enough, now. Maybe just a little more . . . Right, that’s it. Stop, now. Now! Regretfully I close the bag and store it under my seat, then start up the scooter.
If there are this many people here now, it’s going to be packed on race day, I think to myself as I swerve around a group of slow-walking pedestrians. All of a sudden I spot two men wearing our team’s overalls up ahead, and just as I go to turn a corner in front of a set of grandstands, I realise they’re racing drivers, one of whom is Luis.
My back wheel catches some grit and slides out from under me as I take the corner. Suddenly the whole scooter is skidding and I can hear the grandstand half-full of spectators gasp in unison as I shoot across the gravel in front of them.
‘Whoa!’ Will Trust – the team’s other driver – jumps out of the way, but Luis stays put, frozen in a crouch as though expecting to catch me.
‘JESUS CHRIST!’ I hear an Australian woman cry as my bike comes to a stop right in front of him. ‘She almost ran over Luis Castro!’
She pronounces the name, ‘Lewis’, not ‘Lew-eesh’, as she’s supposed to. I may not like the jackass, but it still bugs me when people can’t say his name properly.
‘That’ll make a nice change from him running over me, then,’ I snap, getting to my feet.
I immediately realise my mistake. That woman’s mispronunciation error distracted me and I’ve idiotically just reminded him about our altercation. Maybe he wasn’t paying attention. I quickly brush myself off as I feel his eyes boring into me.
‘You,’ Luis says.
Darn.
‘You. The girl on the scooter.’
‘Er, not anymore,’ I say sarcastically, indicating the fallen vehicle. I bend down to try to stand it up.
‘Hang on, let me get it.’ Will Trust appears by my side and lifts up the scooter. ‘Are you alright?’ he asks, clear blue eyes looking searchingly into mine.
I almost jump backwards. ‘Yes, yes, I’m fine,’ I reply, blushing furiously. Actually, I’m not fine. My right hand is stinging like crazy from where I put it down on the gravel, and my knee feels horribly tender beneath the black pants of my black, white and gold team uniform.
‘Let me see that.’ Will takes my hand in his, pressing down on my fingers with his thumb to straighten my palm. He leans in and studies the graze and I feel jittery as I, in turn, study him. His light blond hair is falling just across his eye-line. I have a strong compulsion to reach over and push it off his face. . .
‘It is you,’ Luis says again.
Is he still here? Bummer.
I look around to see that quite a crowd has gathered to watch me and revel in my embarrassment. At least they’re more interested in the drivers than me. Speaking of which. . .
‘The girl in Brazil. The petrol station,’ Luis continues.
Will lets me go and looks at us, questioningly. ‘You know each other?’
I flex my hand. The feel of him is still there.
‘Yeah, she almost crashed into my Ferrari in São Paulo last year,’ Luis says.
‘I almost crashed into YOUR Ferrari?’ I come back to my senses, outraged. ‘You nearly killed me!’
‘Ha!’ He laughs in my face. ‘You’re ridiculous. And you can’t drive. I said you were a silly woman driver at the time and now you’ve just proved me right.’
‘You, you, you . . .’ I glare at him, lost for words.
‘You’re not going to call me a coglione again, are you?’
‘No, but you are a testa di cazzo,’ I mutter under my breath. It means the same thing. Literally, ‘head of dick’. I smirk.
‘What did you say?’ Luis demands. ‘What did she say?’ he asks Will.
Will shrugs in amusement and bends down to dust off the scooter. I suddenly remember what I’ve done.
‘I haven’t scratched it, have I?’ I bend down beside him and scrutinise the bike.
‘It’s not too bad,’ Will says.
‘I hope Simon doesn’t fire me. . .’
‘Simon won’t notice. He’s got too much else on his mind.’
‘Simon notices everything,’ Luis helpfully interjects.
Will rolls his eyes at me and my heart flutters, despite my fear of being axed.
‘Will, are you coming or what?’ Luis butts in.
‘Sure, yeah. Will you be okay, er . . .’ He looks at the name embroidered in gold on the front of my white team shirt.
‘Daisy,’ I say before he does. ‘Yes, don’t worry about me, I’ll be fine.’
‘I’ve seen you around. You’re a front-of-house girl, right?’ he checks. ‘You help out with the catering?’
‘Jesus, that’s all we need,’ Luis grumbles.
Will and I look at him in confusion.
‘She’ll probably give me food poisoning,’ he points out.
‘Don’t flatter yourself,’ I can’t help but say. ‘I wouldn’t go to the trouble of trying.’
I spot a so-tanned-he’s-orange marshal running over to us. ‘Are you okay, miss?’ he asks in an Australian accent.
‘We’ll leave you to it,’ Will says, winking at me. I feel my face heat up again so I quickly turn my attention to the marshal.
Orange Man eventually deems I’m not a danger to myself or others and lets me go on my way, so I carefully drive back to our hospitality area, resisting the urge to speed. I’ve been gone ages.
I park up and locate the, well, it’s not really a bag full of popcorn anymore, and go inside to look for Catalina. I scan my eyes around the room. There are a fair few people her
e today, considering it’s only Friday. The tables are peppered with guests: sponsors, wives or girlfriends and the occasional friend or family member of someone in the team. Bigger teams than ours often invite the odd celebrity, too, but Simon doesn’t seem to know anyone famous.
Aah, there she is.
Catalina is sitting at a table next to a skinny, tanned brunette, with medium-length, wavy hair. They look alike and, as I approach, I realise they’re speaking Spanish. I wonder if they’re sisters. Holly will know. Holly knows everything.
‘Hi, Catalina, Frederick said you wanted this?’ I offer it to her.
‘What is it?’ Her tone is as horrible as the look she gives me. ‘Oh, popcorn,’ she says, spying the crumpled packaging. ‘Where’s the rest of it?’ she demands to know.
‘Um, I couldn’t fit it in my—’
‘Have you been eating it?’
‘I couldn’t fit it—’
‘Put it there,’ she huffily interrupts, pointing to the tabletop in front of her.
The catering here is excellent, so why she’s demanding popcorn in the first place is beyond me. Actually, I take that back. Nothing beats popcorn. But unlike her, if the rumours are to be believed, I won’t be throwing it up in the toilets later.
I finally return to the kitchen.
‘Where the hell have you been?’ Frederick shouts.
‘I had a bit of an accident,’ I explain.
‘You smell like you’ve been eating . . .’ He leans towards me and gives a single loud sniff through his extremely large nostrils. ‘Popcorn!’
He looks like a cartoon gangster, Frederick. Big nose, greasy black hair. And he’s very tall and extremely lanky. I glance back at him to see him eyeing me suspiciously.
‘Um, do I?’ I ask innocently. He has an annoyingly good sense of smell. I guess it’s useful if you’re a chef, but in situations like these. . .
‘What sort of accident?’ he snaps.
I anxiously lead him outside to the scooter.
‘It could be worse,’ he grumpily concludes after he’s inspected the damage.
‘What happened?’ Holly appears around the corner, full of concern when she sees us kneeling on the floor studying the scratches.
I fill her in, her eyes widening when I tell her who my audience was.