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 here 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.
‘Right, enough,’ Frederick interrupts. ‘Back to work. There are three bags of potatoes for you to peel, Daisy.’
I notice that Holly gets to decorate a cake. I always get the shittiest jobs.
‘Hey,’ Holly says later, when Frederick pops out of the kitchen. I’ve been watching her distractedly for the last ten minutes as she’s cut a sponge cake into large cubes and plastered them with chocolate icing. ‘A few of the lads have been talking about going out tonight. Fancy it?’
‘Sure, where?’
‘St Kilda,’ she says, dipping one of the chocolate-covered cubes into desiccated coconut.
‘What the hell are you doing?’ Curiosity gets the better of me.
‘What?’
‘With that cake.’ I nod at the furry-looking cube.
‘Lamingtons,’ she explains. ‘They’re Aussie cakes.’
We always try to cater according to the country we’re in and it sometimes makes for an ‘interesting’ menu.
‘Anyway, back to tonight . . .’ She leans against the counter and wipes the coconut off her hands.
‘Where’s St Kilda?’ I ask.
‘It’s a really cool suburb on the other side of the park.’
‘Will we be able to get away in time?’
‘Yeah, should be fine. We did the early shift and half the team is going to that sponsorship event anyway so we don’t really need to be around after eight thirty. I’m gagging for a drink.’ She puts her hands up to her head and tightens her high, bleached-blonde ponytail.
‘I need a drink, too. Especially after earlier . . .’
‘I still need to hear all about that,’ she says. ‘Not now, though,’ she adds, as Frederick walks back in, so we both put our heads down and crack on.
‘You called him a dickhead again? In front of Will?’ Holly claps her hand over her mouth in wide-eyed shock, then starts laughing through her fingers.
The air is hot and humid and we’re seated outside a pub in St Kilda. We walked here straight from the track, along Fitzroy Street’s dozens of cafés, restaurants and bars, all spilling out onto the pavement with rowdy revellers.
‘He deserved it,’ I say flippantly.
‘Who deserved what?’ Pete, one of the mechanics, plonks himself down on a recently vacated chair next to us. A few of the ‘lads’, as Holly likes to call them, have joined us for a drink. It’s ten o’clock at night and they’ve only just come from the track, although they swear they’re heading back to the hotel by midnight. Last time they said this, we were in Shanghai towards the end of the season, and they were out on the town until three a.m. When Simon got wind of it, he was not happy.
‘She crashed one of the team scooters in front of Will and Luis earlier,’ Holly tells him.
‘Holly!’ I erupt. She’s had a few too many beers.
‘They’re going to find out sooner or later,’ she says to me, giggling at Pete.
‘Oh, I’ve already heard about that,’ he says dismissively.
‘You’ve heard about it?’ I ask, humiliated.
‘Yeah, yeah, Luis was going on about it earlier. Said you could have broken his legs.’
‘Broken his legs?’ I explode, humiliation swiftly transforming into irritation. ‘Figlio di puttana!’
‘Son of a bitch,’ Holly casually explains to Pete. She knows as many Italian swear words as I do. One of the undeniable bonuses of working with me.
‘Actually, it literally translates to “son of a whore”,’ I point out pedantically, before continuing with my rant. ‘I can’t believe that!’
Pete just laughs and raises his eyebrows, taking a swig from his beer bottle.
‘Don’t worry about it,’ Holly soothes. ‘No one will remember it by tomorrow.’
‘Eeeeeeeeeeeeee . . . BOOM!’ Another mechanic makes a loud crashing sound as he pulls up a chair and joins us at the table. ‘Way to go, Daisy!’ he laughs.
‘Thanks, Dan. Appreciate your support,’ I answer, glumly.
Dan is quite short compared to Pete, who’s enormous at six foot four, but both are broad and muscular, unlike Luis and Will who are about six foot and slim-built. You have to be to fit in those Formula 1 cars.
Two more mechanics zoom past the table, pretending to screech to a stop.
‘Haven’t you guys got anything better to do?’ I call after them.
I lean back in my seat and watch as a group of gorgeous girls in their late teens strut by. I feel old, and I’m only twenty-six. I know I look older. People tell me it’s the way I carry myself. I think it’s because of the size of my heels. I’m five foot nine, but I never go out in less than three inches. Well, that was back in America. I’ve started wearing flats since I got this job. I’m on my feet all the time and I’m not really a massive fan of torture. Plus, Holly is tiny at five foot one and I look enough like a giant next to her as it is.
‘Wicked!’ Dan interrupts my thoughts. He’s looking down at his mobile phone. ‘Luis is coming by for a drink. He’s just left that event.’
Oh, for God’s sake. I was enjoying myself. Now we’ll have to find another venue to drink at and everywhere is so busy around here.
‘Staying true to form, then,’ Holly comments.
What she means by that is, Luis has a reputation for being a hard-partying ladies’ man. This is his first year in Formula 1. Prior to that he raced in the American IRL – Indy Racing League – series and won the infamous Indy 500 three times in a row, which is why I vaguely recognised him – not that I’ve ever been that interested in racing before. Anyway, everyone speculated that he would have to calm down his wild ways and slot into the fold once he started working for Serious Simon, but he’s clearly sticking his fingers up at that idea.
‘I thought you guys were having an early night?’ I say.
‘He’s a driver.’ Dan shrugs. ‘I can’t blow him out. Another round?’
‘Er . . .’ I’m about to make our excuses about moving on, but Holly’s response is too quick.
‘Sure!’ She lifts up her glass of beer dregs. ‘Same again!’
‘What did you go and do that for?’ I complain as soon as Dan and Pete have left the table. ‘I don’t want to stay here if he’s coming.’
‘Aw, come on, Daisy, we’re having fun. Maybe it’ll do you good to get to know Luis socially.’
‘I don’t want to get to know him socially. He’s a dick. I want to go somewhere else.’
‘Just one drink? I wonder if Will might join him,’ she muses.
A strange shiver goes through me at the sound of Will’s name.
‘I doubt it,’ I answer, albeit slightly hesitantly. ‘Isn’t he a bit too committed to go out drinking the night before qualifying?’
‘Maybe. But perhaps he’ll take some time off for a change. Have a few beers with the lads, you know, good for team morale . . .’
A tiny glimmer of hope starts to flicker inside me. Dan returns with our drinks and then goes off to chat to Pete and the other mechanics standing on the pavement.
Unusually for a racing team, our previous drivers both retired at the end of last year, so we started this season with two newbies. Will, unlike Luis, has been in Formula 1 for a couple of years. The British have gone bananas over him, because he’s young, good-looking and talented, so it was a quite a coup for Simon to scoop him up. I’ve seen him around the track a bit in the past, but have never been in close proximity to him. Until yesterday.
‘Do you ever see him at team headquarters?’ I turn back to Holly.
‘Who?’ she asks.
‘Will.’
‘Oh. Yeah, occasionally, yes. He’s been in to use the simulator a few times.’
‘Simulator?’
‘It’s like a car-sized PlayStation racing game. They use it to learn the different track layouts. It’s wicked, actually. Pete let me have a go on it a few weeks ago.’
‘Aah, right.’
‘Why are you asking about Will?’ She remembers my initial question.
‘Um, no reason . . .’
‘You fancy him, don’t you?’ She slams her hand down on the table.
‘No!’ I deny.
‘You bloody do! You’ve gone all red!’
‘I have not!’
‘You have! I thought you were sworn off men?’
‘I am,’ I respond.
‘Are you ever going to tell me why?’
I shake my head and take a sip of my drink.
‘Why not?’ she asks for about the zillionth time. At least, that’s what it feels like to me.
‘I can’t,’ I reply.
‘Why? Are you worried your ex will hunt you down and kick your arse?’
I don’t answer.
She looks stricken. ‘That’s not it, is it? Oh God, Daisy, I’m so sorry if it is. I would never make fun of—’
‘I’m not a victim of domestic violence,’ I wearily interject. ‘I just don’t want to discuss it.’
‘Huh. Fine.’ She looks put out, then she adds, ‘Well, Will’s got a girlfriend anyway, so he’s off-limits.’
‘Does he?’ I try to keep my voice light, but the disappointment is immense.
‘Of course he does. How can you not know that? They’re always in the tabloids together.’
‘I don’t read the papers.’
‘Still, how can you have missed them?’
‘Why? What’s their story?’
‘Childhood sweethearts.’
My heart sinks.
Holly carries on, oblivious to my pain. ‘They grew up in the same village together. The press back home love it how Will has stayed with her through thick and thin and has never been tempted by all the bimbos on the racing scene.’
This is getting worse.
‘She works for a children’s charity.’
‘Are you making this up?’ I look at Holly, incredulous.
She laughs. ‘No, it’s true. Sorry.’
‘Well, like you say, I’m sworn off men.’
And yes, I am. I had my heart broken in America and felt like I had to leave the goddamn country because I couldn’t go anywhere without bumping into the bastard.
Repeat: I am okay on my own. I am okay on my own. I am okay on my own.
And I am sure as hell not going to chase after someone who has a girlfriend. That’s not my style.
I notice Holly wiping some of the lipgloss off her beer glass and smudging it back onto her lips.
‘That is such a good look,’ I say.
‘You are really quite sarcastic for an American, aren’t you?’ she answers wryly, as Pete plonks himself back down at the table.
‘I was born in England,’ I remind her.
My mother is Italian and my father is British, but when I was six, he moved the whole family to America. I’d been there for almost twenty years when I relocated to the UK and secured a job working as a waitress for Frederick and his wife Ingrid’s catering company in London. Then last October, Frederick asked me if I’d like to come along to the final three races as a front-of-house girl. That title means working in hospitality and making sure the team and its guests are looked after, but I also help out in the kitchen whenever it’s required. Opportunities like this – to see the world and get paid for it – don’t come along very often, so naturally I jumped at the chance.
Holly and I hit it off immediately. When we’re not racing, she works in the canteen at the team’s headquarters in Berkshire, England. I say canteen, but it’s actually more like a Michelin-starred restaurant. We met for the first time in Japan last year where we got through several jugs of sake in the hotel bar one night. The jugs are only tiny, but boy is rice wine strong. We were shit-faced by ten p.m, and you don’t even want to know what we consumed a week later in China.
After Brazil, Frederick asked me to stay on for another year to do a full season. I don’t know what came over him, but yay!
Holly has been rummaging around in her bag for ages and now she finally emerges with a tube of pink lipgloss. She reapplies some, giving me an overtly smug look.
I could do with some of that, actually. Just in case Will does deign to join us. What am I thinking? No, no, NO!
Damn it. ‘Can I have some?’ I have very little willpower. I slick some over my lips, then tuck my long, dark hair behind
my ears and wait.
A few minutes later, a taxi pulls up outside the pub and the high-heel-clad feet of a woman gracefully step out of it onto the pavement.
I recognise her. It’s the woman Catalina was talking to in the grandstand . . . Her sister?
Then Luis climbs out of the car behind her. I crane my neck, but there’s no Will. I feel momentarily crushed, but firmly tell myself it’s for the best.
‘Oi, oi, oi!’ I hear a few of the lads behind us shout. Luis grins at them.
‘Who’s that he’s with?’ I ask Holly.
‘Alberta. Catalina’s cousin,’ Holly answers.
Sister . . . Cousin . . . Close enough.
‘Getting in with the boss’s family, is he?’ My tone is wry as I watch Luis put his hand on the woman’s lower back to steer her through the crowd.
‘Clearly,’ Holly replies.
He reaches our gathering and is enthusiastically welcomed by the mechanics, most of whom are standing on the pavement behind our table. Holly and I remain seated, while Pete stands up and leans across us to clap Luis on the back. Holly smiles and lifts her hand in a half-wave of hello, but I can’t bear to look at him so I busy myself pretending to pick a fly out of my wine glass.
‘Hello!’ I hear him pointedly say in my direction.
‘Oh, hello!’ I reply, as though becoming aware of his presence for the first time.
‘Written off any scooters lately?’
The boys around him crack up laughing and a couple of them make loud crashing noises.
‘Ha ha,’ I reply sarcastically and turn back to the imaginary insect in my glass.
One of the lads lifts a chair over the heads of the people drinking at the table next to us and plonks it down beside me, waving his hand with a flourish to Alberta. Pete immediately offers his chair to Luis.
‘No, it’s okay,’ Luis says. ‘I’m happy to stand.’
‘It’s alright, I’m going back to the bar,’ Pete says. ‘What are you having?’
Luis produces a wad of notes. ‘My round,’ he says.
‘That’s too much, mate!’ Pete waves Luis’s money away.
‘No, no, take it!’ Luis insists. ‘Put it in the, what do you call it? Kitty?’
Pete eyes it sceptically.
‘Take it!’ Luis forces it into his hand.
‘Do you want a bottle of champers?’ Pete asks Luis.