She keeps telling me she’s fine. That there’s nothing wrong. But I can feel it. Hell, I can see it. She’s changing in front of me and I don’t know what to do to fix it.
“I’m sorry about the race today,” she says again. For the fifth time since seeing me after the checkered flag. Her eyes are shiny and her cheeks are flushed. She’s wringing her fingers and if you didn’t know better, you’d think she was the one who’d lost the race today.
Or come in sixth, as the case may be for me.
“I know you are.” I work to keep the exasperation from my tone, pressing my hand to the small of her back and guiding her into the waiting car. “Paul and I will get to the bottom of it.”
The ‘it’ I’m referring to is the sudden lack of performance in both of theVortex Motorscars since we returned from mid-season break. My fourth place in Zandvoort had been concerning but now combined with the eighth place in Austria and the sixth place today, along with Patrick finishing down in a dismal fourteenth,we know the team has taken a giant step backwards. It’s an enormous concern for everyone, from Jack down to the people working in the factory, but I’m confident we’ll figure it out. We have to. My championship is on the line.
“Is there anything I can do to help?” she offers. We’re in the car now, making our way from the track back to our hotel. Now that it’s just the two of us, with James up in front, she’s more relaxed. Her spine is less rigid, the creases in her forehead smoothing out.
I take her hand in mine, partly to stop her wringing her fingers, and mostly because when I’m near her, I need to touch her.
“Like what?”
She gnaws on her lips, glancing at her phone with a small sigh.
“Cherry? What is it?”
Grimacing, she thrusts her phone at me. I keep a hold of her hand, using my other to read the screen in front of me.
“Formula One Fumble.”
“Original headline,” I mutter, feeling her worried gaze glued to the side of my face.
Clenching my teeth, I continue reading.
“Since the mid-season break, this year’s title frontrunner Nicolai Dimitrios has lost his mojo. What started out as a dominant display from the four-time world champion, with it looking as if this year’s title race was all but wrapped up in Monaco, has taken a turn for the worst. With that crash in Silverstone, and his poor performances in Zandvoort and Austria, it feels like the Australian driver has taken his foot off the pedal. Literally. One can only speculate the reason for such a drastic turnaround.”
Thanks, Mr Rosenburg from the BBC. Nice to know you have so much faithin me.
I hand her the phone back, searching her face for a clue. What about that article has her so upset? Rubbish like this is written about me and every other driver all season long.
“Do you think they think I’m the reason for your lack of form?” she asks in a small voice.
So, that’s it. Or at least that’s part of it. Part of the reason she’s been curling back in on herself. Reverting to the woman who joined the team in March. The woman who doubted every step she took.
“I think they know the reason for this slump in form from the team.” I put emphasis on the wordteam. Does she think she’s responsible for us all flailing these last few weeks? “We made an upgrade to the car that didn’t work. Now we need to deal with it. The sports reporter from the BBC and every other F1 journalist know this; they just get more clicks if they write something vague. Something more provocative.”
Her shoulders fall from around her ears and she exhales a deep breath. Like she needed to hear those words from me.Why haven’t I said this to her before?
“Okay. I hope you guys get it sorted soon so they can all stop speculating about it.”
Before I can probe deeper into who they ‘all’ are and what exactly they are ‘speculating’ about, she gasps, her attention now focussed on the scenery outside our window. We’re travelling to the hotel from the Hungaroring and as we cross over the Danube River from the Pest side to the Buda side, we are greeted by the architectural brilliance of the city. It’s a gorgeous city and I love viewing it through Cherry’s eyes.
I’m pretty sure she’s in love with the place.
Now, if only I knew for sure how she felt about me.
“We’re here.”
James hops out of the front seat and opens our car door. I follow Cherry out of the car, noting how she winces as she walks. I share a look with my bodyguard, who’s also watching her with concern, before rushing to lock my arm around her waist. Just in case those heels she’s suddenly so keen on wearing decide to give up on her.
“Tell me again why the sudden interest in wearing stilts all day,” I murmur close to her ear as we stand in the lift taking us up to the room we’re sharing this weekend. She’d insisted we behave ‘normally’ during race weekends—aka, sleeping apart—an idea I’d vetoed after the Dutch Grand Prix. Now that I knew what it was to have her in my bed every night, I wasn’t willing to sacrifice that for reasons only known to her.
Lucky for me, Cherry didn’t put up much of a fight.
“I just want to look nice,” she replies, sounding defensive. “Everyone else can wear heels all day. Why can’t I?”
