Page 15 of Falling Fast
I stare at him, waiting for something more, but there’s nothing. His expression is so completely unreadable I can’t tell if he really forgives me or if he’s just not interested in my apology. ‘OK,’ I echo. ‘Well, that’s very kind of you. And feel free to insult me back if you like.’
He cocks his head to one side. ‘What do you mean?’
‘You could point out something about me that you don’t like. Then we’ll be even.’ I try to make the words sound cajoling, but they appear to have the opposite effect because he looks genuinely shocked.
‘I can’t.’
‘Just try. It’ll clear the air.’ I grit my teeth and smile. ‘After yesterday, I’m sure there are lots of things you can think of.’
‘No.’
‘Oh.’ I look down at my notes, tapping my foot under the table to vent some of my frustration. So much for ‘adorable’. Either he has no sense of humour or he’s simply not prepared to joke around with me. Or use sentences of more than four words. But that’s fine. We don’t have to be friends, just colleagues. Which means getting down to business.
‘So Vienna hired me to help reinvigorate Rask’s image and implement a new social media strategy,’ I begin. ‘Which means we need to get people’s attention. Because of that, when I posted my video last night, I asked if there were any questions people would like to ask you and we got a really good response – quickly too, which is a positive sign. It shows the fans are curious.’ I slide a piece of paper across the table to him. ‘These are some of the best. If you’re happy with them, we can shoot a short video when you have a gap in your schedule and then post it on the team’s channels.’
He reaches a hand out for the paper, his bicep flexing in a way that I try not to notice but can’t help because I have treacherous eyes that linger a fraction too long. Even when I drag them away, I’m still aware of his arms in the periphery of my vision. It’s irritating. I’mneverthis aware of a man.
‘These questions are for me?’ he asks, skim-reading the paper before setting it down again. Long, tapered fingers tap the table beside it and, yep, there it is: he’s frowning again.
‘I know they’re not very car-related,’ I say, to pre-empt any criticism. ‘But they’re fun, quirky, perfect for fans to get to know you as a person.’
‘“If you could have any animal as a pet, what animal would you have and why?”’ He sounds perplexed, like I’ve just asked him to write a political treatise on Anglo-Norwegian relations, although judging by his expression he might have preferred that.
‘We’re trying to show your lighter side,’ I explain, reaching for my water. ‘Think of it as a kind of rebrand. Basically, we’re reintroducing you to the fans.’
‘You mean the ones who think I’m monosyllabic?’ His eyes follow the cup to my lips.
‘Right.’ I swallow a little too forcefully. ‘Like I said –’
‘An Arctic fox.’ He interrupts me.
‘Pardon?’
‘If I could have any animal as a pet, that’s what I would choose.’
‘Oh, they’re lovely.’ A clip from a nature documentary pops into my head of a small white fox diving headfirst into a bank of snow, along with a random fact. ‘They have hair on the soles of their feet.’
‘They do.’ His eyes widen, like he’s surprised. ‘They’re also mostly solitary, but monogamous once they find a mate. So …’ He gives a firm nod. ‘An Arctic fox.’
‘That sounds perfect.’ I make a note.
‘“If you weren’t a driver, what would you do?”’ A shadow passes over his face as he reads from the list again.
‘Yes. You know, as a job?’ I prod him when the silence starts to feel uncomfortable. ‘Maybe something else with cars?’
‘Maybe.’ He sounds brooding.
‘Like being a mechanic?’
‘Perhaps.’
‘You know, it would be brilliant if you could do a technical video about your car sometime.’
‘Sure.’
‘Great.’ I watch as he reads again. It’s not like I’m staring, except … well, maybe I am a little, but I can’t help noticing lots of little details about him, like that his lashes are long, but so pale you don’t notice them at first. Also what looks like a chickenpox scar on the left side of his chin, just visible through his stubble. And speaking of stubble, it’s longer today than it was in Monaco, like he hasn’t shaved since. Give it a couple more days and it’ll be a full beard. That would probably suit him, in a rugged, lumberjack kind of way …
I follow the line of it down his throat. F1 drivers need to have strong necks to withstand the intense G-forces of motor racing, and his looks particularly muscular. Like his arms, which are straining the sleeves of his polo shirt in a way that makes me think I ought to ask Merchandising to get him a larger size. Maybe as some kind of peace offering? A quiver of something ripples through my body.
