Page 8 of Falling Fast
‘You’re not broken.’ His expression turns almost fierce. ‘Oliver wasn’t the right guy for you, that’s all. It doesn’t mean there isn’t somebody out there who is.’
I tear my gaze away and take a forkful of salad. The way Dan’s looking at me right now is pulling on my heartstrings so hard I can feel a lump building in my throat. It’s a look that says he’s got my back and that he’ll never give up on me. He’s so decent and kind and optimistic, even when he’s just split up with his fiancée. I’m so grateful to him, for rescuing me six years ago and for still being here now, showing me that good guys really do exist, but I really,reallywish he’d let this subject drop.
The thing is, objectively I know that he’s right, that I shouldn’t give up on love, but honestly, if I couldn’t make it work with Oliver, I don’t see how I can make it work with anyone.
Oliver was the perfect candidate: a gaming developer I met during my internship last summer – smart, funny, attractive. I did my best to trust him, to be like everyone else, but every time he kissed me it was like my body turned to ice. And it wasn’t because I felt ashamed or afraid or any of those other self-destructive emotions that overwhelmed me for so long. It was more like detachment, like I couldn’t feelanything. In the end, breaking up was a mutual decision. It wasn’t Oliver’s fault, even if it wasn’t mine either. Like I said … broken.
My unconscious is apparently on Dan’s side because a memory from last night suddenly flashes into my brain. I’m pushed up against Leif, his hands around my upper arms, his breath on my cheek. I didn’t feel quite so detached and broken then.But that was an anomaly, I tell myself – like I told myself several times last night –a confused reaction brought on by a combination of excitement, disappointment and dislike. If I were to ever meet him again, I’m sure I wouldn’t feel anything.
‘I’m focusing on other things right now,’ I answer finally. ‘I don’t need a relationship to be happy.’
‘I never said you did. So long as you reallyarehappy?’ Dan gives me a meaningful look. ‘Ava –’
I interrupt him. ‘I have to take this call.’
‘What?’
‘A call.’ I reach for my phone because, luckily, it really is vibrating in my jacket pocket. Normally, I would never answer an unknown number, but I’d happily chat to all the telemarketers in the world if it gets me out of this conversation.
‘Hello?’
‘Ava Yearwood?’
‘Maybe.’ I twist away from Dan’s sceptical expression. ‘Who’s calling, please?’
‘This is Vienna Szeto, director of communications at Rask Racing. Your name was passed to me by a colleague. I understand you produce the podcastSingle Seat News?’
I sit up straighter. Rask may have plummeted in the rankings, but if they want to be featured on my podcast I’m not going to say no. ‘That’s right. Hi, Vienna, how can I help you?’
‘Hopefully we can help each other. How soon could you come to our HQ for a chat? We’re based outside Huntingdon.’
‘Oh …’ I mentally scan my diary. It’s pretty empty. And Huntingdon isn’t far, only half an hour’s drive away. Fortunately for my podcast, there’s a cluster of F1 teams around these parts. ‘Well, I’m in Cambridge, so travel isn’t a problem, but I’ll need some time to prepare questions if you want to be on the podcast.’
‘Actually, it’s not for that.’ Her tone is brisk. ‘Long story short, we have a job opening and I think you’d be the perfect candidate.’
I have news!
Single Seat News, 26 May
THREE
MY FIRST IMPRESSION OF Rask Racing HQ is … underwhelming. Compared to the sleek and modern facade of Quezada, it looks a lot like an industrial unit.
But it’s still an F1 team and adrenaline is coursing through me so fast I’m practically vibrating. I have been ever since Vienna’s phone call because I can’t believe this is happening, that I got invited to an interview out of the blue! I mean, I haven’t even sent in my first application yet. Gio must have given them my name and then forgotten to mention it to Maisie.
‘I really appreciate you driving me,’ I say to Dan, as he pulls up outside reception. In an effort to prepare, I’ve spent the journey brainstorming answers to hypothetical interview questions and coming up with my own. ‘Are you sure you don’t mind waiting around?’
‘Nope. Just text when you’re ready to be picked up.’
‘OK.’ I unclip my belt and take a deep breath. ‘Wish me luck.’
‘You don’t need it. Whatever the job is, you’re the best person for it. Who else could prep for an interview withinan hour of a phone call?’ He leans over, calling after me as I climb out, ‘But good luck anyway!’
‘Thanks!’ I give him a wave, adjust the skirt of my olive-green maxi dress, toss my leather baguette bag on to my shoulder and head inside.
Fortunately, the reception area is much more impressive than the exterior, with half a dozen floor-to-ceiling display cases containing team memorabilia. There’s a set of Rask overalls, as well as the specially painted helmets from this year’s Australian and Miami GPs, and –urgh– my gaze lands on a life-size photo of Leif Olsen. Somehow, in my excitement about this job, I managed to repress the fact that working here would also mean working with him.
I give my name at reception and sit down on a red leather sofa to wait. There’s a selection of autosport magazines on a coffee table, but I ignore them in favour of glaring at Leif’s photo, tapping my foot and fantasizing about what I might do to it with a Sharpie. I’m still mentally graffitiing when a woman with a shoulder-length black bob and the biggest platform boots I’ve ever seen comes bursting through a set of double doors beside the main desk. She’s dressed in various shades of grey and moves so fast it’s like being confronted by a human tornado.
