Hot off the Press | Charles Leclerc | F1

t w e n t y - f i v e

Fia grew up in Runswick Bay, a small fishing village in Yorkshire that spilled over the coastline. The bay harboured a mile-long stretch of golden sand with holiday cottages nestled into the base of the cliff. A steep embankment of trees rose sharply to the left, divided by a single road connecting the beach to the top of the village.

It was the perfect tourist trap. But everything that made it a wonderful holiday destination also made it a terrible place to spend your childhood, especially as an only child. It had the scarce amenities of a typical postcard village: a suitably old-fashioned pub, a corner shop, several ice cream parlours, and Henson's garage. The nearest cinema was a thirty-minute drive away, as was the nearest sixth-form school. Growing up had been a lonely and claustrophobic experience, and as Fia and Sadie drove across the moors towards her hometown, unwanted memories started pressing down on her.

It had taken two flights, three buses and a train for her to get from Japan to York, where she was staying with Sadie for a few days at a hotel before heading to Imola. The city was close to Castle Howard – Sadie's potential wedding venue – and an hour and a half's drive from Runswick Bay. Far enough that Fia wouldn't feel on edge for the whole trip. She had set aside one day – today - to visit her mum.

Sadie placed her hand over Fia's on the car's central console and squeezed it. "You okay?"

She nodded and tried to relax, staring outside. It was too early for the heather to bloom, so instead of being carpeted in purple, the moors were brown and desolate beyond the winding road.

"I feel a bit car sick," she said, cracking the window open.

"I'll pull over at the next garage." Sadie glanced at the fuel gauge and sighed. "I need to stop for diesel again anyway." They'd borrowed Paul's brand-new Range Rover, which went through fuel faster than F1 cars go through tyres.

When they pulled into the garage forecourt, Fia got out for fresh air while Sadie filled the car up. The all-too-familiar Shell logo was plastered everywhere, from the fuel pumps to the storefront. It reminded her of work and, more importantly, of Charles, who was probably somewhere in Italy without her. She'd been trying to stay off social media, but while Sadie went inside to pay, she sneaked a quick look and immediately regretted it. The first thing in her feed was a video of Charles taking pictures with fans in Maranello. A pang of longing echoed through her as she studied his handsome face, which radiated warmth even when the crowd got too close for comfort. He'd finished in P7 at the end of the Japanese GP; she imagined he'd be locking himself in the sim room for the rest of the week to practice for Imola.

Below the video was a post from a trashy F1 news account bearing the headline: CHARLES LECLERC SPOTTED WITH OLD FLAME IN MONACO. It was dated from a couple of days ago, and the image it accompanied showed Charles climbing into his Pista, speaking to a beautiful dark-haired girl in the passenger seat.

Fia quickly locked her phone and shoved it in her back pocket.

"Here." When she turned around, Sadie was holding out a packet of cigarettes. The plastic wrapper had been hastily torn off. "You look like you need a smoke."

Fia smiled wryly and took one. "That bad, huh?"

"Desperate times call for desperate measures." They walked for a few minutes until they were beyond the garage boundary. Sadie lit her own cigarette and then held the flame under Fia's. "I'm guessing you saw the picture of Charles," she said.

"I don't want to talk about it."

Neither Sadie nor Fia normally smoked. But it was a long-standing tradition that whenever one of them was going through a crisis, they'd buy a pack, smoke a few, and inevitably bin it when they remembered they hated the taste and how much it made their clothes smell.