Livid. That was how Fia suspected Silvia felt about the testing scandal. It was a PR nightmare. And the worst part was that it smacked of incompetence – how had a data engineer successfully fitted extra sensors to the car without the team principal's knowledge? Adam thought it was a cover-up story to save Binotto's hide with plausible deniability, but Claudia rightly pointed out that it still made him look bad, just in a different way. They all agreed it was a shit show and that they were, to put it mildly, royally fucked.
After the comms team meeting, which involved a whole hour of Silvia's barely-contained rage and palpable disappointment, Fia was relegated to the Ferrari motorhome, where she was tasked with answering phone calls and emails to the press office about the scandal. It was a thankless job – everyone had questions, and she had to wheel out the same boilerplate response to each of them. The data engineer has been dealt with...Ferrari cooperated with the investigation fully...etc., etc...
The phone had been ringing off the hook. Adam was supposed to supervise Fia since she was an intern, but he had gone for lunch about two hours ago and showed no sign of returning with food for her. After her lacklustre breakfast, she was starving. It was like all the meals she'd skipped over the last twelve hours while she was sick were coming back to haunt her with a vengeance. Whenever she thought about running to the nearest vending machine, the phone started ringing again.
"Hello, this is Scuderia Ferrari Press Office. Fia speaking," she answered, trying not to sound completely dead inside.
"Fia Holliday? Is that you?"
She recognised the voice on the other end of the line immediately. "Mr Sandwell?"
"Call me Mark, please. Sadie told me you were working at Ferrari now. Congratulations, that's really excellent news."
"Well, it's just an internship for now," she said, blushing.
Fia had always liked Sadie's dad, unlike her mum, who she thought was a bit of a snob. He was unpretentious and unfailingly kind – that was what she remembered most about him from the times she had visited Sadie's family home. He was a tall, lanky man with a Lancashire accent and crow's feet at the corners of his eyes from smiling so much. He always wore checked shirts and wax jackets like he'd just rocked up to a farmer's convention, even when he was reporting live on F1 for the BBC.
"I'm sure it'll turn into a permanent position," he said. "They'd be stupid not to want you on their team. And Silvia certainly isn't stupid."
"No, but what she is is furious." Fia paused, her eyes widening. "Oh crap, I wasn't supposed to say that. Can you take that off the record?"
She could hear the smile in Mark's voice. "My lips are sealed. I hear Sadie is flying to the Australian GP to see you."
While Fia was sick, Adam had bought Sadie a ticket and procured a VIP pass at a very discounted rate. Fia had been initially worried because she hadn't run the idea past Sadie yet, but after a quick phone call earlier that morning, she seemed thrilled.
"She is. I can't wait to see her. Are you in Jeddah for the race this weekend?"
"On the way to the airport as we speak," he confirmed. "Actually, I was hoping to speak to Silvia."
"She's not here right now, I'm afraid," said Fia. "And she's not taking personal calls about the outcome of the FIA's investigation, sorry. You're stuck with me. But I can answer any questions you have."
Fia felt a pair of eyes on her. She glanced up and saw Leclerc standing in the doorway, looking at her expectantly. Her stomach twisted with nerves. She held a hand up, signalling for him to wait a moment while she finished on the phone.
"That's not a problem," Mark said. It sounded like he was in a busy room – perhaps he'd reached the airport. "In fact, I wasn't calling about that at all. I need to speak to her about something else. I tried her personal number, but she wasn't answering."
There was an awkward silence. Fia waited for him to finish his sentence, but he left it hanging.
"Never mind," he said. "It can wait. Have a fantastic weekend, Fia."
"Thanks. You–" The line went dead before she could finish saying too.
She put the phone on the table just as Charles entered the room. He was holding a styrofoam takeout box and wearing his racing suit around his waist, exposing the white of his fireproof top beneath. He must have either just come off the track or been on his way to it. Fia prayed it was the latter.
"This is where you're hiding," he said, sitting on the edge of the table.
Fia stared at her laptop to hide her red cheeks, praying for the phone to ring again. "Not hiding," she said, pointing to her inbox, where hundreds of emails were waiting to be answered. "Working."
He nodded and watched as she started typing a response. Fia could feel his presence beside her like a force field, demanding her attention.
"I heard you were sick," Charles ventured.
"I was," she said, probably a bit too defensively. She looked him in the eyes for good measure, just to show that it was true.
"And you feel better now?" he asked, holding her gaze. There was a faint wrinkle of concern between his brows.
"Fine. Thanks." It was hard to concentrate on writing coherent sentences when he was so close. She could smell his familiar scent – fresh and citrusy, mingling with sweat – and tried not to think about how appealing she found it.
Charles placed the styrofoam box on the table. "I brought you lunch." Fia looked up, surprised. "From Adam," he clarified.
"Oh," she said. "Tell him thanks, then."
She was trying to act disinterested, but her stomach let out a growl like a caged animal. Charles chuckled. "Sounds like you need it."
"Fuel for fighting fires." She watched as several more emails pinged through to the press office inbox.
"Merde," Charles sighed, rubbing his face. "This is all anybody will ask me about for the rest of the season."
She knew how that felt. They would be fielding questions about the investigation for months.
"At least it'll distract from the Charles Leclerc show."
He frowned. "You saw the article?"
Fia laughed without humour. "I've seen many articles," she said, though she knew which one he was referring to.
"And now you think you know me." He hummed thoughtfully as if he'd expected as much.
She felt her insides twisting. She was usually good at deflecting other people's opinions about her – it had been the only way to stave off crushing self-doubt at Oxford – but Charles' disappointment cut her to the quick.
Couldn't the phone ring again? It hadn't stopped all morning; now, the silence was deafening. Even journalists were conspiring against her.
When she could no longer bear it, she said, "It runs both ways, Leclerc. You saw me in a moment of weakness and thought you knew something about me." She tipped her chin up to look him in the eyes. "But you don't know anything."
"I disagree."
She wanted to roll her eyes but couldn't bring herself to look away from his face. She had recalled it in her dream, she realised, with almost perfect clarity. Had she really spent so long studying it?
"You're impossible," she said. Her throat felt dry.
"So are you."
Her shoulder was right next to his thigh; she could feel the heat of his body inches away. She couldn't explain why she had the urge to lean into him. Just to see if her irritation towards him would spike with touch, like the transference of needles from a cactus. Just to see what it felt like. Just to see. Why not?
They both jumped when the phone rang.
"Leclerc," she hissed through her teeth as if they'd been doing something they shouldn't.
Charles stood, looking equal parts surprised and torn. The shrill sound of the phone continued. Fia stared at it, and Charles stared at her, both standing on the same precipice of a decision.
Answer or don't answer. Stay or go.
In the end, it was Fia who decided.
"I need to get back to work," she said. "Don't you have a car to drive?"
____ 🏎️ ____
Disappointment was a bitter taste in Fia's mouth. She tried to wash it down with food and water, but no matter what she did, it lingered, sharpened by the tang of regret. The things she hadn't said were stuck between her teeth like fine slivers of apple skin. She kept running her tongue over them, thinking what if.
What if she didn't self-sabotage? What if she stopped building walls around herself?
What if she didn't hate Leclerc at all?
What rankled her the most was that he was right; she didn't know him, not beyond the tabloids and the headlines and the paparazzi shots taken out of context. Instead of asking, she assumed. Instead of sharing, she kept all but the essential facts of her identity under lock and key, even with friends. Claudia and Adam knew the neat, put-together version of Fia Holliday. The kind you might get if you constructed a person from their Instagram feed: all the highlights, none of the mess. None of the worst days. Even when she'd been sick, that wasn't the worst.
Nobody except Sadie knew about the worst days.
As Fia sat alternating between answering the phone and replying to emails, her mind kept circling back to the conversation she'd had with Claudia at breakfast and her strange fever dreams. The media had painted the version of Charles that existed in her mind in broad, brash brush strokes; maybe it was time for her to revise it. If he truly knew what it was like to lose someone – to be left behind – then perhaps they had more in common than she thought. At the very least, she needed to know what he'd meant when he said it.
She checked her watch. It was just after seven p.m. – an hour before the qualifying session was due to start. If she was quick, she had enough time to catch Charles before he got into the car. At least then she'd be able to stop thinking about their encounter in the gym, her dream – everything. Like Claudia said, all she needed to do was get everything off her chest. If she said what she needed to say, found out what she needed to know, she'd finally be satisfied and could get him out of her head for good.
Fia found Charles on his way to the garage, which, by this time, was bustling with activity. He was walking ahead of her, helmet in hand. Had she left it too late? The surge of bravery that had propelled her from the motorhome felt like it was fading fast, and she faltered.
She was about to turn back when Charles glanced over his shoulder and saw her. "Fia?"
It was too late now.
He was too far away to hear her properly, so she jogged down the hallway to catch up, carried by a surge of adrenaline.
Fuck it. It was just a conversation.
"Is everything–"
"I need to talk to you," she interrupted.
"Now?"
She nodded, and Charles checked his watch, looking towards the garage. Engineers were already buzzing around the car. The qualifying session was due to start soon, but still he said, "Okay."
"Not here." She'd spotted an empty room further up the hallway. She grabbed Charles' arm – where was her sudden courage coming from? – and pulled him towards it.
As soon as they were inside, she let go and closed the door behind them. It was a tiny room without any windows, apart from a glass panel at the top of the door, which allowed light to filter in. There was a small desk towards the back and a few filing cabinets; other than that, it was empty.
For a moment, she and Charles just stared at each other. It was a strange feeling, being completely alone in a room together – different to the motorhome, where people were constantly passing through. Here, the door was closed, and nobody was coming in.
Fia suspected that Charles had noticed it, too. He was studying her face with an intensity that made her heart skip.
She came here to ask him what he meant about being left behind, but as soon as she opened her mouth, her plan was derailed.
"What did you mean in Bahrain when you said you didn't like the way Arthur was looking at me?"
Charles swallowed. He looked conflicted, and the longer the silence dragged on, the more Fia came to regret her boldness. Her subconscious had betrayed her by forcing a question she had no intention of asking. Now she looked stupid for reading too much into things.
"I didn't mean to ask that," she admitted.
Amusement tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Yes, you did."
Slowly, he placed his helmet on the desk and took a step closer to Fia, who backed up until her shoulders hit the door. There was no escaping their proximity. Charles' eyes flickered down to her mouth for just a second.
"What are you doing?" Her voice sounded unfamiliar.
"Aucune idée," he muttered, shaking his head. "Fia."
She liked the way her name sounded in his accent. How he said it like he was trying it out for size.
"Leclerc."
"Not Leclerc." He grabbed her hand, and her lips parted in surprise as he placed it on his cheek. "Charles."
Fia couldn't breathe. The warmth of his skin beneath her palm sent her heartbeat into overdrive. She wanted to remove it, but he held it there, his hand folded over hers.
"Can you not work it out?" he said in answer to her initial question. His eyes flitted to her lips again, and for a moment, she worried he was going to kiss her.
She thought about what almost happened to Claudia after she was spotted in Charles' room. There were so many reasons that this moment – his mouth so close to hers that they shared breath; their aloneness in this tiny room – shouldn't be happening.
She didn't trust him, and, more than that, she didn't trust herself with him.
"We can't do this," she said, shaking her head. Even as she spoke, she felt her body reacting to their closeness. When Charles didn't move, she said, more firmly, "I don't want this. And the truth is that I don't think you do either."
It took all her willpower to say those words. Fortunately, they had the intended effect; Charles stepped back as though she'd pushed him. It felt like all the air had suddenly left the room. It was too hot, too small, too much.
"You are right," he agreed, his face losing all warmth. It was like watching water freeze. He checked his watch. "Qualifying starts in a minute. I need to go."
Fia nodded and went to open the door. She desperately needed some air and to get as far away as possible.
"Can you hurry up?" Charles asked impatiently.
She tried the handle again. And again. But there was just one problem – the door wouldn't budge.
They were locked in.