by Paige Toon
Chapter 13
Holly and I run towards each other, squealing, before doing a little jig on the spot. We’re at Heathrow – again – and are beside ourselves with excitement. This time we’re off to Monte Carlo for the most glamorous and historic race of the season. This is the place to see and be seen and Holly and I have spent the last couple of days liaising on the telephone about what going-out outfits we should take with us. As a result, my bag is packed full to breaking point.
‘So I reckon we should go to a bar on the harbour tonight,’ Holly says, taking my arm as we walk towards the check-in desk.
‘Sounds good.’ It’s Wednesday, and Will isn’t due to arrive until four p.m. tomorrow. It’ll be about seven o’clock by the time he gets to the hotel. I know this, because I asked Ally for his itinerary. For professional reasons, of course. Anyway, it means there’s a whole night and day to kill before I can see him again.
The last week and a half has been torture. I woke up on Monday morning in a cold sweat, severely regretting texting him. I keep telling myself it was completely innocent, but I just hope he sees it like that. I’d be mortified if he suspected I fancied him.
The motorhomes in Monaco are all situated on the port, about five minutes’ walk from the pits across the temporary Rascasse bridge. We can see the boats on the glittering ocean from here, and there’s a spectacular view looking back up at the hills, which are jagged with apartment blocks and hotels overlooking the harbour.
By Friday morning, I’m so on edge that I can’t believe I haven’t spontaneously combusted. We went out straight from the track on Thursday night and, as a result, I wasn’t at the hotel when Will checked in, which I’m assuming he did.
Frederick pipes up. ‘Can you get on with the bacon, Daisy?’
‘Yes, Chef!’
Urgh, that’s the last thing I feel like doing. I have to grill it out in the hospitality area so it’s fresh for our guests, but I always end up smelling like bacon afterwards and with a hangover I feel decidedly queasy. Queasy and greasy. A lovely combination.
‘Happy there with your nice muesli?’ I gripe at Holly.
‘Perfectly, thank you.’ She smirks. I’m tempted to throw a piece of bacon at her, but Frederick would go mad.
It’s only six a.m. but the team members are starting to appear, each looking more worse for wear than the last. Then Simon comes into the hospitality area looking bright-eyed and bushy tailed.
‘Can I get you a tea? Coffee?’ I offer.
‘Coffee, please. White, no sugar.’ But, of course, I know this already. He fidgets on the spot impatiently for all of two seconds before snapping, ‘Actually, Holly, can you bring that up?’
‘Sure,’ she replies.
He stalks off.
‘That’s strange,’ she comments.
You’re telling me. Why the hell didn’t he ask for me to take it to him, considering I’m supposed to be his on-hand girl? But I keep these thoughts to myself.
‘Don’t you think?’ Holly gives me a weird look.
‘Yeah, it is a bit,’ I agree, uncomfortably. Is he angry with me? Does he know about me keeping Will up before qualifying in Istanbul?
Holly takes the cup from me and heads out and up the stairs, while I get back to flipping bacon.
Then Will walks through the doors, and all my worries about Simon vanish in an instant.
I watch him with anticipation, willing him to look up and see me. Suddenly he does, but there’s something not right about his smile.
And then I see her. Tall, slim, blonde, wearing white skinny jeans and a fitted white shirt, looking radiant, glowing with a light tan – the sort of tan only the very rich seem to get right.
Laura. I know it in an instant.
I’m in shock. I realise I’m staring. My eyes flit back to Will as I see him stop to shake hands with some sponsors. He introduces Laura and she shakes their hands, too.
I want to escape. I want to get out of here. But with Holly upstairs, I’m the only person staffing the station. And now they’re coming this way.
‘Would I be able to have a cup of tea, please?’ Laura asks in a posh British accent.
I look around for the teapot and realise Gertrude has just gone into the kitchen to make a fresh pot. I can’t wait for her to come back so I pour water into a cup direct from the hot water jug, trying to keep my hands steady. I suddenly realise I haven’t put the teabag in, so I quickly rectify my mistake, but it means the tea doesn’t brew as well. I stir it with a teaspoon, assuming Laura is currently thinking I’m a total loser.
‘Laura, this is Daisy,’ Will says.
‘Hello!’ She leans across and shakes my hand. It’s greasy from bacon fat, but she doesn’t wipe her hand on her trousers or do anything so common as that afterwards. She probably has a handkerchief in her handbag, for all I know.
‘Good morning,’ I reply, feeling ever so formal. ‘Let me know if you need anything during your stay, won’t you? I’m here to help!’ I have NO idea where these words are coming from, but I force a bright, albeit shaky, smile.
‘Well, thank you very much,’ she says warmly, holding her hands out for the tea.
‘Milk?’ I ask weakly.
‘No, thank you. What are you having, darling?’ She turns to Will. ‘One of those dreadful milkshakes?’
I stare at him as he decides.
‘No, maybe later.’ He puts his hand on Laura’s lower back and steers her away, not meeting my eyes. They take a seat at one of the tables and I do my utmost to focus on the bacon, but my gaze keeps flitting back to them.
She doesn’t wear much make-up – only a light slick of the sheerest lipgloss and a touch of blush and mascara. She’s too beautiful to need anything else. I can see her fingers, long and slim, wrapped around the handle of her teacup. Her nails are perfectly manicured.
‘Alright?’ Holly re-emerges, looking comparatively cheerful.
‘Laura is here,’ I mutter under my breath.
Holly surveys the tables and spots her instantly. She waves. I look at Laura to see her wave back and smile. I remember they’ve met before.
‘Sorry,’ Holly whispers to me. ‘She saw me; I couldn’t ignore her.’
Will suddenly stands up. Laura looks surprised at his sudden movement. He says something to her, then turns and walks towards the stairs leading to his private room. She quickly places her teacup on the saucer and hurries, gazelle-like, after him in her ever-so-high heels.
I turn and look at Holly.
‘Oh, dear,’ she says.
I don’t speak, just stare down at the sizzling bacon. I look back up at her. ‘Does my hair look greasy?’
‘No, it looks fine,’ she lies. ‘Gorgeous. You look stunning.’
I smile at her gratefully, even though I know I look like a state. Why oh why did I go out drinking last night? And the bacon! The curse of the bacon! I look like a mess.
‘Why did she have to come to this race? Of all the races to come to, this is the one I’ve been most looking forward to!’ I lament.
‘Don’t let this spoil it for you,’ Holly says, but she doesn’t understand. My weekend has been ruined already.
Later that afternoon, Holly takes me to one side. ‘I know why she’s here.’
‘Who? Laura?’
Holly nods.
‘Why?’
‘She’s involved in a charity event they’re all going to this evening.’
By ‘they’ I assume she means the drivers and directors.
‘I see.’ So there’s no chance of Will coming out with us tonight.
‘We’ll have a good time,’ she tells me, but she knows I don’t believe it.
By ten thirty that night, I’ve had enough. Everyone else is in high spirits, but I just don’t have it in me to enjoy myself. I quietly tell Holly I’m heading back to the hotel. She immediately grabs my arm and pleads with me to stay, before drunkenly insisting she’ll come with me. I firmly tell her no. She’s been having a laugh with
Pete and Dan and I know they’ll see she gets back to the hotel safely.
The streets and bars are bustling with people and there’s a real party feel about the place. As I set off down the road I’m overcome with sadness that I’m letting Will and Laura ruin my time in Monaco. Holly has raved about this race ever since I got the job with the team last year. I almost stop and go back to the bar, but I feel foolish enough as it is – I don’t want to draw more attention to myself.
After a while I spot a couple of front-of-house girls I know from one of the other teams. It’s a warm night in May and they’re sitting outside at a table on the crowded pavement. One of them, Sarah, beckons me over, so I go to say hello.
‘Where are you off to?’ Sarah asks me.
‘Oh, back to the hotel,’ I tell her reluctantly, aware of the response I’m going to get.
‘BACK TO THE HOTEL?’ she shouts. ‘You’ve got to be kidding me!’
I shrug.
‘Sit down here, girl. Get that down ya.’ She pours me a glass of champagne from the bottle they’ve almost polished off.
I dither for a moment. Maybe I could have one drink here and then decide if I should go back and join the others? What would it hurt? I make the decision to do as she says and as soon as the bubbly fizz hits the back of my throat, I feel better. To hell with it, I am going to stay out!
We sit there and gossip about the fling Sarah is having with a mechanic from another team, until we eventually drink all the champagne.
‘Another one?’ I ask, lifting the empty bottle up.
‘Yeah!’ they chorus.
‘I’ll go to the bar,’ I say, looking around for a waiter and not seeing one. They’ve been rushed off their feet.
I make my way to the busy bar area and lean in, trying to get the bartender’s attention.
‘Hello, Daisy Paola Giuseppe Rogers.’
I turn to see Luis standing beside me. I feel bizarrely happy to see him. ‘Hello, Luis I Don’t Know Your Middle Name Castro.’
‘It’s just as well. I have about six of them.’
‘Six middle names?’
‘Yes.’
‘Whatever.’ I grin. ‘How did you remember my full name anyway?’ I vaguely remember telling him what it was way back in Bahrain when we had a few drinks that night.
‘I have a good memory.’
‘Do you?’
‘Yep.’ He leans up against the bar top, facing me. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘I should ask you the same question. Aren’t you supposed to be at whatshername’s do?’
‘Yeah. Boring as hell. I left.’
‘That’s not very charitable of you.’
‘I do my bit,’ he says, looking around. ‘Where are the others?’
‘At some other bar.’
‘You here alone?’ He looks surprised.
‘I bumped into a couple of bun tarts’ – I say this wryly – ‘from another team. They’re over there.’ I point outside and we both look to see a waiter standing over their table, taking an order.
‘Oh,’ I say. ‘I don’t know what I’m doing here.’ I indicate the bar.
‘Stay and have a drink with me,’ he suggests. ‘I’ve been hanging out with Rizzo and Aranda, but now they’ve buggered off to bed, boring bastards.’
I laugh and pull up a stool that has just been vacated. Sarah glances my way and I point at Luis and pretend to knock back a shot. She gives me the thumbs up, understanding my sign language.
Luis calls over the bartender and orders a beer. I decide to go hardcore and opt for a whisky and Coke.
‘Are you Luis Castro?’ the bartender asks in a heavy French accent as he whacks our drinks down on the bar top.
‘Yes,’ Luis answers, pulling out his wallet.
‘These are on us,’ the bartender replies. ‘Good luck for the race.’
‘Thanks very much. Cheers.’ He holds his bottle up to the bartender and then to me, before gulping some down. ‘So you’re drowning your sorrows, hey?’ He gets straight to the point.
‘Mmm.’
‘Have you spoken to her?’
‘Barely at all. I made her tea. And didn’t do a very good job.’
‘Did she give you any stick?’
I scoff. ‘No, and she’d better not because I won’t be standing for it.’ I’ve had too much to drink. This isn’t me speaking, at all.
‘Will you tell her to go fuck herself like you did me that time?’
I laugh sharply, before saying, ‘I don’t think I’ll be going quite that far.’
‘Teach me some other swear words,’ he says, grinning.
I swivel on my stool to face him, glad of the distraction he’s providing.
‘Well, you know, “cazzo”, right?’
‘Dick?’
‘Yeah. That’s what it literally means, but it pretty much covers everything: fuck, shit, etc. If you want to really express annoyance, you can say, “Cazzo, cazzo, cazzo!”’
‘Got it.’
‘Your turn.’
‘Cazzo, cazzo, cazzo!’ he exclaims, slapping his hand theatrically on the bar top.
‘Shh!’ I start to giggle. ‘I hope none of Emilio Rizzo’s fans are in earshot. I want you to teach me some Portuguese slang! You can never know too many swear words in foreign languages . . .’
He smirks. ‘Okay . . .’
‘How do you say, “fuck it!”?’
‘Fode-se. And “fuck off” is va se foder.’
‘What about, “I couldn’t give a shit”?’
‘Estou me cagando.’
I repeat it: ‘Estou me cagando about William Trust and his god-damn girlfriend!’
Luis chuckles.
‘This is great,’ I say. ‘It’s really cheering me up.’
‘I bet it is.’
‘I wish Will were here.’
Luis looks a little put out, then seems to realise what I mean. ‘So you can swear at him?’
‘Exactly. Dickhead.’
‘Testa di cazzo!’
‘You got it!’
He raises his beer bottle and loudly chinks the almost empty whisky glass in my hand. ‘You want another?’
I glance over at Sarah and her friend. They won’t mind if I don’t go back and join them.
‘Sure.’
The bartender comes over and takes our order, noisily banging down my glass and Luis’s beer bottle.
‘On the house,’ he says.
‘Thanks!’ Luis and I both enthuse.
‘Hey . . .’ I lean in and motion to the bartender to do the same.
‘Yes?’
‘How do you say “fucker” in French?’
He doesn’t bat an eyelid. ‘Enculé.’
‘Cool. Thanks.’
‘What about “fuck off”?’ Luis chips in.
‘Va te faire foutre,’ the bartender replies, leaning in further. ‘Are you thinking of ways to talk to your team-mate?’ His tone is conspiratorial.
I collapse into giggles.
‘No!’ Luis denies, but the bartender grins knowingly.
‘I’ve read the newspapers,’ he says. ‘Do you two dislike each other as much as they make out?’
‘No,’ Luis shakes his head dismissively.
The bartender winks and leaves us to it.
I look at Luis and raise an eyebrow. ‘Is that what they’re saying in the gossip columns?’
‘Surely you’ve heard about our so-called feud?’ He regards me with disbelief.
‘I never read the tabloids.’ I don’t read proper papers much either, but I don’t tell him this.
‘Don’t you?’
‘No. Never, ever, EVER.’ I tipsily slap my hand down on the bar top to emphasise my point.
‘Why not?’
‘I have my reasons.’
‘When did you stop reading them?’
I pull a face at him. It’s not that fascinating a subject, is it? ‘A few months after I moved to the UK.’
‘Too much about
Johnny Jefferson in them, was there?’
I almost fall off my barstool.
‘Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone,’ he says.
‘How did you find out?’ I raise my hand to my throat. I feel like I’m choking.
‘I looked you up on the internet,’ he replies. ‘Daisy, it’s okay.’ He touches my arm. ‘You can trust me.’
I’ve heard that before. I can’t trust anyone.
‘Why did you do that?’ I manage to ask. What is it with him and Will? Except Will came back with nothing about Johnny, only my father.
‘I’m sorry,’ Luis apologises. ‘Maybe I shouldn’t have. But Will was telling me how you worked for someone famous . . .’
The disappointment that Will gossiped about me when I asked him to keep his mouth shut barely has time to register.
‘I remembered about your middle names and searched under “Paola Giuseppe” instead. Johnny Jefferson’s name came up right away.’
I stare at him, still feeling shell-shocked.
‘Look, I swear I won’t say anything to anyone. Not even Will to annoy him. I swear.’ He looks at me intently as I consider him warily. ‘Is that why you left America?’ Luis prompts.
I nod, taking a deep breath. His eyes are full of sympathy. And something happens to me. The weight that I’ve been feeling on my shoulders for the past two years slowly but surely begins to lift. Once I start talking, I can’t stop . . .
I’m a New York City girl, but almost three years ago I went to live in Los Angeles to work as a personal assistant to one of the biggest rock stars in the world. I fell for him instantly. Johnny Jefferson is the ultimate bad boy. The type of guy you should never fall in love with, but the type of guy you inevitably do. The thing that completely caught me off guard was that he fell for me, too. At least, I think he did. It’s hard to tell with Johnny. He’s complicated, to put it mildly. And that’s when it all went wrong. The groupies had always been there, waiting on the sidelines, but Johnny stepped up the drink, drugs and, of course, the sex with countless girls, and he made sure I was a witness to all of it. Eventually I couldn’t take it anymore. It was devastating to watch the person I loved most in the world self-destruct. And when it was over, when I’d finally walked out his door for the last time, I still couldn’t put him behind me. I would see him at parties, at bars and clubs, and even though I soon got a job as a PA to a businessman, the group of friends my new boss mixed with meant that Johnny was never far from my sight. Then Johnny got a new PA, a girl from England, and the rumours circulated that the same thing had happened to her. It was the final straw, to know I wasn’t ‘The One’, to know that I was just another notch on his belt. I was still in love with him, so I quit my job, fled the country and moved to England. I could have gone to Italy. I should have gone to Italy. But Johnny is British and the thought of leaving him behind fully was too much. In London there was always the risk of bumping into him again – I’ve even catered at a party for his own record company – but so far we’ve managed unwittingly to avoid each other.
