by Nell Stark
Balancing the bone china saucer on her knee, Alix rubbed a thumb across the calluses on her palm, ears ringing with the songs the women had sung in the fields. Even the frothy surface of her espresso reminded her of the colors of the savannah, its sere plains waiting anxiously for the spring rains. The dusty, arid breeze had chapped her lips and coated her lungs, lending her voice an unfamiliar, gritty quality. Now, the cool, moist air of Monaco soothed her parched throat, fooling her body back into complacence. Were she to go to the window and pull aside the heavy brocade curtains, the familiar, sparkling expanse of the Mediterranean would greet her, its surface reflecting the sky. All her life, she had taken it for granted. What was that verse from the Bible? For now we see through a glass, darkly; but then face to face.
She drained her demitasse and set it aside, where it was removed within moments by a swift, silent member of the palace staff. Across the low marble table, her father was parceling out royal duties for the coming months. Florestan, who for years had been more interested in enjoying his A-list status as much as possible, had recently become more interested in his role as hereditary prince. In his relief, their father had begun to increase his royal duties, and Florestan was already beginning to shoulder the burden of certain affairs of state. He had also recently begun dating Princess Monique of Luxembourg, and their mother made it no secret that she hoped this relationship resulted in marriage and several grandchildren. Alix thought of all the babies she had delivered over the past few months—children brought into a world that revolved around cattle, not casinos. Florestan’s child, by a mere accident of birth, would never want for food or water or health care.
Guilt swept through her, leaving nausea in its wake. Her eyes were open now, yet here she sat in the lap of luxury, breakfast roiling in her stomach while women across the Karamoja labored under the pounding sun, bellies taut with hunger. Her presence among them had made a difference in small ways, but she wanted to do more. Last night, alone in her own space for the first time in months, floating on a mattress that felt like a cloud and cocooned in sheets scented with lavender, she had tossed and turned. Finally, she had gone to her desk and read article after article on humanitarian efforts in East Africa. Some of the organizations were familiar to her, but others she knew nothing about. The Princess of Wales was also apparently interested in the region, and Alix had been intrigued by reports of her efforts to stimulate economic development through micro-financing initiatives aimed at women.
Watching the slow progress of dawn across the surface of the sea, she had felt suddenly empowered by a fierce conviction that now was the time to do something. Thus far, she had devoted her adult life to studying medicine and the law, but now it was time to set the books aside and act. With three degrees to her name and the access and connections afforded by her royal pedigree, she could muster the necessary resources to create a foundation of her own. Not one to merely pay lip service to, as Florestan did in his patronage of marine conservation and Camille in her support of Monegasque cultural heritage.
“Are we almost finished, Father?” Camille’s bored, soprano voice sliced through Alix’s introspection. “I have an appointment.”
Their father looked up from his leather bound notebook with a stern expression. “Since it isn’t on our official calendar, it can surely wait a few minutes longer.”
Camille sat back with a huff. As she almost certainly had an appointment at the spa or salon, Alix didn’t feel an ounce of sympathy.
“However,” he continued, “you will be relieved to hear that there is only one item left on our agenda: the British Princess Royal’s…ceremony.” His upper lip curled as he spoke the word.
Princess Sasha, second in line to the British throne, would marry her fiancée later this year—Alix wasn’t sure when, exactly. Staunchly Roman Catholic, her father had been clear about his disapproval since Sasha had publicly come out as a lesbian. Even as same-sex marriage advanced across Western Europe, Monaco remained a bastion of social conservatism. Alix, for whom science was religion, thought the whole controversy rather silly.
Their mother, silent until now, shook her head in clear dismay. “That poor girl has been a lost soul since her mother’s death. Why does her father allow her to flaunt herself in this way?”
“Sasha has never understood the value of discretion,” Florestan said.
Florestan’s hypocrisy was hard to swallow, but he had a point. Even Alix, who didn’t care about celebrity gossip, had heard reports of Sasha’s hedonist lifestyle. They hadn’t crossed paths in years, since before Alix had gone to study in America. She couldn’t recall the exact occasion, but it was impossible not to remember how Sasha had outshone every woman in the room—including Camille.
“She could have any man she likes,” Camille chimed in, her tone caught between jealousy and admiration.
Alix was tempted to retort that logically, that was entirely beside the point for someone who preferred women. Fortunately, their father curtailed any further discussion by returning his attention to the calendar.
“The ceremony is in London in three weeks’ time, and one of us must represent the family. Florestan will be at the Oceanographic Institute’s conservation summit, and the twins, of course, must prepare for their exams.”
“I need to be here to open the Garden Club’s first flower show of the year,” said Camille.
“Very well.” Their father scribbled a note while Alix tried to get over her surprise. Camille was turning down an invitation to a party? “I will ask one of your cousins to—”
“I’ll go.”
Silence, as every head turned in her direction, each face registering surprise.
“You will?” said Florestan.
“Seriously?” said Camille.
“How wonderful!” Initially thrilled, their mother suddenly clasped her hands. “But you have nothing to wear! I’ll call for one of the tailors immediately.”
Their father was regarding her intently. “You’re quite certain, Pomme? I know you prefer to avoid these kinds of large social gatherings.”
The nickname she’d been saddled with since infancy grated on her ears, but Alix tried to mask her annoyance. “I won’t embarrass you, Father,” she said, working to make light of the situation. “And yes, I’m sure. I’ll turn it into a business trip. The Princess of Wales has a charity that is very active in East Africa and I’d like to speak with her about—”
The wood-paneled door swung open with a loud creak. “Madam, you wish to see me?”
Felicite, the younger of the two royal tailors, stood framed in the gap. Dressed in a black and white checkered suit that had doubtless been created by a designer Alix had never heard of, she radiated a compassionately judgmental aura—as if her calling in life was to painstakingly educate the aristocracy on the changing landscape of the avant-garde in fashion.
“Yes, so good of you to come quickly.” Alix watched her mother meet Felicite halfway across the room, gesture in her direction, and begin to confer in hushed tones.
And that was that—a description of her charity work eclipsed by the royal tailor. Alix couldn’t say she was surprised. Fortunately, after so many years of disinterest from her family, the slight barely stung. Alix had faced the facts long ago: she was much more productive when she was neither seen nor heard.
*
Petrol Macedonia’s corporate park sprawled over five hundred thousand square meters on a plateau overlooking the Ribble estuary in western England. The office of Sir Alexander Rufford, seventh Earl of Rufford and company founder, looked out over the network of small streams branching out from the River Ribble like the tendrils of a jellyfish. Beyond them, the Irish Sea stretched to the horizon—now blue, now gray, as clouds streamed across the face of the sun. Thalia sat at the conference table, watching their shadows race along the distant marshland and trying not to fidget. A manila folder containing what she presumed to be her contract rested on the glossy surface only a few feet out of her reach, and in the far
corner of the room, three bottles of champagne were chilling in a bucket stand. So long as she didn’t make a mistake within the next few minutes, their popped corks would herald her long-awaited triumph.
To her left sat Peter Taggart, three-time Formula One champion and her new teammate. Peter’s hair was tinged with silver at his temples, but otherwise he looked much as he had for all the years he had been her idol. His square-jawed, rugged good looks had not diminished with age, and he was just as fierce a competitor as he had been at the height of his career. From their first meeting at one of her father’s dinner parties, Peter had always been kind to her. He had also been among the few to take her seriously as a driver early on, going so far as to keep tabs on her Karting career and offer her the occasional piece of advice. When Aiglon Motors had jettisoned him after one rocky season in favor of rising star Lucas Mountjoy, she had lost a large chunk of respect for them. Fortunately, Peter had landed on his feet at Petrol Macedonia, having exceeded all expectations by coming in third place last year—quite the feat for an organization brand new to F1. And now he was her teammate.
Teammate. The familiar thrill shot up her spine. She was about to be a Formula One driver. How long had she dreamed, how hard had she worked, how much had she hoped? And now it was a reality. Surreptitiously, she took stock of the man to her right: Alistair Campbell, team manager and world champion driver in his own right. Alistair was a contemporary of her father’s but nothing like him. Naturally reticent, he radiated a quiet intensity at all times but shunned the spotlight. Thalia wondered how much convincing he had needed to offer the second seat to her.
Behind the large, polished desk, Sir Alexander was expressing his displeasure with the person who had called in the middle of their conference. He scowled at the screen of his computer, the blinking blue light on his earpiece keeping time with the tic beneath his right eye. Like every other corporate executive she had ever met, he was always stressed and sought out high-adrenaline hobbies as therapy. His F1 team might not be one of the venerable dynasties of motorsport, but he was passionate about racing, smart enough to hire good people, and most importantly, wealthy.
“By end of day,” he barked into the phone. “Otherwise, no deal.” He hung up, and his expression cleared as he returned to the table. “Now, where were we?”
“You were just stroking Thalia’s ego,” Peter said with a grin. Unlike everyone else she had seen today, he treated Rufford more like an equal than like the man whose munificence made it possible for them to race. Last year’s performance on top of his already stellar record may have earned him that right, but she was unproven and needed to mind her p’s and q’s. Especially until she signed the contract he was about to offer. Still, meek and mild was not in her nature.
“Jealous?” she fired back at him.
“Me? Jealous of you?” He flashed perfect white teeth in a mocking grin.
“I’m glad to see you two get along so well,” Alistair said dryly. “Let’s hope it extends to the track.”
“Is there a particular strategy that you have in mind for this season?” Thalia asked, partially because she wanted to know his philosophy for the team, and partially to show him she could be serious.
“The only strategy I know is to win.” He paused to look between them. “We’re fairly confident in the performance of the cars. Theoretically, we have a fair shot at the Constructors’ Championship.”
The Constructors’ Championship, awarded to the team to win the most points between their two drivers, was the prize sought after by a team manager. Often, the team that won the Constructors’ Championship included the individual who won the World Championship, but not always. Alistair’s taciturnity may or may not have been for the sake of diplomacy. Peter might be the team’s first driver and she the second, but depending on skill and the vicissitudes of fate, she could outperform him once the season began. There had been years when both members of a team were competing for the World Championship title, and that often got ugly, with teammates forcing each other off the track, or capitalizing on each other’s weaknesses rather than working together. In some cases, such high jinks had cost teams the Constructors’ Cup. But even if they did both end up in title contention, Thalia would never throw Peter under the bus and was reasonably sure he wouldn’t turn on her either.
“When Peter suggested you for our second seat, I initially had my doubts,” Rufford said. “But then I watched a few of your races and asked Alistair to do the same. You’re skilled, you’re scrappy, and you’re hungry for the podium. We’re still the underdog, and we need those qualities in our drivers.”
His candor roused her defensiveness, but she pushed it aside to focus on the positives. He was willing to give her a chance. Right now, that was all that mattered. “With all due respect, Lord Rufford, for years now, I’ve watched every male colleague who even approaches my winning record get promoted to Formula One. I have something better than a dick to swing around: I have a score to settle. I belong in F1 and will consider it an honor to hitch my rising star to yours.” She held out one hand, praying it wouldn’t tremble and betray her nerves. “Shall I sign to make it official?”
Silence. Drawing on all her experience keeping calm in the cockpit, she met his gaze without flinching. Finally, he smiled and pushed the manila folder to her side of the table. “My wife is going to like you.”
Peter laughed. Alistair looked down at the tabletop. Thalia paused in the act of uncapping her fountain pen, alert to the presence of what could be a rhetorical trap. “I look forward to meeting Lady Rufford,” she said carefully.
“Like you, she is formidable. And she is a great champion of women’s and children’s rights across the globe. She may well want you to serve as a spokesperson.”
Thalia wondered whether they would be having this same conversation if she were male. Well-intentioned misogyny was still misogyny. “I’d be happy to,” she said, even as she hoped that Lady Rufford might find her an unpalatable spokeswoman and leave her to focus on driving.
“Go on and sign it, then,” Rufford said, “so we can enjoy this very fine champagne.”
Thalia’s fingers closed around the barrel of her pen. It had been a gift from her mother and she had only used it once before—to sign the paperwork on the apartment she owned in London. Flipping through the contract, she initialed each page and then signed at the end. When it was done, she sat staring at her signature—the autograph of the seventh woman ever to claim the status of Formula One driver. None of her predecessors had ever won a race, or even come close to standing on a podium. Silently, she vowed to be the first to do both.
Chapter Three
Thalia hated being driven by other people. Unable to relax into the leather embrace of the Rolls Royce, she tapped one foot against the immaculate mat, prompting a curious glance from her “plus one.” Maeve Moynihan, Irish-born actress on a newly popular British sitcom, was about to make a splash, but if she felt anxious, she gave no sign.
“Nervous?” Maeve asked, resting one hand briefly atop Thalia’s.
“Impatient,” Thalia said. “I prefer to drive myself.”
“Of course you do,” Maeve said with a laugh. “But you couldn’t make this car go any faster even if you were behind the wheel.”
She had a point. The approach to Westminster Abbey was lined with people waving Union Jacks and rainbow flags. Police were stationed regularly along the route, directing traffic with crisp, efficient, utterly British movements. Thalia tried to push down her restlessness and enjoy the view. The first gay royal wedding ever in the history of the world, and she had been invited. She might not be the most modest person on earth, but that plain fact was humbling.
When the pale façade of the cathedral came into view, Maeve leaned across the seat to adjust Thalia’s narrow tie. “Have I mentioned yet today how good you look?”
Thalia was certain that plenty of media outlets wouldn’t see it that way, but she refused to be apologetic about her choice of formalwear
. The world would be watching, and today, she wanted to remind them of her queerness.
“You’re pretty spectacular yourself,” Thalia said, not only because that was the expected response, but also because it was true. Maeve’s dark blue dress clung to her slim figure, and its deep neckline allowed the string of sapphires around her neck to stand out against her pale, freckled skin.
As soon as she followed Thalia out of the car, the media would have a field day. Thalia’s sexual orientation was ancient history, but Maeve would be the latest in a succession of women to use their dating relationship as a springboard for coming out. Thalia didn’t mind; it only enhanced her reputation. And she was almost positive that she could trust Maeve not to fall in love with her, which made their dynamic so much more relaxed.
When the car began to decelerate, Thalia caught and held Maeve’s gaze. “You sure?”
“Never more certain.”
“Here goes.” As soon as the car stopped, Thalia opened the door and stepped out. The snap, crackle, pop of a dozen flashbulbs punctuated the shouts, cheers, and boos from the crowd. Fleetingly, she wondered whether the latter were motivated by her sexual orientation or her affiliation with Petrol Macedonia, before she turned to assist Maeve from the vehicle. Silently, she counted down to the audience’s inevitable gasp. They reacted right on cue, and for one precarious moment, she struggled to school her features.
“Is that Maeve Moynihan?”
“Maeve, are you a lesbian?”
“Are you two dating?”
“How long have you been together?”
“How did you meet?”
As the horde of journalists, bristling with microphones, surged forward, the police formed a loose circle around them. Thalia murmured her thanks as the escort cleared a path to the entrance. The tall wooden doors whooshed shut behind them like gigantic wings. Blinking hard to adjust her vision to the dim lighting, she squeezed Maeve’s hand.
