The Princess and the Prix

by Nell Stark

  “I’m not the person you want me to be.” When Thalia finally spoke, her voice was surprisingly devoid of inflection. “I like to drive fast cars and fuck fast women and drink too much and watch the sun rise before I sleep. That’s who I am. I’m here to win, not to be a hero or make a point.”

  Fury broke over Alix like a firecracker, flaring briefly before winking out into darkness. In its wake, exhaustion came crashing down. She was beyond finished with this conversation. She raised her glass in mockery of a toast, then downed its contents and pushed back her chair.

  “Best of luck with that.”

  She left the club without a backward glance, regretting her decision to ever become involved in Formula One in the first place. At least it would be well over a month before she would have to see Thalia again. Hopefully, after a long separation, the intensity of her visceral reactions would subside.

  Chapter Ten

  Every second of the Malaysian Grand Prix was torture. It was always the hottest race of the season, and even the most experienced drivers had been known to grow dizzy or confused with dehydration and heat exhaustion by the last several laps. A few had even fainted and crashed. During the nearly three weeks they had to prepare, Thalia increased her cardio regimen, even going so far as to crank up the heat in her gym in order to simulate the racing temperature. She hydrated religiously, sucking down liters of the electrolyte-heavy drink as she practiced repeatedly in the simulator.

  But that was during the day. Work hard, play hard—and at night, she did. Her fame was now sufficient to catapult her into an entirely new class of celebrity, with all the rights belonging thereto. She went out to the hottest clubs and promptly undid all her hydration. She attended exclusive private parties and brought a new date to each. As her fame increased, so did the invitations…along with the attention she was receiving from the public. Photos of her began to appear regularly in the tabloids and on entertainment news shows. Suggestive nicknames were invented for her. Internet articles speculated on her allure. One of her dates ended up on a sleazy morning talk show.

  Her critics were eager to point out her active social life as evidence of a lack of focus. They were desperate to get hold of every glossy image taken by the paparazzi—and every grainy video captured by the amateurs—that revealed her hedonism. They debated her on sports television and radio, on blogs, on social media.

  When she managed a seventh place in Malaysia, she thought she might have silenced them. But after video emerged of her feeling up a grid girl at the Onyx Salon that same evening, the murmurs once again became shouts.

  Shortly after the F1 coterie arrived in Melbourne for the Australian Grand Prix, her father summoned her to his hotel room. They rarely spoke at all, but had become virtually noncommunicative since the beginning of the season. What would have been the point? He was focused on managing his Ferrari drivers, and she was focused on trying to beat them. But when he opened the door for her, she expected some gesture of recognition that their relationship wasn’t purely professional—a paternal arm squeeze, or a grudging word of praise. She got neither. Without a word, he led her into the seating area of his suite.

  “Your behavior has been untoward,” he said once they were seated on opposing couches.

  “Has it really?” she asked sarcastically. “According to whom?”

  “According to any decent person.”

  “Not you, then. So you’re worried about what everyone else thinks of me. How sweet.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Stop trying to be smart, because you’re not.”

  Thalia winced inside and hoped she had not done so visibly. She was swimming in shark waters. There could be no sign of wound or weakness.

  “I didn’t call you here for my own sake,” he continued in that crisp, infernally proper British accent that suggested he was civilized and she barbaric. “But for yours. Your actions have become increasingly self-destructive.”

  “You’ll have to be more specific.” Thalia decided to willfully misinterpret his concern. “Am I too loose on the corners? Not quite catching the proper bite point? What exactly is not to your liking?”

  “Stop being deliberately obtuse.” In a rare show of emotion, he ran one hand through his steel-gray hair. “This has nothing to do with your racing and everything to do with what happens off the track. The booze, the women—”

  “At least I can’t get any of them pregnant.”

  He flushed a dark scarlet and went perfectly still. “As usual, you are twisting everything I say.”

  “And as usual, you are being a condescending bastard. Where you get the nerve to lecture me about my life choices, I’ll never understand.” Thalia stood. “If you approach me again, I’ll report it to the FIA as a case of tampering with another team’s driver.”

  When she turned to leave, he called after her. “I’m not finished with you yet!”

  “See if I care.” Thalia opened the door and didn’t look back.

  *

  In China, she qualified in fifth place but dropped down to eighth by the end of the race, while Peter took second. It was the car, she claimed, and switched over to the team’s spare. But two weeks later in Australia, she managed only ninth while Peter claimed another victory.

  It wasn’t the car.

  After falling three places in Shanghai, video of her doing a keg stand at a private after party had found its way online. When she barely squeaked into ninth place two weeks later, photographs emerged of her getting a lap dance at an exclusive club in Melbourne. Because Peter had won decisively, no one was in a forgiving frame of mind.

  On the day after the race, Thalia was sleeping off her hangover when she was awakened by a phone call: Lord Rufford’s assistant, summoning her to brunch with his wife. Thalia lurched out of bed and into the bathroom to lean against the shower wall under a stream of nearly-scalding water. She made herself as presentable as she could as quickly as she was able, all the while battling the premonition that she was about to get a dressing-down. An hour later, she stood outside the door to their presidential suite, feeling rather like a wayward child who had been summoned to the principal’s office.

  But she hadn’t done anything wrong. She had to remember that. No, she hadn’t raced as well as she had hoped, but she had still finished in the points. And what she did on her own time, when she wasn’t training or in the car, was her business. If the press chose to make it theirs and then pillory her for it, that was their problem. This entire so-called “scandal” was completely a product of the pervasive double standard that denied women the same social freedoms as men.

  When she was ushered inside, Lady Rufford was already sitting at the table, sipping from a delicate china teacup. She looked Thalia up and down, and her mouth compressed.

  “You look like something the cat dragged in.” She gestured to the food. “Sit. Eat.” She snapped her fingers at the hovering waiter. “You there. Pour Ms. d’Angelis some much-needed coffee.”

  “Thank you,” Thalia murmured, resentment simmering beneath her meek comportment.

  The waiter removed the lids from several dishes: scrambled eggs, French toast, sautéed mushrooms, roasted potatoes. Thalia’s stomach turned, but she forced herself to take a little of everything except for the toast.

  Lady Rufford made no move to pick up her fork, which suited Thalia just fine. The silence stretched between them.

  “My husband took a risk on you,” Lady Rufford finally said.

  Her accusatory tone got under Thalia’s skin, fraying the shreds of patience she had tried to pull around her like a tattered jacket. “Your husband hired me as a publicity stunt.”

  “Does that matter? If you do well, everyone wins. You’re here, in Formula One, where you have wanted to be all your life.” She leaned closer. “There are drivers who would give their firstborn child for the chance you’ve been given.”

  “For the chance I’ve earned.”

  “If you’ve earned this position, then why are you acting like a pub
licity stunt?”

  Thalia felt as though she were taking a tight corner—unable to breathe, unable to blink, unable to do anything more than endure the terrible pressure. “Excuse me?” she finally choked out.

  “Whenever I see you, you’re either whining petulantly about something out of your control, making some kind of ridiculous demand like a prima donna, or hanging all over a grid girl. You need to change your attitude, your behavior, and the company you keep. Then, perhaps people will believe you’ve earned your way onto this stage.”

  Resentment churned sluggishly in her chest, stirring up the long-buried sediment of guilt. Obstinately, she resisted the emotion. “All of the most successful male drivers—except for Peter—are exactly what you just described. Why should I need to behave differently from them? If you claim to be a feminist, then why are you reinforcing the double standard?”

  “Because you are different. And you should be. Men and women should always be equal, but never the same. The double standard may be ridiculous, but why would you want to play into that kind of male chauvinism in the first place?” Lady Rufford pointed an elegant finger at her chest. “Do you really want to objectify a woman, clumsily seduce her, bed her, and then forget her name the next morning? Or do you want to be different?”

  Thalia stood up and pushed back her chair. “I want to be myself,” she spat.

  “I’m relieved to hear that.” Lady Rufford looked up at her, unfazed. “Because it seems to me as though you’ve been trying awfully hard to be exactly like those men you mentioned.”

  *

  Thalia leaned against the balcony and looked down at the ocean foaming against the coral reef that stretched invisibly below the surface. She wished she could sprout a pair of gills and lose herself in it—become something not human for a few hours and escape into the simplicity of an animal brain.

  Did animals feel shame? Dogs, perhaps, though that might also be anthropomorphization. Nothing that swam through that coral reef felt shame, she was sure.

  You need to change your attitude, your behavior, and the company you keep.

  Every word was a bitter pill to swallow, but she would have to internalize them if she wanted to succeed. How could she not have seen what Lady Rufford had perceived so easily: that in her quest to legitimize herself as a Formula One driver, she hadn’t been original or authentic in the slightest. All she had done was parrot how the men around her acted.

  She thought of Alix and how passionately she had tried to make that very point at the Onyx Salon after the Italian Grand Prix. Thalia hadn’t been willing to listen then, but she was now. Had Alix been watching these past few races as Thalia continued to fall apart? Had she felt vindicated? She didn’t strike Thalia as the kind of person to buy tabloids, but when the papers were staring you in the face at every supermarket, how could you avoid them?

  Then again, Alix was a princess. She didn’t need to go to the supermarket.

  Alix deserved an apology. Perhaps that could be her first step on the road to following Lady Rufford’s command. She would mend her—relationship? friendship? acquaintance?—with Alix and try to remain in her orbit for the time being. In so doing, she would also remove herself from the temptations of her usual social scene. It was as good a plan as any—assuming, of course, she could convince Alix to go along with it.

  “Hey.” Peter had found her.

  “Hey.” She glanced at him quickly, then away. “Where are Courtney and Bryce?”

  He pointed behind them, toward the pool. “Happily splashing away.”

  She watched as Bryce, his arms enveloped by a pair of Batman floaties, doggie-paddled enthusiastically toward his mother. For one ridiculous instant, she wanted to trade places with him. And then the feeling passed.

  “So…what’s going on with you?” Peter asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean that I feel sometimes like I barely know you anymore.” His stare bored into hers. “The Thalia I know is a fighter. She would never be content with these kinds of results. She’d find a way to pull herself back up to the top, instead of letting herself sink to the bottom.”

  “Yeah, well, maybe you don’t know me.” Chest aching with a fresh surge of shame, she returned her gaze to the ocean.

  “Bullshit.” Peter spoke the word in an oddly conversational tone. “I’ve watched you race with a giant chip on your shoulder since you were a teenager. You raced to get your father to act like he loves you, and when that didn’t work, you raced so he would respect you. But underneath all of that bullshit, it was always clear that you were racing because it was your vocation.” He shrugged. “That’s what you’ve lost.”

  Frowning, she turned back to him. “But it is my vocation. It’s the only thing I’m good at.”

  “Now you just sound desperate. Desperation breeds fear, and fear breeds failure. Don’t you think Terrence is patting himself on the back right now for getting into your head with that dick move of his at Monza? You haven’t been the same since, because you’ve been afraid.”

  “I’m not afraid,” she shot back. “I’ve always known the risks.”

  “Not afraid of dying. Afraid of losing.” His gaze held hers. “You and I both know you can’t win if you’re afraid of losing.”

  Thalia felt close to tears for the second time that day. “Fuck.” She clutched at the railing.

  “You have the talent. No one worth their salt who has seen you race doubts that. But right now, you’re wasting it.” He squeezed her upper arm. “Stop wasting it. Find your way back to who you really are.”

  “Who I really am.” Thalia could hear the hollowness in her own voice. “What if I don’t know who that is?”

  Peter stood with her for a long, drawn-out moment in silent sympathy. Or perhaps it was empathy, Thalia thought. Had he ever been in a similar position? Lost in the maze of his own making?

  “Talented. Intense. Focused. Driven. Humorous. Generous. Playful.” He squeezed her arm again, punctuating the list of attributes. “I know who you really are,” he said quietly. “I bet there are plenty of other people out there who do too. If you’ve forgotten, stick with us. We’ll remind you.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Alix was in the process of composing the invitation to the Monaco Grand Prix’s Onyx Salon charity fashion show—all proceeds from which would benefit Rising Sun—when her phone rang. Caller ID revealed the number of her secretary, but past nine o’clock was rather late for him to be contacting her.

  “Yes, Alain?”

  “Your Serene Highness, I apologize for the hour. But Ms. Thalia d’Angelis is on the line for you. Would you like to speak with her, or shall I take a message?”

  Confusion filtered through her anticipation. She and Thalia hadn’t parted well in Italy, and Alix had heard nothing from her for nearly two months—though she had certainly seen plenty of images suggestive of just how thoroughly Thalia had been “enjoying” herself. The media fallout had been unkind, but she didn’t know much more than that. Reading about Thalia’s misadventures “Down Under” hadn’t rated on her to-do list. If she were being honest with herself, she hadn’t wanted to know the gory details.

  “Ma’am?”

  “I’ll speak with her,” Alix said quickly.

  “Very well.”

  “Hello,” she said coolly into the receiver, wondering why she felt nervous. Thalia was the one who should have a case of nerves, given how their last conversation had concluded.

  “Alix. Hi. Thanks for taking my call, especially since we didn’t exactly leave things well last month.”

  Alix didn’t know what to say. For the first few weeks after their last encounter, she had alternated between waiting for word from Thalia, and hoping they never had another conversation. After the Australian Grand Prix, when photographs had surfaced of Thalia getting that ridiculous lap dance, Alix had vowed never to take her call, even if she did reach out. And now she was breaking her promise to herself.

  “Are you there?”


  “I’m here.”

  “Okay.” Thalia sounded uncharacteristically meek. Had she finally found some measure of shame and humility, or was it all, as Alix feared, an act? “Can we talk?”

  “We’re talking.”

  “I mean in person. That’s how I want to apologize to you.”

  Alix was surprised and pleased, and hated herself for being the latter. “Maybe. Where and when would you like to meet?”

  “Well…I’m actually at the Meridien right now. So anytime you’d like.”

  Alix felt her pulse shoot through the roof and took a deep breath in an attempt to curb it. Thalia was here, in her city. Just a few blocks away.

  “Sure of yourself, were you?”

  “No. Just hopeful.”

  It wasn’t possible to feign the slight quaver in her voice, was it? Alix hoped not. As far as she could tell, Thalia wasn’t good at pretending. Perhaps that was a kind of salvation.

  “I’ll come to you,” she said after a long moment of consideration. While she would rather meet Thalia on her own turf, she didn’t feel comfortable inviting her to the palace. Thalia’s paparazzi tail would likely catch wind of her visit, and then her own family would be in the news again—this time linked to Formula One’s wayward daughter. For her parents’ sake, she wanted to avoid that.

  Before she left her apartment, Alix changed her clothes. She had been lounging in yoga pants and a tank top, but abandoned them for jeans and a loose linen shirt. She looked nothing like a stereotypical princess, which suited both her and her needs just fine. David, her security detail for the evening, was surprised to see her at the door.