The Way Back

by Dominique Kyle

  I sighed. Why could I never keep out of trouble for more than five minutes? They wouldn’t be happy with me endangering their highly paid, molly coddled, extremely valuable driver’s life and limb in a cheap sardine can on wheels with big nerf rails.

  An hour later and I was sent upstairs to the departmental manager. I checked the plate on the door to make sure I had the correct office. Yes, Mr. Heskett. I took a deep breath and knocked on the door.

  He looked blank as I walked in.

  “And you are..?”

  “Eve McGinty, one of the interns,” I supplied helpfully. “I’ve been in aerodynamics for the past six weeks.”

  “Right…” He said. “And?”

  I sat down in the chair in front of his desk. “And I’ve come for my bollocking.”

  He looked down at the papers in front of him as though they’d miraculously supply the answer, then glanced over at the closed door as though someone else might just burst in to explain matters. Then he said dryly, “It’s not usually my job to ‘bollock’ the interns as you so colourfully put it.”

  I sat politely and waited.

  “So you’re an intern are you?” He played for time. “And you’ve come to us from..?”

  “Ferrari,” I supplied.

  He nodded. “What MSc have you got?”

  “What’s an MSC?” I asked blankly.

  He adjusted. “What degree then?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t have a degree, I’m just a mechanic.”

  “So why are you here?” He sounded puzzled.

  “My line manager at Ferrari must have thought this was the best next step for me,” I said.

  The poor man in front of me seemed to have completely lost his way in the conversation. He looked at me for a long moment then said, “Do you always wear a short dress and stilettos in the office?”

  I spread my hands. “This was how I was expected to look at Ferrari. If you’d rather I wore something else, that’s fine – just tell me. But Aerodynamics don’t wear a uniform so I just thought…” I trailed off.

  He smiled slightly. “Those Italians, huh? They like their women to look the part, don’t they? No, that’s fine, I’m sure it’s brightening up the office no end…” He looked back down at the papers in front of him and said in a distracted way, “well off you go then…”

  I didn’t move. “I really think that you ought to be bollocking me. Shouldn’t you find out from Terry why he sent me up here?”

  The man sighed impatiently and reached for his mouse. “I suppose I’d better check my internal mail.” He opened a window on his computer screen and after a moment said, “Ok, he’s sent me a link.” He clicked on it, and I waited in respectful silence while he watched the news clip.

  I saw his lips twitch. He glanced across at me. “So you’re the Formula Two Stocks World Champion and you took Nish along and stuck him in one of your cars did you?”

  I shrugged. “He’s been hitting on me for a couple of weeks now, and I finally relented and let him tag along and it just seemed like a bit of fun to put him into a few races. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have risked him getting injured like that.”

  The man sat back in his chair and looked thoughtful. “What do you know about Nish?” He asked.

  I shook my head. “Nothing really. He never spoke the whole way there, nor the whole way back, then had the cheek to ask me to come in to his flat.”

  He’d driven us both straight to his own flat instead of mine without asking me if it was ok first, walked in, thrown his keys on the table and then thrown himself down on the sofa. He’d looked exhausted.

  I’d stalked around the flat for a minute or two, sussing out the spotless perfection of deep pile orange carpet with soft white rug, pale sand coloured sofa, white and Moroccan orange walls, with white orchids flowering on a low, beautifully crafted, artisan designed glass coffee table, then said abruptly, “You’re tired. I’ll call a taxi.” And despite his efforts to persuade me to stay, I’d left.

  The grey eyes of the man opposite me looked gravely across at me. “Nish was signed up to be our Reserve Driver at the beginning of the year, with the next step expected to be, if he performed well in the test drives we gave him on the tracks, to progress to being one of our two main drivers within the next couple of years. He’s extremely talented. One of the most talented drivers to come up through the Junior Formats for years. Some commentators were speculating about him being ‘the next Senna’. Until he was struck down by Glandular Fever in early March this year that is, just before the season started, and was virtually bed-bound for several weeks.”

  I pulled a sympathetic face.

  “So we had to pull him back from his Reserve Driver position and make him our Development Driver instead. We were advised that it takes at least six months to get over Glandular Fever, and there’s no way you can perform at your best in this game unless you’re super fit…” He paused and looked at me.

  I nodded obediently.

  “And so then, as soon as he was demoted, his girlfriend, who was some top London model, immediately dumped him…”

  “Shallow bitch!” I said indignantly.

  He looked like he thought he should pull me up on it but couldn’t quite bring himself to. “And then a month later his father dropped dead of a heart attack.”

  I stared at him. “Phew, that’s pretty heavy…”

  He nodded. “And he wasn’t just any father. He was Nish’s manager. He’s been running every detail of Nish’s driving career since the lad started out in the go-karts at four years old. So basically, poor Nish lost his health, his girlfriend, his father, his manager, his sponsors, his potential driving career, his income stream, and thereby everything he’d been working towards the whole of his life in one short two month period.” He stopped and sighed. “If it had been anyone else, or if his dad hadn’t died, we’d have probably told him to have a year off and come back when he was fit. But given the circumstances we didn’t have the heart to. We’ve basically kept him on a retainer and get him back in the simulator whenever we have an excuse to test some new part design. And we’re trying to keep him ticking over in the hopes he can pull himself together in time for next season, when he can take up the Reserve Driver position again. But the way things are panning out at the moment, it’s not looking that hopeful for him.” He ground to a halt and a heavy silence fell. I waited. He looked across at me. “So it occurs to me, that if he’s taken a bit of a fancy to you, and you’ve even managed to get him back into a race – any sort of race being a plus at this stage – and he got out of the car smiling, then you’ve actually achieved something quite important.”

  I was a bit gobsmacked. I’d been so expecting a bollocking, it hadn’t occurred to me that I might be praised for my actions instead.

  He narrowed his eyes across the desk at me. “So now I’m wondering if you’ll keep going for us? See if you can get him back into his fitness training again? Get him back on track again. Get him to focus?”

  “You’re not expecting me get into a relationship with him I hope?” I said a bit stiffly.

  He shook his head quickly. “Heaven’s no!” He denied a bit too hastily. “Just befriend him a bit.” Then he added, “But just to get this clear, are you in a relationship right now?”

  I looked crossly at him. He so was hoping I’d tide Posh Boy over with a short term relationship, I could see it in his eyes. “No,” I said abruptly. “I’ve not had a partner since my fiancé died two and a half years ago.”

  “Oh so you’ve experienced a major bereavement yourself, have you?” He commented in a pleased way. “That’ll be helpful.”

  “And my mother died when I was six,” I added brusquely. “But don’t muddle me up with a psychologist or a counsellor! I’m just a mechanic that’s good with 3D design, that’s all.”

  He looked at me for a long moment. “Well just do your best. And don’t hesitate to come straight to me if you have any concerns about how Nish is doing, or any major impr
ovements to report for that matter. We need that boy better by next February at the latest.”

  Well I was here for six months, which took us to the end of next January, so I guess that fitted the schedule.

  As I walked slowly down the stairs and back to the office, I wasn’t sure how to feel about this. I’d come here to hone my design skills and instead I was being asked to be eye candy and baby sitter for one of their wretched spoilt brat drivers. But on the other hand, I was being put into a privileged position by being let into the confidence of, and trusted by, a senior manager. It wouldn’t do my potential career here any favours if I turned down the request.

  Next day it was put to the test. Posh Boy was in the office at my elbow again.

  “What do you want, Posh Boy?” I asked abruptly.

  A flash of anger crossed his face. “Stop calling me that!” He snapped.

  I raised my eyebrows at him.

  “I’m not that posh actually!” He defended himself.

  “Yes, you are,” I said firmly. “You’re achingly posh. And so is your flat. Mind numbingly posh!”

  He stared at me.

  “Go on then!” I challenged him. “What school did you go to?”

  “Christ Church Cathedral Choir School,” he muttered, avoiding the eyes of the men who were straining to ear-wig and trying to look like they weren’t.

  I laughed. “Oh my God! You were a choir boy? In a little ruff and such like?”

  He pulled a sort of resigned face. He must be very used to this reaction. Must be like a woman having to admit to being a nun when she was younger.

  “Quinn’s coming to stay over next weekend,” I informed him. “You’ll have to come round for a meal and commiserate with each other – he was a choir boy too! Only he was so naughty they had to keep him in the front row because he had a habit of pulling appalling stunts like setting the Priest on fire. But they couldn’t chuck him out because they needed that beautiful voice of his!”

  Posh Boy smiled slightly. “So what are you doing tonight?” He asked.

  “Going for a run,” I said cheerfully. “Do you want to come?”

  He hesitated. I glanced up at him. He looked a bit undecided.

  “Don’t worry,” I reassured him. “I’ll be able to keep up with you. Quinn was Cross Country County Champion, and I used to train with him.”

  “Ok then,” he agreed at last. “I’ll pick you up at six.”

  “Why’s that?” I queried. “Can’t we just run from my flat?”

  “I thought we could go up on the downs, it’ll be nicer there.”

  I had no idea what ‘downs’ were, but I figured he’d have sussed all the possible jogging routes in the area so I’d trust his judgement.

  After he left, my colleague Keith, who was sitting at the next computer station, observed. “That’s a bit of a risk isn’t it? Claiming you could keep up with him? Till he was ill he was doing Triathlons.”

  “I’m taking a punt on the being ill bit,” I admitted. “And if he finds he can out-run me, all the better, it’ll cheer him up.”

  Diversion over, the men all got stuck back in to their work but I was finding it hard to ramp up the necessary concentration levels. A question was bugging me.

  “Why’s he targeting me do you think?” I directed at Keith with a frown.

  Keith pulled a face. “Look around you, Eve. Unless the guy’s in the closet, there’s no-one else for him to target round here!”

  “Yeah, but Williams is a good equal opportunities employer and they’re not short of other women around the place…” I pointed out.

  “Ah, but you’re new…” Keith said.

  “New, as in ‘therefore interesting’? Or new, as in ‘doesn’t know any of the history so he’s free to re-invent himself’?”

  Keith thought for a moment. “Both probably.”

  I sighed. “Anyway, I’ve no intention of getting into a relationship with him. The boss upstairs asked me to try to encourage him to get back into training, and he seemed to take the bait, didn’t he?”

  Keith glanced sideways at me. “So you didn’t get a dressing down then?”

  “No,” I admitted. “I got recruited to the cause of rehabilitating the guy instead. So I’ll thank you guys to leave out the tee-hee, nudge nudge, speculations. I’m just doing what I’ve been asked to, and becoming a training buddy, ok?”

  Keith smiled. “Ok then,” he said. But he didn’t look like he believed me.

  The downs were amazing. At last, some clear space in the claustrophobic overpopulated South! It wasn’t the moors, but it would do. Short green grass like a bowling green, nibbled down by the sheep. White chalk and flint under foot, and clouds of tiny bright blue butterflies. I took an appreciative deep breath in of the fresh air as I did the stretching exercises that Quinn always insisted on. Posh Boy’s stretches were somewhat perfunctory. Half an hour along the ridgeway and he suddenly announced in a panicky tone, “I have to lie down!”

  He lay on his back on the springy turf with his knees drawn up and one arm across his eyes. But he didn’t seem to be out of breath.

  I sat down beside him with my knees drawn up to my chest. “Low blood pressure?” I hazarded. “Low blood sugar?”

  “I don’t know,” he said despairingly. “It keeps happening. Every time I push myself…”

  “Here, eat this,” I said, and tossed him an energy bar. “See if that helps. If it does then it’s probably low blood sugar and you’ll need to make sure you eat little and often with less sugar and more protein. But if it’s low blood pressure then you’ll have to eat more salt and keep your fluids up.”

  “How’d you know all this?” He asked, sounding calmer.

  “Oh, I suffer from both of them,” I told him. “Once I passed out in the middle of a race and smashed the car into a post and had to be cut out via the roof and carted off in an ambulance. They nearly didn’t let me drive again…”

  He sat up cautiously and began to eat the seed and nut bar.

  “I have to be particularly careful when I’m upset about something,” I added. “Because I have a tendency to stop eating and drinking, so I have to remember to make myself, even if I don’t want to, to keep myself safe.”

  He glanced at me as though he were trying to judge whether I was referring to his bereavement or not. Eventually he murmured. “Sorry to be so feeble and mess up your training…”

  I smiled reassuringly at him. “Doesn’t matter. Let’s just sit here and soak up the evening sun and enjoy the view instead.” I suddenly caught myself wondering is this really me? Would I be saying these things and acting all calm and counsellorish if I hadn’t been asked to look after him? Wouldn’t I still be being all bristly and acid and irascible? Then I thought, what is me? I don’t know who me is… I’m already a completely different person to the one I was six months ago. I barely recognise myself.

  “Do you know who you are?” I suddenly asked him. “Because I don’t know who I am…”

  “I thought I did until a few months ago,” he answered miserably. He didn’t seem surprised at the question.

  “How old are you?” I asked.

  “Twenty-two.”

  Same age as me then.

  “A lot of Formula One drivers start at eighteen,” I pointed out. “How come you’re so old?”

  “Dad wanted me to go to university first,” he explained.

  “What degree did you do?” I asked curiously.

  “Music.”

  “Music?” I echoed incredulously.

  He gave me an odd look. “Yes, I went to the Royal School of Music. Singing and saxophone, mainly concentrating on performance and composing.”

  I must have been staring in a kind of gobsmacked way at him because finally his lips curved into a semblance of amusement. “Why is that so odd?”

  I blinked and made sure my mouth wasn’t half open. “I guess I assumed you’d do some sort of science or engineering degree.”

  “Just because I’m
good at driving, doesn’t mean I’m good at mechanics or engines,” he pointed out. “But I’m guessing you’re good with all three of those?” He hazarded with a querying look at me.

  “Yep,” I agreed, not attempting to be modest in any way. I got up. “Let’s walk sedately back to the car shall we?”

  As we wandered gently back, he started asking some intelligent questions about the technical specs of the F2 Stocks format, and about the car I’d designed and built for it, and I reciprocated by asking about his own much more prestigious and high powered GP2 career and by the time we reached the car we were quite in charity with one another. That all fell apart when he tried to drive me back to his flat again.

  “Take me home,” I insisted.

  “Why?” He demanded obtusely.

  “Because I want to go home,” I said angrily.

  “Why won’t you come into my flat?” He threw at me.

  “Because I’d rather go home!” I snapped. “Why is that so hard to understand?”

  When he didn’t start the engine up again to take me home, I got out of the car and slammed the door on him. Then I walked purposefully off up the road. I heard a second door slam behind me and I glanced back to see him storming off into his flat. I was furious. He didn’t even have the common decency to follow me up the road in the car and offer me a lift home. I got on my phone and ordered another taxi. Spoilt brat of a bastard! Used to getting everything all his own way I guessed.

  I was sitting eating lunch in the canteen the next day when Mr Heskett, the senior manager, walked by. He halted when he spotted me.

  “I hear you went for a run with Nish yesterday, how did he do?”

  Blimey, word gets around quick! I needed to remember I was always being watched.

  “Well, I kept up,” I reported cautiously.

  He frowned. “So not so great then?” He surmised.

  “I’m a good runner,” I added quickly.

  “Yes but you shouldn’t be able to keep up with him,” he pointed out.