by KT Shears
Race to the Top
By KT Shears
Copyright © 2015 by KT Shears
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
To my own wannabe racing driver, who kept me on the straight and narrow with some of the racing terminology, and is always my number one driver x
Contents
Chapter one
Chapter two
Chapter three
Chapter four
Chapter five
Chapter six
Chapter seven
Chapter eight
Chapter nine
Chapter ten
Chapter eleven
Chapter twelve
Chapter thirteen
Chapter fourteen
Chapter fifteen
Chapter sixteen
Chapter seventeen
Chapter eighteen
Chapter nineteen
Chapter twenty
Chapter twenty-one
Chapter twenty-two
Chapter twenty-three
Chapter twenty-four
Chapter twenty-five
Chapter twenty-six
Chapter twenty-seven
Chapter twenty-eight
Chapter twenty-nine
Chapter thirty
Chapter thirty-one
Chapter thirty-two
Chapter thirty-three
Chapter thirty-four
Chapter thirty-five
Epilogue
Chapter one
Anna sighed and leaned back in her chair, her eyes scanning the screen in front of her. She had just finished her latest piece for Stylish magazine – a hard-hitting feature article on the sex trade in one of the country’s smaller and more affluent cities. She was poised with her finger over the submit button when the phone on her desk began trilling loudly. She could tell from the ring it was an internal call, and wondered briefly who was calling when they all worked in an open-plan office. The favoured form of communication was usually shouting over colleagues’ heads.
She answered and was surprised to hear the editor-in-chief herself. Stella Starling rarely spoke directly to her staff, most of her communications coming through her long-suffering secretary, Brenda. Anna had spoken to Stella only a handful of times in her three years here: the obligatory welcome chat, where Stella wrung Anna’s hand and told her how glad they were she had chosen to come and work for them; the first week de-brief where she told Anna how impressed she’d been with her first article; and once more, when a story Anna had written had been nominated for a national journalism award.
She wanted Anna to come to her office and, for a horrible moment, she wondered if she was about to be fired. She knew times were tough for print media – the local newspaper that Anna had started her career with had gone from a vibrant daily paper to a weekly community newsletter, such was the quality of its writing now. All the experienced staff had gone – made redundant or taken early retirement. Instead, a steady stream of young reporters and designers had filtered in and out through the revolving doors, gaining just enough experience – and making just enough horrendous mistakes to make the paper’s name mud – to get a cushy job for themselves in PR or on the TV or radio.
Anna reasoned with herself that losing her job was unlikely. She didn’t like to brag, but she was one of the better writers and there were surely better paid and worse-producing writers than her that could be slashed if cuts had to be found. She briefly felt a bit guilty for thinking about her colleagues in this way, especially as everyone was so friendly.
She told Stella that she would be there in a moment, and pressed the magic button that sent her labour of love flying off, unseen, to the invisible hands that would preen it and pamper it, nestling it lovingly among the pages of the magazine.
Stella Starling’s office was plush, as you’d expect from the glamorous editor of a glossy women’s magazine. She sat at a large glass desk, immaculately dressed as always. Anna wondered if getting a job like that transformed you overnight: you went to work one day in your usual high street suit and the next, you turned up dripping in designer garb with a new haircut and nails that could pierce rock. She didn’t think she would ever make it as editor of a magazine. She wasn’t corporate enough, and anyway, she loved to write, not to watch other people write and have to deal with all the crap that comes with being a manager. The money would be nice, she supposed, but not at the expense of personal satisfaction.
Money was a sore point with her at the moment. She had recently split up with her last boyfriend, acrimoniously, after three years together. He was obsessed with money – obsessed with watching every last penny drip into his account. Anna thought he would sit and watch his bank account for hours if he could. He was a lawyer and so he earned big, way bigger than Anna’s measly writer’s salary. And that had been a problem for him.
He he had wanted a house and lifestyle that she simply couldn’t afford. Anna had never expected him to pay for her, but he had never even offered. She saw the seeds of resentment that were being sown when she would veto an overpriced house or suggest that they have a city break instead of jetting off to the Caribbean for two weeks. Scott had got frustrated, finally exploding at her one night, saying they could never have a future if she had no ambition.
‘I do have ambition,’ Anna had pointed out. That was the week her story had been nominated for an award, and she was angry that this massive milestone in her career had so far passed unnoticed by Scott. She was immensely proud of it, and she knew if the shoe was on the other foot, she would have taken Scott for dinner; ordered champagne.
‘You earn a pittance,’ he’d said, shaking his head at her as if she was a naughty child who didn’t understand the error of her ways. ‘We’ll never be able to have a proper life if you don’t leave that place and get a better job.’
While listening to him as he reeled off the types of places and jobs that were better paid, Anna felt the thought rising inside of her. It had been percolating in her brain for a while; months, if she was honest with herself, and suddenly it burbled out of her mouth like lava from a volcano.
‘I don’t love you anymore.’
It had been a harsh way to end things, and she still felt guilty. But as Anna watched him come to terms with her statement, she realised that he was surprised that not loving him was enough of a reason to end things. That said it all, as far as Anna was concerned. She wasn’t a sap, but she believed in love and romance.
Stella’s voice brought Anna out of her reverie. It was a voice that could cut glass, and it sliced through Anna’s own thoughts like a knife.
‘I’m sorry for the cloak and dagger phone call, Anna.’
Stella sat back, drumming her nails on the glass table. Anna thought she looked a bit tired, and reflected that being in charge of a magazine must take its toll on her personal life. She knew Stella was married with one child – the picture of the three of them took pride of place on her desk – but she also knew she was often here as early as 6am, and as late as 9pm. She wondered how Stella jugg
led it all – sometimes Anna felt that she could barely manage her own life. That had been another of Scott’s sticking points. He was so organised, she expected he had already arranged his own funeral.
‘Are you working on anything big right now?’ Stella asked, looking at Anna intently
‘I’ve just finished the sex trade story. I sent it over to layout before coming in here.’
She nodded. Anna was increasingly curious. It was rare the editor ever got involved directly in assigning stories. She felt a burst of excitement. Perhaps it was something really big.
‘I had an interesting meeting the other day,’ Stella said, eyeing Anna appraisingly.
‘Oh?’ Anna said, not sure what else there was to say until Stella showed her hand.
‘What do you know about racing?’ she asked suddenly.
Anna thought for a second.
‘Er, like horse racing? Or people?’ She knew very little about either. Sport was not her thing. She watched Wimbledon every summer, of course. Everybody did that, though. And it was more about the Pimms and strawberries and cream as far was Anna was concerned. She’d been to a football game too – Scott had dragged her along to the corporate box his work had arranged. It was deathly dull and she’d got drunk, which had driven Scott mad.
‘Cars,’ Stella said, twirling a perfectly curled lock of hair around her finger.
This was even worse. Anna could at least name a famous runner. But a car driver? Not a chance – and she wasn’t afraid to say so. Was that even a sport? She’d seen clips of car racing on television, and it seemed to her it was nothing but overpaid young men whizzing round in circles for hours on end. No thanks, she would pass on that.
‘Absolutely nothing,’ Anna said, feeling proud of herself for being truthful and not letting the pressure of sitting opposite the boss force her into blurting out that she was an avid fan and knew everything about it. It wouldn’t be the first time that had happened – Anna hated to turn down stories, generally, and had rapidly become a fount of bizarre knowledge due to her eagerness to take on even the most obscure of subject matters.
Stella nodded and Anna was surprised to see this answer didn’t seem to have taken the wind out of her sails. What was going on here? Her excitement about the possibility of getting her hands on a juicy story ebbed away. This didn’t sound like a big story at all – at least not a big story she wanted to be involved with.
‘You know the company that owns the magazine was bought over about a year ago?’
Of course Anna knew. Everybody knew. There had been the weeks of uncertainty while discussions went back and forth, and they had all sat, waiting to find out if they would still have jobs. It had been an unpleasant time. She nodded her head and Stella carried on.
‘Well, the company that took us over, Indigo Media, is a subsidiary company of a much larger entity – Willis Enterprises.’
Anna recognised the name. They had their fingers in a lot of pies, and she wasn’t surprised that they had wanted to add media to their burgeoning portfolio. But what did this have to do with racing?
‘One of Willis Enterprises’ other endeavours is Willis Mechanical.’
She looked at Anna questioningly, who shook her head. She had never heard of them, but she imagined Willis Enterprises had a vast portfolio of ‘other endeavours.’
‘Willis Mechanical is a car racing team, quite a successful one, apparently. They’ve been operating for several years.’
Now they were getting somewhere, Anna thought, as she waited for the reason she was here to become clear.
‘James O’Hare, the CEO of Willis Enterprises, is fanatical about racing and about this team. They haven’t won anything, apparently, but he seems convinced they are the next big thing. And he wants them to be splashed all over the media.’
Great, Anna thought, she was going to be asked to write an article about car racing when she knew nothing about it. This would be one of the worst stories she had ever been given. She thought she had escaped this kind of thing when she fled the newspaper three years ago.
‘Of course, now he owns a media company. And he owns us. He came to me last week himself, and I was able to point out that a standalone article about cars would look odd in the type of magazine we produced.’
Anna breathed a sigh of relief. She felt a bit guilty that she had been so quick to assume Stella had hung her out to dry – you didn’t get to be editor-in-chief of a top glossy magazine without knowing what your client base was, and what stories would interest them. And of course, an article about racing would be of no interest to the readers of Stylish magazine. Heck, if it wasn’t of interest to the writer, how on earth could it be of interest to a reader?
‘However,’ she said, and Anna felt uncomfortable again. She was obviously in Stella’s office for a reason, after all. ‘He’s determined that he gets some use out of us, so we sat and brainstormed for a while. And we came up with a solution.’
She spread her hands on the desk and paused a minute, obviously considering the best approach.
‘Look,’ she said, eventually, and Anna felt she had decided candour was the best approach here. ‘My hands are tied here. He writes our cheques and what James O’Hare wants, James O’Hare gets. I managed to steer him away from the idea of a standalone article about racing, but I’m afraid you’ll probably like the solution even less… We’ve come up with the idea of a few columns – not about the racing, per se, but about the lifestyle, the glamour, the glitz…you know the type of thing, celebrities spotted at races, what they’re wearing, what the drivers are wearing, who their girlfriends are.’
Anna stared at her. This definitely did not sound like anything she wanted to be involved with. Glitz and glamour? Who was wearing what? She wrote serious pieces, for god’s sake, not tacky columns about fashion and celebrities.
Stella saw the look on her face and held her hand up.
‘I know this isn’t your kettle of fish, believe me – but there’s no one else I’m happy to give it to. This needs to be done properly, or we’ll all be lining up in the dole queue before long.’
She paused for a second, and Anna sensed she had more bad news.
‘I don’t know what you do know about racing,’ she said, ‘but they travel across the world, with races every two weeks or so during the season. And James wants you to travel with the team a few times this year.’
Anna kept staring at her, not quite believing what she was hearing. She was going to have to share a plane, hotels, meals with these people? She had never met anyone involved in racing, but she was pretty sure they would have nothing in common.
‘It’s a generous offer,’ Stella continued, now obviously reaching the sales pitch section of her speech. ‘James will pay for everything – flights, accommodation in fancy hotels, meals; all you need to do is turn up and produce a column afterwards. It’s a great opportunity to see the world – they travel all over: America, Australia, Europe, the Middle East. And you’ll have plenty of spare time while you’re out there to pursue other stories, if you wanted.’
Anna felt annoyed. Stella knew she would find the opportunity to travel and write about it quite appealing. Anna sat there for a minute, weighing it up in her mind. So she would have to write a few columns full of rubbish, but that wouldn’t take her that long, she reasoned. And she would get to see the world. Unfortunately it would be in the company of people she doubted she would even want to pass the time of day with, but perhaps it was a compromise worth making. It would also put her in Stella’s good books – and perhaps this James O’Hare chap, in case the threat of redundancies raised its head again. Perhaps it would be shrewd to accept.
‘I’ll do it,’ Anna said, clearly surprising Stella, if the look on her face was anything to go by.
‘That’s great, Anna. Thank you – I really mean that. We can pencil in a talk for a few months’ time about how we go forward with your stories.’
That was management-speak for ‘You scratch my back, I scratch
yours.’
Anna nodded and left the office, Stella promising she would send her the details and the team contact by the end of the day.
Chapter two
‘You’re doing what?!’
Anna’s sister had burst out laughing when she had told her about her latest assignment, as they sat round her dining table, her kids happily stuffing slices of pizza in their mouths. Anna shrugged, helplessly.
‘I know, I know. It’s absurd. I can barely drive my own car, let along write about someone else driving theirs.’ She shook her head ruefully. ‘I’ll need to at least find out the basics before season starts, or I’ll be a laughing stock.’
Stella had sent through contact details for the guy on the team Anna needed to liaise with, and she had called him that afternoon. He had seemed about as thrilled as she did with the assignment, and they had both glumly discussed arrangements.
‘We move fast,’ he had said.
‘I hope so,’ Anna had replied, ‘I don’t imagine you would win many races otherwise.’
There had been a thick silence on the other end of the phone. Apparently Gary Freeland was not in the mood for jokes.
‘When a race is over, sometimes we have to leave within hours. We can’t have you dilly-dallying about, holding us up. When the plane is packed, we go.’
Anna felt quite affronted and thought this was an inauspicious start to their professional relationship.
‘I can assure you, Mr Freeland, I do not “dilly-dally”.’
Gary had grudgingly invited her to come in later that week to meet the key personnel, including the drivers, and discuss how things would work. After she hung up, Anna reflected that it was unlikely her and Gary Freeland were about to come best friends for life.
Her sister, Jules, poked her husband, Dan, in the ribs.
‘You watch a bit of racing, don’t you?’
Dan nodded, enthusiastically.
‘I do. Which team did you say it was you were going to be following? Most of them have bases here in the UK.’
