Chapter 21
‘He’s seriously considering it.’
I’m on the phone to Holly. It’s a week after the European Grand Prix and she has just told me that Simon is thinking about replacing Luis with another driver. He qualified badly and then crashed the car into Naoki Takahashi after making a stupid mistake at the start.
‘I can’t believe he’d do that to Luis.’ I’m mortified.
‘He’s a businessman, Daisy, he has to do what’s right for the team,’ Holly says reasonably.
‘Yes, but is that right for the team? Do the team want Luis to be replaced?’
‘Well . . .’ She hesitates. ‘I guess not.’
‘Exactly! They all love Luis! They couldn’t bear to lose another driver!’ My eyes well up with tears. I quickly brush them away.
After my last conversation with Holly, I had a brief look on the internet to see if anyone else from the industry had been speculating about Simon’s intentions for Luis. I came across a photo of all the drivers before the race in Germany. They were standing with their arms around each other’s shoulders, taking part in a minute’s silence for Will. Several drivers – Kit Bryson, Nils Broden, Antonio Aranda – looked tearful, but Luis was the only one with his head down, unable to face the camera.
I don’t know how he’s able to race at all . . . That’s the hardest thing about this – or any – sport: carrying on when one of your own has died.
‘Did you tell him what I said?’ I ask Holly.
‘Who? Luis?’ Holly checks.
‘Yes.’
‘What did you say again?’ Holly sounds guilty.
‘So you didn’t, then.’
‘I’m sorry, I forgot.’
‘Don’t worry about it. But please will you send him my best?’
‘Of course I will,’ she replies warmly.
A few days later I call her again. ‘Did you speak to Luis?’ I ask.
‘About you sending him your best?’ she checks.
‘Yes.’ I smile.
‘No, I haven’t had a chance, yet.’
Oh.
‘I haven’t seen him at team HQ,’ she explains. ‘Why don’t you give him a call?’
‘Oh no, I couldn’t do that.’ I brush her off.
‘Why not?’
‘No. I just couldn’t.’
‘Well, I’ll tell him you’re thinking of him.’
‘He’s still got a drive, then?’ I ask.
‘Yes. For now,’ she replies ominously.
‘It’s Belgium next, isn’t it?’
‘Yes. Next week.’ Pause. ‘Have you thought any more about coming back?’
‘No,’ I reply.
‘I really miss you,’ she tells me once more.
‘I miss you, too.’
‘Frederick was only asking after you the other day. He said you could have your job back anytime you wanted it. Simon said the same thing.’
‘Really? They haven’t replaced me?’
‘Other staff from Frederick and Ingrid’s business in London have been filling in, but no one permanent. I’ve been helping out Simon and the drivers since you’ve been gone, but I’ll happily step down.’
‘There wouldn’t be any need.’
‘No?’
‘No. I wouldn’t want to work closely with the drivers if . . .’ My voice trails off. I don’t want to say, ‘If Will’s not there’.
‘I understand,’ she says, before desperately adding, ‘Oh, please come back, Daisy.’
I close my eyes for a moment and cradle the phone to my ear, listening to her voice. I miss her so much. It’s just not the same being here. I was never happy in New York before, and now I know what it’s like to be happy, I feel like I’ll never be happy again. I don’t know if that makes any sense whatsoever, but it’s the closest way I can think of to describe how I feel.
‘I think it’s too soon,’ I tell her, my head ruling my heart this time.
‘Really?’ she checks.
‘Yes.’
That evening my father joins us for dinner – a rare occasion since I’ve been here. In fact, most of the time I eat out or don’t eat at all because I can’t bear to sit at the dining table in silence with my mother. He broaches the subject of the position with Martin’s firm.
‘He suggested the ninth of September as a starting date,’ my father tells me. That’s just over a week from now.
‘I told you before, I’m not interested,’ I say sulkily.
He raises one eyebrow and stares at me. I look away. I can never hold his gaze for long. ‘Just for the sake of argument, what is it you intend to do? Because you can’t sit around in your bedroom forever.’
‘If you don’t want me here, I’ll go.’
He doesn’t answer for a moment, but then he speaks, his voice laced with sarcasm. ‘And where will you go, exactly?’
‘I don’t know! England! Italy!’
‘Italy?’ my father barks. ‘Italy?’
‘Yes! To stay with Nonna!’ I latch onto this idea, fervently.
‘Ha!’ He lets out a sharp laugh. ‘In that hovel? You couldn’t stand it.’
‘How would you know what I can or cannot stand?’ I demand to know. ‘I haven’t been living it up for the last few years, I can tell you.’
‘Sure you haven’t,’ he says wryly.
‘I haven’t! And I would love to stay with Nonna! Have you ever even been to her house? It’s magical!’
‘Magical? Don’t be ridiculous. It’s a crumbling mess. God knows why she’s still there. God knows why she’s still on this earth, for that matter.’
‘Stellan!’
I turn sharply to see my mother’s shocked face. She hardly ever speaks up. The sound of a chair scraping across the wooden floor brings my attention back to my father.
‘I’ve had enough.’ He throws his napkin down on his food and I watch as the gravy seeps up into the white linen fabric. ‘YOU!’ He points at me. ‘You will take the job with Martin on the ninth of September. Otherwise you will not get another cent from me! EVER!’ And with that he stalks out of the room.
I sit there, white-knuckled, my heart beating fast. Only my father can make me feel this way. I hate him. I hate him.
I stand up, scraping my own chair across the floor.
‘Daisy, sit down,’ my mother says. Her tone is harder than I’ve ever heard it and it makes me freeze on the spot.
‘I’m going to my room,’ I tell her, but without much conviction.
‘Finish your dinner.’ She picks up her knife and fork.
But I suddenly feel angry and hot-headed and nothing she can say or do will keep me there. ‘No,’ I reply, and with that, I storm out of the room.
I will NOT go and work for Martin! I could go back to England and stay with Holly . . . That idea is becoming more and more attractive. Or I could stay with Nonna. Keep her company. How dare he say she lives in a hovel? And why does she live in a house that’s crumbling down around her ears when he has all the money in the world?
I halt in my tracks and spin around on the spot, storming back into the dining room. My mother is just standing up.
‘Why the hell does Nonna live like that in the mountains?’ I demand to know. ‘Water leaks through the walls when it rains, but she can’t afford to fix it! It’s disgusting! You’re her daughter! How COULD you?’
My mother stares at me calmly, then sits back down in her chair.
‘Answer me!’ I screech.
She answers in Italian. I’m surprised – my mother never speaks to me in Italian – but this time she does, and I have to concentrate hard so it doesn’t throw me off guard.
‘She wouldn’t take any money,’ my mother tells me.
I falter before speaking, also in Italian. ‘She wouldn’t take money from me, either, but you’re her daughter! She must know you’re rolling in it!’
‘It’s not my money, though, Daisy.’
‘It bloody well is. I mean, I know he might be the one who goes out to work, but you’ve stayed by his side. You earned it, too!’
‘Yes, but my mother doesn’t see it like that.’
‘Even so, who cares? Why won’t she let you help her? Or is it my father? Will he not let you help her?’ I’m starting to see red. ‘Is that it?’ Fury bubbles up inside me, but my mother puts a stop to it.
‘That’s not it,’ she says calmly, holding her hand up. ‘She doesn’t want anything to do with your father – my husband. She’d rather live in squalor than accept his help.’
‘But that’s crazy. It may be only a matter of time before the walls collapse on her!’
My mother looks startled. ‘I didn’t know it was as bad as that.’
‘Well, you should know! Why don’t you know? Why the hell don’t you ever go and see her?’ I don’t know why I’ve never thought to ask any of these questions before. ‘Did you even go to Nonno’s funeral?’
‘Of course I went to his funeral!’ she snaps.
‘Did you? When? I don’t remember that.’
‘You were on holiday in the Hamptons with your friends.’
‘But I didn’t know you’d gone! Why didn’t you ask me to come with you? You must have known I would!’
‘Yes, I. . .’
‘What? Why?’
She looks shifty. The words come out with difficulty. ‘I . . . needed to go. . . alone. . .’
‘But why? I don’t understand!’
She sighs. ‘Oh, Daisy. . .’
I look at her in confusion. I’ve never seen her like this before, so composed and reasonable.
‘Tell me!’ I raise my voice.
She looks at me and her eyes are filled with pain. Then she looks away again and her answer is firm. ‘I just wanted to spend some time with my mother and be there for her without worrying about you. Okay?’
I shake my head. ‘No. That’s not it. There’s something else. What is it you’re not telling me?’
‘That’s enough, now.’ She stands up and walks out of the dining room.
‘No, it’s not!’ I follow her into the kitchen. ‘Tell me what’s going on?’ Candida is at the sink. She gives us a wary glance before quickly exiting the room. She’s probably startled to hear us speaking in another language. In fact, she probably had no idea about our Italian heritage at all.
My mother turns her back on me and faces the far wall.
‘Hey!’ I shout. I go to her and spin her around. There are tears in her eyes and. . . something else. . . Fear?
‘What is it? You have to tell me. You can’t not.’
‘Okay,’ she says.
‘Okay?’ I step back in surprise.
‘Okay. Let’s go for a walk.’
‘A walk? Alone?’
‘Yes, alone.’
‘At this time?’ It’s after nine o’clock at night. ‘Without a minder?’
‘Yes.’
I’m taken aback – this is very out of character for my mother – but I go along with it.
We’re silent on the elevator ride down to the lobby, and silent on the walk along the street. It’s only when we’ve turned the corner and are out of sight of our apartment block towering up above that my mother begins to speak.
‘I left your father once.’
I turn to her in surprise. She’s staring off into the distance, as though lost in her thoughts.
‘When?’ I ask.
‘It was before you were born.’
‘When you were living in England?’
‘Yes. Although I went back to Italy.’
‘To stay with Nonna?’
‘And your grandfather, yes. They welcomed me back. They didn’t want me to marry him in the first place. They said he had bad blood.’
I know what they mean.
‘Why did you marry him?’
She sighs. ‘I thought I loved him. I think I just loved the idea of him. I was at university in England on a scholarship.’
‘I didn’t know you went to university?’ It strikes me that I don’t actually know an awful lot about my mother. ‘What were you studying?’
‘English.’ She waves me away, a touch impatiently. I’m sidetracking. She continues. ‘I had this one friend, a well-meaning girl from a wealthy family who took pity on this poor soul from the mountains. She dragged me out one night to her father’s private members’ club and we got dressed up to the nines – me in a borrowed outfit. We sat on high stools at the bar while drinking martinis in cocktail glasses.’ I glance at my mother to see her smiling wistfully as she remembers. ‘Your father walked in. He was so handsome and well dressed. He took . . . an interest in me, I think you could say. He wanted to take me out on a date. I was flattered. I agreed.’
‘Then what happened?’ I prompt. I’m utterly intrigued by this story.
‘We got. . . carried away,’ she says, with difficulty.
‘What do you mean?’
She takes a deep breath.
‘You had sex with him?’ I ask. She looks at me sharply. We never speak about intimate things. I’ve never had that sort of relationship with her. ‘On the first date?’ She doesn’t answer, but suddenly I see it clearly. ‘And you fell pregnant with me,’ I say dully. So I’m the reason she ended up in an unhappy marriage. But her next words shock me.
‘Not with you,’ she says.
I stop on the sidewalk and stare at her, unable to walk any further.
‘Then with whom?’ I ask, the words threatening to choke me.
‘Perhaps this isn’t the place.’ She indicates the street around her, the sidewalk, the nearby canopy from a cheap Italian restaurant.
‘You can’t stop now,’ I warn, feeling sick to the pit of my stomach. ‘Tell me.’
‘I miscarried at twenty-two weeks. Five and a half months,’ she explains, when she sees me trying to calculate it in my head. ‘It was a boy,’ she says sadly.
‘I almost had a brother?’ I ask.
She nods.
‘Were you married to my father by then?’
‘Yes. Only a month before. I wasn’t even showing yet. Your father was devastated. He always wanted a son.’ She glances at me apologetically, and in that instant I remember something my father said to me when I was only about five or six.
‘At the very least you could have been a boy . . .’
‘Didn’t you try to have any more children after me?’
She looks off down the street. ‘Yes. I miscarried them all.’
‘All?’ I look at her in horror.
‘Six in total, but all in the first trimester. I never knew the sex of the others.’
‘What about me? Why didn’t you miscarry me?’ It’s a crazy question, and I don’t really expect her to know the answer, so I’m startled when she suddenly looks on edge. ‘Mother?’
‘Let’s keep walking.’ I hurry after her down the sidewalk, waiting for her to continue. Eventually she does. ‘I felt like your father hated me.’
I glance at her in confusion as she continues.
‘I lost him his son.’
‘It wasn’t your fault!’
‘But he didn’t see it that way. He wanted to try again. Straight away. But I had another miscarriage. I didn’t fall pregnant again for some time after that, and he just became bitter and resentful.’
‘But how did you cope with that? You must’ve been devastated yourself.’
‘I was,’ she says simply. ‘More devastated than I could ever describe. And to live with his hatred. . . It was too much.’
‘So you left him?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you say this was before I was born?’ I’m breathless from walking so fast.
‘About ten months before, yes.’
‘Wow. So you didn’t leave him for long, then?’
She shakes her head. Her expression is pained.
‘What is it?’
In the light of the streetlamps I see her eyes have filled with tears. I stop suddenly, struck down with realisation. She stops, too, and turns around to face me.
‘He’s not my father, is he?’
She doesn’t speak, she doesn’t nod or shake her head. Her eyes steadily meet mine as time seems to stand still.
‘I don’t know,’ is her reply.
‘You don’t know?’ My voice is wavering.
‘I don’t know,’ she confirms.
‘How can you not know?’ I’m starting to feel hysterical. ‘Who was he? Who did you screw?’ My last words sound bitter.
‘He was my childhood sweetheart.’
‘Argh!’ I shout, all too familiar with that term.
She regards me warily, but my anger is not as strong as my need to know the truth. I breathe heavily as I wait for her to continue.
‘He was my boyfriend. We broke up before I went to England.
He was angry I was leaving him and said he wouldn’t wait for me. We left a lot of things unfinished.’
‘So you went back home and slept with him, while you were still married to my father?’
She doesn’t reply. ‘Go on,’ I prompt. ‘What happened next? Did you go running back to England?’
She shakes his head. ‘He came looking for me.’
‘Who? My father?’
‘Yes. He wanted to make amends. He wanted me back.’
‘And what about poor old whatshisname?’
She actually shrugs. ‘I was married. I felt it was my duty to go back to England with my husband.’
‘Fuck your duty!’ I shout. ‘Why didn’t you do what was in your heart?’ I’m so confused. I feel all over the place, sometimes with her, sometimes against her. I don’t know what to think.
‘My heart was torn, Daisy. And then when I realised I was pregnant again, I almost expected to miscarry. But I didn’t.’
‘No, you had me. And I bet ‘daddy’ was absolutely delighted with his little girl,’ I say sarcastically.
‘He was happy,’ she tells me.
‘But he still wanted a son.’
‘Yes.’
‘And you never gave him one.’
‘No.’
‘Does he know about the other guy?’ I ask unhappily.
‘His name was Andrea.’
I suck in a sharp breath as I hear the name of the man who could be my father.
‘No,’ my mother replies. ‘I never told your father what happened.’
‘Does. . . Andrea know about me?’
My mother shakes her head. ‘I don’t think so. But I can’t be sure.’
‘Maybe I could have a paternity test? Find out if he’s my real father? Perhaps I could get to know him?’
‘He’s dead.’
Her words resonate through me.
‘He’s dead?’
‘Yes. I found out when I went back for your grandfather’s funeral.’
I feel crushed. Suddenly I can’t walk anymore. ‘Do I look like him?’ I ask quietly.
My mother studies my face and, finally, shakes her head. ‘No. You look like me,’ she says. We stare at each other as tears begin to streak down both our cheeks.
‘I don’t understand why you never left my father when he’s always been so hateful towards you.’
‘I thought I was doing the right thing. Doing the best thing for you.’
I shake my head. ‘You weren’t doing the best thing for me.’
‘But we would have had nothing!’ Her face is anguished.
‘I have nothing, now,’ I say, angry all of a sudden. ‘I don’t want the money. It’s never been what I wanted. I just wanted to grow up in a happy household with a family who loved me.’
‘We do love you.’
‘Don’t make me laugh. You don’t have to lie to protect me. I’m sure you’ve done more than enough of that over the years and I haven’t appreciated it or respected you for it.’
She says nothing.
‘Why don’t you leave him now?’ I ask eventually. ‘You could find love again, be happy. . .’
She steadfastly shakes her head. ‘No. This is my life now. And I’m fine. I have everything I could ever want.’
‘What? The latest Gucci bag and Prada shoes?’ My tone is sarcastic.
‘It makes me happy, Daisy.’
As I continue to stare at her, disappointment seeps up through my pores and suddenly I understand. She likes the money. She likes the wealth. She’s used to this life now.
‘I’m used to this life now.’ She uses the same words that have just passed through my mind. ‘I couldn’t go back. Not to Italy, not to the mountains. I like it here in New York.’
She’s trapped by her wealth, I can see that so clearly. But I won’t let that happen to me. I won’t.
That night when we return to the apartment, I go straight to my bedroom and call Holly.
‘Can I stay with you?’
‘Yes!’ she shrieks. ‘A million times, yes! When are you coming back?’
‘Give me a few days to get it sorted.’
‘You know we’re in Belgium this weekend?’
‘That’s right, yes. Do you get back on Sunday?’
‘Yes.’
‘I could come then . . .’ I think aloud.
‘If you fly into Heathrow around the same time, we could share a cab back to my place. I’ll get my itinerary and text you the details.’
‘Cool.’ Pause. ‘Do you still have my things?’
‘Of course. They’re in the loft. I’ll put them in your bedroom.’
‘So you didn’t give them away to charity?’ I check, smiling.
‘Hell, no. Who do you think I am, Laura? Sorry, bad joke
.’ I don’t speak.
‘Daisy?’ she says tentatively. ‘Are you going to be okay?’
‘I don’t know, Holly. But I’m sure as hell going to try.’
Chapter 22
My plane ticket is booked, my bags are packed and, yes, I even packed them myself. I’m taking with me only what I brought here – the designer outfits I’ve boxed up and sent to Cindy, Lisa and Donna. They may be rich, but they still like a freebie, and they’ll have more use for them than I will. The only thing left to do is tell my parents, and my father is typically late home from work again. My flight leaves in a few hours, so I don’t have long. Part of me hopes he doesn’t return in time, but three years ago I left without saying goodbye and now I’m determined to be stronger.
I find my mother in the living room. She’s doing what I usually do, sitting on the windowsill, staring down at the joggers in Central Park. I stand there and watch her quietly for a moment, feeling a rush of love for her. It surprises me. Maybe one day I’ll understand what she’s been through and the choices that she’s made, but right now I’m still finding it difficult. If anything, perhaps being away from her again will give me the space to forgive her for being the person that she is.
‘You’re leaving, aren’t you?’ she asks quietly, slowly turning her head to look at me.
‘Yes,’ I reply.
She nods. ‘When?’
‘Tonight.’
‘And what will you do?’
‘I’m going back to work with the Formula 1 team.’ I turn around and look towards the door as I fidget with my hands.
‘He’s not going to be happy about it,’ my mother says.
‘I know.’
‘Daisy . . .’ she starts.
‘Yes?’
She begins to speak in Italian again. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘For what?’ I answer back, also in Italian.
‘For everything. I’m sorry you didn’t have a happy childhood. Or adulthood,’ she adds. ‘I wish you would stay.’
‘I’m sorry, too,’ I reply, ‘because I can’t.’
‘I know. And I will miss you. Please don’t leave for as long this time.’
‘I won’t.’ I hesitate while standing there, and then walk to the sofa and sit down. She joins me. ‘What was he like?’ I ask. ‘Andrea.’
She’s not surprised by my question. ‘He was fiery, passionate, but we were only young. I don’t know what sort of a man he turned into.’
‘Did he get married? Have children?’
‘Married, yes, children, no.’
‘So I don’t have any half brothers or sisters.’ It’s not really a question, more a statement.
‘I don’t know if he was your father,’ my mother says. ‘I don’t know how important it is for you to find out. But I know that it would kill Stellan.’
‘Kill his reputation, you mean.’
‘It’s the same thing.’
I stare at her and wonder to myself if I need to know. What would I do? How would I handle it? Is there any point, now Andrea is dead? Perhaps not. I don’t know how I’ll feel in the years to come, but I guess I don’t have to decide anything right now.
‘I think I’ll leave it alone for the moment,’ I say.
She smiles tearfully and reaches over to hold my hand. ‘I’ll miss you, my little star.’
I’m taken aback. ‘That’s what Nonna calls me!’
‘It’s what she called me, too, when I was growing up.’
The sound of my father’s voice makes both of us jump. ‘What are you saying to each other? Why are you speaking in that language?’ He’s standing at the doorway, staring at us angrily. I notice a figure creeping around in the corridor behind him and realise it’s Martin.
My mother immediately looks fearful at his words, but I feel brave. ‘We’re speaking in Italian. It’s our language.’ I motion to my mother and me.
‘It’s not your language,’ he spits. ‘That’s not how I raised you.’
I try to stay calm. I know he just feels threatened because he doesn’t understand.
‘Hello, Martin.’ I change the subject.
‘Hello!’ He scoots past my father and comes into the living room. ‘Two more days to go before the big day. I don’t have an office for you, but I thought you could perch in the corner of mine for the time being. Keep me company.’
‘Thank you for the offer.’ I try to keep my sarcasm at bay, but I’m speaking through clenched teeth. ‘But as I’ve already told my father, I’ll have to politely decline.’
‘Daisy,’ my father interrupts. ‘Do not disobey me.’
‘She’s a feisty one!’ Martin rubs his hands together with glee. ‘But I like a challenge.’
‘That’s enough!’ I raise my voice and leap to my feet. ‘I am NOT coming to work with you, I’m going back to England.’
‘You are doing no such thing,’ my father says angrily.
‘Just try and stop her.’ That was my mother speaking and the sound of her deadly calm voice makes us all spin around. ‘Martin, can you wait in the office, please,’ she says.
‘Why?’ my father demands to know.
‘Thank you.’ My mother gives Martin a pointed look as he scuttles away.
‘How dare you embarrass me like that!’ my father erupts.
My mother ignores him. She turns to me and speaks in Italian. ‘What time is your car coming?’
‘I just planned on hailing a taxi downstairs.’
‘But you should have taken the car!’ she exclaims.
‘What are you saying? What are you saying?’ My father is glaring at each of us in turn. He looks almost comical.
‘A taxi is fine,’ I tell my mother. ‘I’m going now,’ I say in English to my father. ‘I have a plane to catch tonight.’
‘Don’t you dare,’ he warns. ‘You will never get another cent from me. Don’t you dare!’
‘I don’t want your money,’ I say, and for once my voice does-n’t shake. ‘I want to make it on my own.’
‘What?’ he barks. ‘By washing dishes? Peeling potatoes?’
‘If that’s what it takes.’
‘You’re a disgrace!’
‘Goodbye, mother.’ I turn to look at her.
‘I’ll see you out,’ she says.
‘Get back here!’ my father shouts as we both exit the room. ‘Get back here!’
‘He doesn’t mean it,’ my mother says as the elevator whooshes downwards.
‘He does. And it doesn’t matter, because I meant what I said.’
She nods. ‘I know. You’re just like your grandmother in that respect.’
At least I know she’s my blood, I think sadly.
‘What will you do? He’s going to be very angry when you go back up.’
‘He will be. But he’ll calm down. And Candida has cooked a lovely leg of lamb so that will cheer him up.’
What an odd thought.
It’s raining when I board the plane, and as it zooms off down the runway and soars up into the sky, I only catch a glimpse of New York before we fly through the clouds. I lied to my mother. It will be a long, long time before I come back again.
Chapter 23
‘Will you have a glass?’ Holly is holding up a bottle of red wine.
‘Sure.’
Her face breaks into a grin.
‘But you won’t need that.’ I point at the bottle opener she’s just grabbed from the kitchen drawer. She looks at me in confusion. ‘It’s a screw top,’ I tell her.
‘Aah. . . And you could see that from there?’
I’m sitting at the kitchen table and she’s at the counter top a few paces away.
‘Of course. When it comes to opening bottles of booze, I’m a pro.’
‘God, I’ve missed you.’ She cracks the bottle open, pouring out two very large glasses and bringing them over.
‘Thanks for letting me stay,’ I say.
‘No problem. Stay as long as you like. Oh, I know you’ll want to find a place of your own again, but there’s no rush and no pres
Right, enough of this.
‘Holly, I know about Simon.’ I look her straight in the eyes.
‘You what?’ she asks weakly.
‘I know you’re having an affair with him.’
The blood drains out of her face. ‘How did you find out?’ she whispers, sinking into a chair. ‘Does everyone know?’
I immediately feel sorry for her. ‘No, no, no. Just me. And Luis,’ I add.
‘Luis?’ She looks shocked.
‘He won’t tell anyone.’
‘How do you know? Why? How did he find out? How did you two end up talking about it?’ Her voice is rising more with each question.
‘Listen, it’s okay,’ I say sympathetically. ‘I just guessed after seeing the way you were with Catalina. And all those times you weren’t around when we were staying in the same room.’
‘Was I really that obvious?’ she asks worriedly.
‘Only to me,’ I reply.
‘What about Luis?’
‘He saw you coming out of Simon’s room in the early hours of the morning when we were in Italy filming that advert.’
I go on to explain how Luis and I both ended up figuring out how the other person knew. ‘He won’t tell another soul, I know he won’t.’
‘You sound very sure,’ she says, half warily, half hopefully.
‘I am sure,’ I tell her. ‘I trust him.’
‘Okay.’
‘So are you still seeing him?’ I ask.
She nods guiltily. ‘And I know what you must think, especially considering I gave you such a hard time over Laura at the beginning.’
I don’t answer.
‘But I really like him,’ she continues. ‘I know he’s a lot older than me, but he’s just so much more worldly than the boys I’ve been out with in the past, and, underneath that serious exterior, he’s a really kind and gentle man.’
So kind that he’s cheating on his wife. . .
‘I do feel bad about Catalina,’ she adds.
I take a sip of my wine.
‘I do!’ she insists. ‘But she’s such a bitch and they don’t get on.’
‘So why doesn’t he divorce her?’ I ask.
She looks down at the table. ‘He said it would cost him too much money. They don’t have a pre-nup,’ she explains.
I nod. I don’t really understand, but what can you do?
‘I know you must think it sounds dodge, dodge, dodge, but . . . Oh, I don’t know.’
‘Where do you see it going?’ It’s a question I’ve been wondering for some time.
‘I don’t know.’ Her shoulders slump dejectedly. ‘I’m trying not to get too. . . attached to him. Just in case.’
‘And what about your job? You love working for the team.’
‘He’s not going to fire me!’ She frowns.
‘I’m not saying he’d do that, but if it all ended, could you keep working for him?’
‘Maybe not,’ she admits. ‘But I guess I’ll deal with that if I have to.’
‘Aren’t you worried about Catalina finding out?’ I ask.
‘Every day. She almost did in Hockenheim.’
‘Really?’
‘She wasn’t going to come to that race at first, so Simon booked my room next to his, and then she did come and it was a total surprise to me.’
‘Were you in his bedroom?’
‘Oh no, he told me she was coming the day before, but I was a bit peeved, to be honest. He had to make it up to me in the directors’ suite. . .’
She smirks and I feel a bit queasy.
‘Anyway,’ she continues, ‘Catalina came in when we were finishing up . . .’ Sorry, but ew! ‘. . . and luckily just thought I was there to iron . . . What? What are you looking like that for?’
I must be pulling quite a face because Holly has stopped mid-sentence. ‘It just seems a bit weird to me,’ I say.
‘What? What seems weird?’ She’s confused.
‘You and Simon.’ I’m still screwing my nose up, I can’t help it.
‘Why?’
‘Well, he’s just so. . . middle-aged.’
‘He’s not middle-aged!’ she says hotly. ‘Well, okay,’ she concedes, ‘he is, but he doesn’t seem it.’
‘I just. . . Sorry.’ I flap my hand and look away.
‘No, tell me,’ she urges. ‘What?’
I lean in and look at her. ‘Do you actually fancy him?’
‘Of course I do!’
‘So it’s not just the money?’
‘No!’ She looks horrified – and a little annoyed. Am I taking this too far? ‘It’s him. There’s something about him. Sorry if you can’t see it,’ she says petulantly.
‘Catalina obviously sees it, too,’ I say.
‘Now she is in it for the money,’ Holly snaps.
‘And she’s going to end up with quite a bucketload if he ever divorces her.’
‘If he ever does,’ she says sadly.
I’m vaguely curious as to how Holly and Simon got together in the first place, but the thought of him coming on to her, of him sticking his tongue down her throat . . . God knows how I’ll feel if I spot him here, going into the bathroom with his boxer shorts on. I shudder and change the subject.
‘So what time do we fly out to Italy on Wednesday?’
The next Grand Prix is at Monza, Italy, and it’s Sunday night now so I only have a couple of days to settle in and get over my jetlag before we head off again. Holly is working at the team’s headquarters in the canteen and she’s not at home on Monday or Tuesday, so I spend my time sitting on the sofa in my pyjamas watching rubbish daytime television while eating bowls of nachos. I’m bored out of my brains – I don’t know how I ever lasted two months in New York doing little more than this – and by the time Wednesday morning comes around, I’m dying to get back to work.
We’re catching the first flight of the day and, as usual, the hospitality staff are setting off to the track the day before anyone else arrives, so I have time to prepare before facing the lads. But I hadn’t factored in seeing Frederick again, and as I stand in the terminal, waiting to check in for our flight, I remember what he said the last time he saw me.
‘We’re ALL upset, Daisy!’
He didn’t know about Will and me. And I didn’t even tell him I was quitting. I just left. I’m lucky he’s taking me back. Nerves flutter through me as I wonder how he’ll be with me again. I don’t have to wait long. He arrives with Klaus and Gertrude, the latter of whom embraces me warmly.
‘Daisy, you’re back!’
Gertrude’s hug is hefty and I gasp for air as I pull away before Klaus happily clumps me on my back. I start to cough, while Holly tries not to laugh, but comical as we must look, I am absolutely delighted to see them again. I turn to Frederick. He nods down at me. ‘Welcome back.’
‘Thank you. Thank you for having me back.’ I can’t help sounding formal.
‘Are you well?’ he asks.
‘Much better.’
‘Good. Because no one fries the bacon as well as you. Let’s go.’ He motions to the checkin queue in front of us, and that for the moment, is that.
I’m nervous in the car on the way to the track. I’m worried about being in the motorhome again. When we pile out of our standard black people carriers the others file off inside, but I look up for a moment at the team’s shiny, portable hospitality building. Holly glances back and sees me.
‘Are you okay?’ she asks, concerned.
I nod and hesitantly follow her in.
The hospitality area is always empty two days before the first practice session, although this afternoon it feels eerily so. Holly walks off towards the kitchen with the others, while I take in my surroundings slowly. I try not to look to my left where the stairs are, the stairs that used to lead me to Will’s private room, but I can’t help myself. A lump forms in my throat, but I swallow in quick succession, forcing it back down again. I need to keep busy.
By Friday, I feel like I’ve settled in somewhat. It was weird seeing Pete, Dan and the lads yesterday. They arrived at the track to start getting the cars ready and I don’t think they knew I was going to be back at work. They were definitely pleased to see me, but the atmosphere here seems changed. It’s more strained, somehow. Maybe it will be different when race day comes around, I don’t know.
On Friday morning I’m serving breakfast when I see a dark-haired guy walk through the hospitality doors. I don’t recognise him at first – he has a beard for starters – but suddenly he takes off his dark glasses and I’m floored. It’s Luis. He’s halfway across the room before he notices me and falters. He’s a shadow of his former self, and right now he looks like he’s seen a ghost.
He reaches the table. ‘Daisy?’ he asks quietly, as though not believing it’s me standing there.
‘Hey,’ I reply, my face softening.
‘I didn’t know you were back.’ He looks unsure of himself, so different to the Luis from a couple of months ago. His usually olive-skin tone seems paler and even his beard can’t disguise the fact that he’s lost a lot of weight.
I nod. ‘I thought it was time.’
He doesn’t say anything, just meets my eyes for what seems like a long while.
‘How are you?’ I ask.
He shrugs and looks down.
‘Can I get you some bacon?’ I smile, trying to cheer him up, but he barely looks at me as he shakes his head.
‘No, thanks. I’m not really hungry.’
My blood runs cold.
‘I’m just going to head upstairs.’ He backs away from the serving table and then turns and walks off with his head down. I look after him worriedly.
‘Was that Luis?’ Holly asks, coming out of the kitchen.
I glance at her. ‘I didn’t know he was that bad.’
She nods. ‘I told you he wasn’t good.’
‘But Holly, he looks awful,’ I murmur. ‘Isn’t he eating?’
‘He eats,’ she says. ‘Just not a lot. He doesn’t stray from the diet designed for him and you won’t catch him out on the town with the lads for beer nor money.’
‘Maybe I should go and check on him.’ I look towards the stairs. The thought terrifies me. I haven’t been near Will’s old room since I’ve been here and have been wondering how I can get through the rest of the season by avoiding it completely.
‘I wouldn’t,’ Holly says.
I look at her in surprise. I didn’t expect her to disagree.
‘Maybe just leave him be for a little while,’ she explains. ‘He’ll need to get his head together before practice.’
I avert my gaze, feeling a little put-out. The last thing I want to do is upset Luis even more, and I’m sad she thinks I’m capable of it.
By Saturday, it’s become quite clear that Luis is avoiding me. He now seems to prefer eating in the privacy of his upstairs room, and as Holly is the drivers’ new on-hand front-of-house girl – and I certainly don’t want the position back – she’s the person who deals with him.
I haven’t been into the garages yet, but on the morning of qualifying, Frederick sends Holly and me there to handle the catering. I try to keep my breathing steady as I head across the asphalt to the pits, but my heart jolts when we walk through the door to see Pierre, the test driver who took over Will’s drive, standing in Will’s garage.
‘Daisy, can you sort out the coffee cups?’ Holly asks firmly. I know she’s trying to distract me and I’m grateful. I get on with my work.
Luis comes in just before qualifying is due to start.
‘Come on, man,’ Dan urges and even from the other side of the garage I can see frustration etched across his face at Luis’s late arrival.
Luis glances my way and quickly averts his gaze before walking unhurriedly towards his car. He climbs in and Dan helps him get settled. The atmosphere in here is tense, but it’s a different kind of tension to the one I’m used to. There’s no anticipation or excitement, just stress and strain. For the first time I wonder if it was a mistake coming back.
Q1 goes badly. Luis just scrapes into the top fifteen, meaning he’ll get another chance to qualify better in the second session. He climbs out of the car.
‘It’s not handling well,’ he exclaims hotly, ripping off his helmet.
‘What’s wrong with it?’ Dan asks.
‘It’s just not right!’ Luis tugs off his gloves.
‘Mate, we can’t help you if you don’t tell us what’s wrong.’
‘I don’t know what’s wrong!’ Luis shouts, before Dan leads him away towards the private meeting room.
‘Is this what it’s been like?’ I ask Holly.
She nods. I don’t think I can watch any more.
Luis qualifies twelfth in the end and doesn’t even make it through to the third qualifying session. Pierre does better and will start sixth tomorrow, but that’s hardly anything to get excited about.
That night, Saturday night, Holly tentatively broaches the subject of the evening’s plans. We’re staying at a hotel in the middle of Milan and it’s only a short walk to the Piazza del Duomo in the centre of town and a whole host of super-cool bars and clubs.
‘I’m not going out,’ I tell her flatly.
‘I understand,’ she says, perching on the end of my bed. I’m lying down, my head propped up on three pillows as I reach for the television remote.
‘You go out, though,’ I insist. ‘I don’t need you to keep me company again.’ We stayed in the room last night, watching a chick flick and eating room service.
‘Well . . .’ She looks on edge. ‘I might pop up and see Simon later. Only if you don’t mind,’ she quickly adds. Catalina isn’t at this race, and last night Simon had to attend dinner with the sponsors.
‘Oh, sure,’ I say. After all this time wishing she’d open up to me, now I find it very strange hearing her talk about him.
Holly goes to get changed in the bathroom and I flick through the channels trying not to think about the fact that she’s probably putting on lacy underwear in Simon’s honour. When she eventually heads out looking sheepish, I sigh and turn the television off. Perhaps I’ll read a book? But no, three pages in and half an hour later, I realise I haven’t taken in a single word.
Something makes me think back to Bahrain and the sight of Luis speeding around the desert track. The commentators were comparing him to Ayrton Senna, one of the greatest drivers of our time. There’s no word of such comparisons now. I wonder if the British press still have their knives out?
I could go and see him . . . If Holly is right, Luis won’t be out on the town with the lads. I wonder if he’d let me in? He may just slam the door in my face. Only one way to find out. I leap off the bed full of determination and grab my door key. I don’t bother to change out of my work clothes or check my reflection.
Luis is staying in a room three floors above me. I run up the stairs instead of taking the lift and I’m slightly out of breath by the time I get there.
He answers after twenty seconds, opening the door and staring at me with a confused frown.
‘Hello,’ he says.
‘Luis, hi.’ I try to catch my breath and give him a hopeful look. ‘Can I come in?’
He stands back to let me pass, not speaking.
His room is a tip. Clothes are strewn across the floor and living area. A quick glance through to the bathroom and I can see dirty towels discarded on the floor. The television is blaring out at high volume.
Luis doesn’t apologise for the mess as he leads me to the sofa. I pick up his helmet and team overalls and place them on the coffee table, then perch on the edge of an armchair and wait while he digs around down the side of the sofa. Eventually his hand emerges with the remote control. He points it and turns the volume down on the TV before leaning back on the sofa and putting his feet up on the coffee table. He doesn’t look at me.
‘How are you?’ I ask.
‘What are you doing here?’ he hits back.
‘I wanted to see how you are,’ I reply, flummoxed.
‘Why should you care?’ His dark eyes meet mine and I’m taken aback by the intensity of them.
I glance away at the flickering, soundless television for a moment before looking back at him. ‘I do care.’
He scratches his beard. ‘I thought you’d left for good.’
‘Sorry to disappoint you.’
He rests his head down on the back of the sofa and takes a deep breath.
‘You don’t look well, Luis,’ I say eventually.
He shrugs.
‘What are you going to do about it?’ I press.
He shrugs again. ‘Nothing.’
‘You can’t keep hurting yourself like this,’ I say. ‘You have to forgive yourself.’
‘Have you forgiven me?’ he bites back.
‘Yes!’ I exclaim. ‘There wasn’t really anything to forgive! It wasn’t your fault!’
His face crumbles and I stare on in shock as I realise he’s about to cry.
‘Oh, God, Luis, I’m sorry.’ I get up from my chair and go to sit next to him on the sofa.
‘No, no.’ He puts his hand out to wave me away, but I grab it and hold it tightly. ‘Please,’ he begs, turning his face away.
‘It wasn’t your fault,’ I say again, quietly and sympathetically.
‘Don’t!’ He chokes and I pull him to me, wrapping my arms around his neck as he buries his face into me and starts to sob. My throat swells and tears well up in my eyes because his pain is hurting me, too. I can’t let myself think of Will, otherwise I’ll be in an even worse state than he is, and I need to be strong for him right now.
Eventually he pulls away.
‘Do you want a tissue?’ I ask belatedly, digging around in my pocket for one. I never go anywhere without them these days.
‘Thanks,’ he answers groggily, taking it from me and loudly blowing his nose. I edge away to give us both some space.
‘Nossa Senhora,’ he sighs, leaning back on the sofa and staring up at the ceiling. ‘You didn’t go out tonight?’ He turns to look at me, his eyes red and still a little teary.
I shake my head. ‘No.’
‘Holly?’
‘She’s with Simon.’
He nods and looks up at the ceiling again.
‘It’s strange being back,’ I comment.
It’s a while before he answers. ‘Where did you go?’
‘New York. To see my parents.’
‘How was it?’ He glances at me.
‘Awful.’ Pause. ‘How are your family?’
‘Good. Well, yeah . . .’ He hesitates.
‘What?’
‘No, nothing.’ He brushes me off.
‘Tell me. How’s your mother?’
‘Um . . . All this . . .’ He waves his hand around the room. ‘You know, it’s bothering her,’ he says with difficulty.
‘What do you mean? The racing is bothering her?’
‘Everything. It’s all bothering her.’
I’m confused. ‘Has she been reading about you in the papers?’
‘Mmm, yeah.’ He sits up straighter and looks jittery.
‘Luis, she can’t believe everything she reads. Maybe she should just avoid the tabloids like I do.’
He nods, clearly on edge.
I sigh. I hate seeing him like this. I want to try to make it better. ‘I’m sorry I ran away from you after the funeral.’
‘It’s okay.’
‘I wasn’t myself, you know?’
‘I know.’
‘Luis, please!’ I just want him to return to normal. I can’t handle this!
‘What? What? It’s okay,’ he adds absent-mindedly. Even his voice sounds strange.
‘You have to let it go,’ I plead. ‘You have to let him go.’ My eyes well up again as he turns to look at me.
‘Have you let him go?’
We stare at each other for a long while before I shake my head. He looks away again. ‘No. I didn’t think so.’
‘Are the press still giving you a hard time?’ I ask after a moment.
‘It’s not so bad.’
‘Good. They’ll lay off soon.’
‘I didn’t mean to win the race,’ he says suddenly in a detached voice.
‘What race? The one that. . . Silverstone?’
He nods. ‘I didn’t know the accident was as bad as that.’
‘I know. I’m sure everyone understands.’
‘No, they don’t.’ He slowly shakes his head. ‘I don’t know if I can do this anymore.’
I grab his hand again and clutch it tightly. ‘Yes, you can,’ I tell him fervently. ‘Yes, you can. You’re a brilliant racing driver. They were comparing you to Ayrton Senna, for Christ’s sake!’
‘They’re not anymore.’
‘Well, they will be again. You just have to get back on your feet, get back behind the wheel. You said you wanted to win a race for Will, well do it!’
He looks at me in surprise. ‘You heard about that?’
I nod. ‘I saw you on the telly in America.’
‘Huh.’ He looks away again. ‘I didn’t do a very good job of it.’
‘No, well, don’t worry,’ I say lamely, before clutching his hand fiercely once more. ‘You can do it now. Tomorrow!’
‘From twelfth?’ He gives me a wry look, and for the first time I get a glimpse of the Luis I used to know.
‘Well, maybe not win it, but you know, finish it. Or something. I don’t know! Just stop being such a lame-arse and get out there. I’ll be proud of you.’
He grins at me and squeezes my hand, then almost instantly snatches his away and covers his face as his body starts to shake with sobs.
‘Oh, Luis . . .’ I rub his back, feeling utterly mortified. ‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry.’ I rest my head on his shoulder and just stay there for a while, waiting for him to calm down. Eventually he sits up and composes himself, brushing his tears away.
‘You’d better go,’ he says morosely. ‘I need to get to bed.’
I stand up unsteadily. I don’t know if I’ve made it worse by coming here. He follows me to the door and pulls it open. I step out onto the landing and turn around.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘I’m sorry for all of this. I don’t know . . .’ I hesitate. ‘Maybe I shouldn’t have come back.’
‘No,’ he says fervently, meeting my eyes. ‘That’s not true. I’m glad you’re back.’ And then his face crumbles again and he quickly closes the door in my face.
Chapter 24
I don’t tell Holly about my visit to see Luis. She stayed in Simon’s room anyway, so the first I see of her is in the morning when I’m putting on my team uniform. I had terrible nightmares last night, about a man or a monster hunting me down. I kept waking up in cold sweats, trying to tell myself it was just a dream, but then I’d fall straight back into it again. Needless to say, I’m in a vile mood today.
Luis turns up at ten o’clock and goes straight up to his room. I’m in the kitchen looking out, but he doesn’t see me, just keeps his head down and walks quickly. I suppose he’s feeling embarrassed about losing it in front of me. . .
To hell with this! I go to the serving table and grab a plate, loading it up with bacon and eggs.
‘What are you doing?’ Holly asks, frowning.
‘Don’t try to stop me,’ I reply, coming out from behind the table and walking towards the stairs.
‘Daisy!’ she calls in dismay, but I ignore her.
At the top of the stairs I inadvertently glance to my right and see that the door to Will’s one-time driver’s room has been left open. I halt in my tracks and stare inside. There’s a black team carry case, identical to Will’s – identical to all of ours – resting on the table. I feel like the blood is literally draining from my face. The door to Luis’s room opens and he comes out with his head down. And then he looks up and sees me.
‘Daisy? Are you alright?’
I shake my head quickly as my nose starts to prickle. He ushers me into his room. My hand is shaking so I put his plate of food down onto the table with a clatter.
‘Is that for me?’ he asks.
I nod, silently, unable to meet his eyes.
‘I’m not hungry.’
‘You have to eat!’ I exclaim, suddenly cross.
‘I don’t want to eat,’ he replies nonchalantly.
‘Well, tough! Because you’re going to!’
He raises one eyebrow at me with amusement. ‘And how are you going to manage that, exactly?’
‘I’ll shove it down your throat if you’re not careful,’ I warn.
He sighs and collapses onto the sofa. ‘Give me one piece of bacon,’ he demands. I grab the plate and sit down next to him, picking out the crispiest piece I can see. He takes it from me, reluctantly, and chews along the edge of it before finally popping it into his mouth.
‘If João could see me now . . .’ he comments.
‘João would just be damned relieved you’re eating at all,’ I say hotly.
He holds out his hand for another piece.
‘Are you coming to watch the race today?’ he asks after a moment.
‘I don’t know,’ I reply. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘Why not?’
‘Luis, you know why not. I’m just trying to, you know, break myself in gently.’
He chucks the piece of bacon back onto the plate and slumps into the sofa. ‘Fode-se,’ he mutters.
‘What does that mean?’ I ask, but he ignores me. ‘Fuck it? Luis, did you just say, “fuck it”?’
He doesn’t answer.
‘Well, fuck you,’ I tell him.
‘Fottiti?’ He glances at me hopefully and my face breaks into a grin.
‘You’re such a testa di cazzo. When are you going to have a shave?’
He shrugs. ‘Who gives a shit?’
‘I do. You look weird with a beard.’
‘Weirdy beardy?’
‘Yes!’ I laugh.
‘I’ll have a shave if you come and watch the race.’
My face falls and I stare at him. ‘I don’t know if I can.’
‘Sure you can.’ He pats me casually on the knee before standing up and stretching his arms over his head. His T-shirt rides up and I can see his far-too-skinny torso underneath.
‘Eat another piece – no, two more pieces – of bacon and you’ve got yourself a deal,’ I say, joining him on his feet and offering up the plate. He gives me a wry look, but reaches down and grabs two pieces, shovelling them both into his mouth at the same time.
‘That’s disgusting,’ I say, grimacing at the sight. He grins at me, making it even worse. ‘Oh, stop!’ I insist, but he swallows and puts me out of my misery.
‘Where’s my coffee?’ he asks suddenly, looking on the table.
‘I didn’t bring one,’ I reply.
‘Jesus. And you’re supposed to be a bun tart.’
‘Oi!’ I go to slap him on his arm, but he blocks me. ‘I don’t know why I’ve been worrying about you, Luis Castro.’ I shake my head and start to head out of the room. He follows me.
‘See you in the pits in a couple of hours.’
‘I’ll be there,’ I promise, as a chill goes through me.
Red, red, red, red, red, GO! I can barely make out Luis’s car so far back, but it looks like he’s overtaking several cars at the start. After a while the race positions flash up on the television screens above our heads and my thoughts are confirmed: Luis has made up four places on the grid and is now running eighth. That’s not bad. At least it’s in the points. Pierre, in the other car, is still sixth.
Luis is now hot on the tail of Germany’s Benni Fischer in seventh place.
‘WHOA!’ a few people in the garages shout as he nips out from behind him and outbreaks him into a corner. Seventh!
‘Bloody hell!’ Holly exclaims from my side. ‘What’s gotten into him?’
I don’t answer, just stare up at the screens in anticipation. We’re standing in Luis’s garage. I’ve made a concerted effort not to look through to Pierre’s.
It was raining this morning, but when the race started it was dry. Suddenly the heavens open again and the mechanics go into overdrive as Luis pulls into the pits for a tyre change. Cars still wearing their ‘dry’ tyres are spinning off the track and fear begins to creep back into my heart.
A few laps later and on his ‘wet’ tyres, Luis has climbed another two places on the grid. He’s now running sixth and Pierre has climbed a place into fifth. Suddenly the camera cuts to Nils Broden’s car, wrecked and smoking in a gravel pit. The television screens show a replay of the accident which put it there, and I watch, white-knuckled and sick to my bones, as Broden’s car smashes into a concrete wall and shatters across the track.
And then I see Will, clear as day, in my mind. His car is upside down on the gravel pit as an ambulance crew brings out a white sheet. I start to feel dizzy. I hear Holly’s voice beside me asking if I’m okay. She puts her hands on my arms to steady me and tries to tell me that Broden is fine, that he’s climbed out of his car and is already over the wall and on his way back to the pits, but I’m in another place, another time. All I can see is Will’s car, the front end completely gone. And then I see Will, staring at me in the darkness as we lay side-by-side in bed.
I break down in uncontrollable sobs.
‘Daisy . . . Daisy . . .’ Holly’s voice tries to soothe me, but I’m beyond help. I fall to my knees and am vaguely aware of people in the garage turning to stare at me.
‘Daisy, please,’ Holly begs. ‘Come back to the hospitality area.’
‘I can’t . . . I can’t . . .’
‘It’s okay.’ She crouches beside me and puts her arm around my shoulder while several mechanics worriedly look our way. I know it will be a struggle for them to concentrate with this going on.
Klaus comes into the garage with Frederick. He must’ve gone to fetch him.
‘Come with me,’ Frederick says firmly. He pulls me to my feet and I stumble out of the garage with him. Holly follows.
‘I’m sorry!’ I cry. ‘I can’t be here!’
‘No, Daisy, please don’t leave again!’ Holly begs, her hand on my arm. ‘Chef, don’t let her quit!’
‘Enough!’ Frederick snaps at her. ‘Take a couple of days,’ he tells me as my sobs quieten. ‘Go and stay with your grandmother. Call Ally to arrange a car.’
I nod dumbly as Holly relaxes her grip on my arm.
‘But I want you back at work next week,’ Frederick adds. ‘And after that we’re off to Singapore, so don’t let me down.’
We return to the kitchen in the hospitality area where Holly helps me gather my things before walking me outside to one of the team’s people carriers.
‘Can you take me back to the hotel?’ I ask the driver, who’s leaning up against the front of the car, listening to a hand-held radio.
‘Sure,’ he replies.
‘I’ll call Ally from there,’ I tell Holly. ‘And I’ll see you back in the UK.’
‘You will come back, won’t you?’ Her face is etched with worry.
‘Yes,’ I tell her, although at this stage I’m really not sure.