from my face as I followed the guy named Bert back through the building and up the stairs. When I got to the top, a rather large, beefy guy in a black T-shirt raised one eyebrow at me before looking at Bert.
“This is Carson’s fiancée,” Bert announced, nodding back at me. “Miss Bancroft, this is Spence, our resident door ape who stops undesirables from entering the family VIP section.”
Spence frowned and slapped Bert on the shoulder. “Resident ape? Sod off,” he retorted, rolling his eyes. “Nice to meet you, though, Miss Bancroft,” he greeted, smiling warmly.
Grinning, I shook my head. I’d never had so many people call me Miss Bancroft as I had today. It was a little unnerving. “Emma is fine. Nice to meet you, too.”
He sidestepped and pulled open the heavy-looking, frosted-glass door and motioned for me to go inside. “Enjoy the race.”
I nodded in acknowledgement, even though I knew I wouldn’t. I hated to watch these things because my imagination ran rampant every time I saw Carson lean so dangerously close to the ground as he sped around the corner. “Thank you.” I smiled politely and stepped hesitantly over the threshold.
The large room which stretched out before me was extremely expensive-looking. The right-hand side of the building was pure glass, which stretched across the whole wall. Little black leather stools and small tables with black leather armchairs were dotted along the edge of it so spectators could look out over the racetrack. Massive television screens were located in the centre of the room, showing the motorbikes as they lined up at the starting line. Cameras were panning across the drivers as they sat there. I couldn’t hear any sound from there, though; it was as if they were muted. The people who stood around drinking champagne were all dressed impeccably in suits or designer dresses. The women had a full face of make-up, and not one hair was out of place. They were all a fair bit older than me.
I wrung my hands, wincing as I thought about what I must look like. I was wearing my smartest three-quarter jeans (which actually weren’t that smart) and a simple, white shirt. My hair had just been pulled up last-minute into a bun, and I wore no make-up at all. I was so out of place it was actually comical in a pitiful way.
As I stepped into the room, a couple of people turned to look at me. Recognition crossed their faces before they turned back to their conversations, leaning in and whispering. My stomach squirmed. Clearly they read the tabloids and knew what my profession was. I frowned down at the floor. My happy mood was now gone. I didn’t like this place. I didn’t like these people who looked down their noses at me, figuring I was beneath them. Of course, I was beneath them, but they didn’t even see fit to put on a polite act.
“Champagne?”
I jumped as a waiter held out a silver tray toward me, smiling politely. “Umm… no, thanks. Do you have a Pepsi or anything?” I asked, chewing on my lip nervously.
He raised one eyebrow before he nodded and disappeared without another word. I gulped, heading over to the wall of glass, looking down at the racetrack. The drivers on their bikes looked so far away from up here. They were all stopped on their respective marks on the ground, waiting for the race to begin. A smile twitched at the corner of my mouth when I saw Carson. He was in ninth position today following his time trials the day before. He’d told me it was due to a tactical move – something about the amount of fuel they carried at the start of the race. He wasn’t worried about his starting position.
People from his team milled around him, talking to him, holding his bike still with some chunky metal thing on wheels. My eyes wandered over him slowly in his little blue outfit. The way he looked in it, even with his head covered with a helmet, made me shift from one foot to the other as my skin seemed to come alive with desire. When they pulled the chunky little metal thing from behind his back tyre, I frowned and started to gnaw on my lip. I knew the start was approaching. People in the stands waved their flags and their foam hands as the drivers prepared to race. The sound inside the family area was just general chitchat, though, so the walls had to have been made with some sort of sound-reducing glass.
Just as the team members with each driver started to make their way off the track and in through a little gate on the side, someone stepped up next to me. I turned, smiling gratefully, expecting it to be the waiter back with a drink for me. Instead, a smiling lady in her mid-thirties stood there. I gulped, suddenly nervous because I hadn’t actually expected anyone to approach me.
“Hello, you must be Emma. I’ve heard so much about you from Carson,” she greeted.
I recoiled, trying to keep one eye on the track but talk to her at the same time; I didn’t want to miss the start. “Um, yeah, I am. Sorry, I don’t…” I shook my head as a blush crept over my cheeks. I had no idea who she was.
She laughed a high, tinkering laugh and held her hand out to me. “I’m Stuart’s wife, Katrina. We’re co-team supporters, you and I. We head up the wives’ club for our team,” she joked, winking at me as I shook her hand politely. “It’s nice to finally have someone here for Carson so I can have a girlie gossip while we watch the race. Usually, I’m alone at these things. Some of the other wives can be a little…” she turned her nose up distastefully, “snobby,” she finished.
I chuckled awkwardly, hoping this wasn’t some kind of test I was about to fail. “Yeah, I kind of guessed that,” I admitted. “I’m kind of used to that reaction to me now, though; it happens a lot.”
She rolled her eyes and perched herself on one of the stools, crossing one trousered leg over the other. “Who cares? We all have to make a living. Ignore them. They’re all just jealous because their behinds don’t look as cute as your tiny little booty does in those jeans.” She winked at me jokingly and patted the seat next to hers. “Sit down, I won’t bite.”
I slid onto the stool, chuckling awkwardly. The waiter came over then, setting a glass of Pepsi in front of me. I chewed on my lip, looking back down to Carson. Suddenly, the pre-race lap started, and all the bikes moved forward. Carson took a few seconds to go, though, seeming hesitant as the others all breezed past him. I’d seen the start of a few of these races, so I knew he never really pushed it hard on this lap, just travelled at a leisurely speed around the track. Within seconds, the bikes were all out of sight and I twisted in my seat, watching the TV screen instead so I could see them all find their groove around the track. This lap was just to warm up their bikes and tyres, so there was no real rush or competition.
“You ever been to a race before?” Katrina asked, picking up a set of headphones hooked on the rail near my knees.
I shook my head in response. “No. I’m not sure I’ll like it,” I admitted.
She chuckled and nodded, picking up another set of chunky black headphones and holding them out to me. “I never used to like watching, either. You get used to it as time goes by. Want to listen to the commentary?”
Hesitantly, I took the offered headgear, watching as she covered her ears with hers but left the overhead strap thing under her chin – probably so it wouldn’t mess up her hair. I did the same, pressing mine to my ears, listening to the commentator who usually did the voice over on the races. He was talking about form and who needed what points today. He announced that if Carson won this race he’d be uncatchable on the leader board, meaning he would win the championship for the year. I smiled at that and silently crossed my fingers.
When the bikes had done a full lap, they came back into view again, all of them stopping on their respective marks on the ground. My chest was tight as I watched, and I could barely sit still. The race was twenty laps, which Carson said would be about forty minutes in duration. I couldn’t wait for it to end. My nerves and excitement about telling him I loved him back was actually starting to overtake the worry which usually plagued me during race time.
Once all the racers were settled on their positions, the family members all crowded around the window, taking their seats and looking at their loved ones excitedly. My eyes were trained on Carson as I gripped the edge of the seat tightly, willing him to do well. When the green light flashed, the sound through the headphones was momentarily deafening as the bikes screeched off their lines in a cloud of smoke and exhaust fumes. No longer able to sit, I jumped up, looking down with wide eyes as Carson immediately blasted past two other racers, weaving in and out on his heavy-looking bike, taking the inside edge of the track and bumping up to seventh place in an instant. A couple of other people switched positions, too, but my eyes were firmly fixed on my fiancé.
“Go, baby! Kick some arse! You got this!” I shouted before I could stop myself.
Katrina chuckled next to me, but I noticed no one else was standing or shouting. Heat spread across my cheeks as the group of bikes rounded the corner and were out of sight again. The distasteful, disapproving look on some of their faces was enough to make me cringe back into my seat.
As the dust and smoke settled, it was clear that one of the drivers had incurred a problem during the start. He still sat in his starting position as his team ran out to him, taking his bike. The guy threw his hands up in exasperation, gesturing wildly at his bike before stomping out of the gate and off the racetrack.
“Well, Sinead won’t be a happy bunny. Shame,” Katrina said beside me, giggling and nudging me in the ribs, nodding toward one of the more haughty-looking women sitting in the row at the end. Sinead stood, scowling down from the window before she made a disapproving scoffing sound and stormed out of the room. Clearly, that was her husband or partner, and judging by the look on her face, she wasn’t impressed that he hadn’t even started.
I shared a conspiratorial smile with Katrina before turning my attention to the television screens, watching as the cameras followed the lead group around. In my ears, the commentator was busy analysing their form and bikes. When the camera cut to Carson as he went around the corner, I gasped and averted my eyes, not wanting to see how close his bike and body got to the ground as he leant in. I immediately doubted my ability to watch this race. My stomach was churning; my heart was in my throat, and my palms were slick with sweat. Internally, I was counting down the minutes, listening to the laps ticking by, thinking that each lap brought me one step closer to seeing him and saying those words I’d longed to say to him for three years.
Within ten minutes, Carson had crept up another three places and was now in fourth. I had barely watched any of it but was listening avidly to the commentary through my headphones. It appeared Carson wasn’t having a good race today according to the experts. They’d already slammed him for an earlier move where he undershot a corner and lost time when he cut into the grass.
“Oh, what was that? He didn’t even see that coming! Carson Matthews just conceded a place. Martin Bashing just took that easily!” the commentator yelled excitedly in my ear. I frowned. “It seems like something is wrong with Carson today. His mind seems to be elsewhere. On each of the last three laps, he’s lost four tenths of a second. The distance time is growing between him and the leader. If he wants that first place, he’s going to have to work for it.”
“That’s right, Simon. He doesn’t look like the Carson we’ve come to expect.”
I frowned, looking up at Katrina to see she was frowning, too. I flicked my eyes up to the television screens, seeing Carson there. He was heading toward a corner. As the others in front of him were braking, he wasn’t. He caught up with them quickly, his brake light finally flickering as he slowed down for the corner. My eyes widened as he suddenly pulled to the right-hand side of the track, narrowly avoiding the back of the bike in front of him. He accelerated and leant into the corner, squeezing into an almost non-existent gap, forcing the other bike over so they didn’t collide. The two hulking bikes were level now, but by squeezing into the gap, Carson now had the inside edge. As they straightened up, Carson was just ahead and gunned his engine, blasting down the straight and finally overtaking the other driver who immediately veered to the right. He was looking to overtake again but Carson veered to the right, too, thwarting his attempt.
I groaned and covered my mouth with my hand. I was pretty sure I would never get used to seeing him do this.
“Oh, that was a risky move. Matthews is lucky he didn’t take them both out doing that. Bashing won’t be happy with him at all,” the commentator observed. “Carson certainly isn’t himself today. That was a rookie, dangerous overtake, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen the youngster put himself or others in danger like that. His mind really isn’t on task today at all.”
Suddenly, it hit me what this was about and why he was driving so differently today. Just before the race we’d had a huge argument, he’d told me he loved me, and I hadn’t said it back. He wasn’t concentrating properly on the race now because of me and what had transpired between us earlier.
I covered my mouth and shook my head, hating myself for not managing to say the words back before he left the room. He was driving badly today because of me. If he lost this race due to lack of concentration, it would be entirely my fault.
The television cameras left Carson and cut back to the three race leaders who were going around a particularly sharp-looking bend the commentators called The Loop. As I watched them, hating myself because Carson was obviously upset, shocked voices burst through my headphones.
“He’s off! Carson Matthews has just crashed out of the race!”
The words made my heart stop as my mouth popped open in shock. Time seemed to stand still as their words washed over me like a bucket of cold water. I jumped to my feet, staring at the screen in disbelief.
“I can’t see what’s happened. Medics are on their way,” the commentator said.
The cameras cut to pieces of Carson’s bike strewn everywhere. Tyre tracks stained the road and trailed across the grass. People in white jumpsuits were running toward a sign, which had been smashed and lay in a pile along with Carson’s bike. When I saw legs in that tangled mess, a loud whimper left my lips.
No. No. No. This can’t be happening. Please, no.
“Let’s get a replay of what happened.” The camera changed, showing Carson’s bike bypassing the pit lane, still cutting off every attempt the guy behind him made to overtake. When he approached the bend, the guy behind him slowed marginally and backed off, but Carson again left it later to brake. As he approached the corner, it looked like he was going too fast and as he leant into the turn, he lost control and the bike wobbled before clipping the ground. Carson was flicked over the top of it, smashing into the ground and bouncing like a rag doll, rolling a couple of times with his arms flailing everywhere before skidding along the road and hitting the barriers on the left-hand side of the track. Horrifyingly, his bike was skidding along behind him so as he hit the barrier, his bike smashed into him, too.
“No! Oh, God, No!” I shouted, covering my mouth with my hands.