Words like‘final chance’and‘time to get it together’and‘you’re one more fuck up from having to look for another team’ring in my ears as I stride back to the motorhome. I’m bypassing the journalists with a face like thunder, yet it doesn’t stop them crowing about my fall from grace right now.
Sixteenth. Six-fucking-teenth. I can’t even remember the last time I placed so low. I can’t remember the last time in either my lower or top-category career to date that I’ve placed outside the top ten.
Even worse, we’ve been knocked off the top spot in the Constructors’ Championship. It’s gutting. The only thing more gutting was the look on everyone’s faces as they realised what this would mean – and then Kian’s whole face just dropped. Anders did not look happy at all.
And it’s completely my fault. I’m to blame.
I always ignore the fun police who try to get in the way of me living my life. But I’m not a complete idiot – since getting called up to Championship racing, even I’ve been more careful. At the beginning of the season, Anna laid out a clear set of expectations of the behaviour of a Hendersohm driver. A basic list of do’s and don’ts, if you will. And since I signed my contract, I haven’t deviated greatly from it. I haven’t done anything that could get me fired. Whatever Kian thinks, Iwantto be here. The irony is that what’s going to get me fired is something I did before the season even started.
I had a foursome about two years ago, and now it’s come back to haunt me, because of course someone made a video. My agent’s PR team has apparently been run ragged trying to contain the story. I guess I wasn’t high-profile enough before now, and my blackmailer was waiting until I hit the big time so he could get more money for it. He planned to sell it to the media, but insteadIam apparently going to be buying it, with a hefty portion of this season’s payout.
There’s nothing wrong with the foursome in principle, since it was all fully consensual and everyone was of legal age, but Anders lost his mind because of course the owners, the sponsors and the VIPs would be extremely unhappy. I haven’t crossed any hard lines this season, but I know I’ve skirted some grey areas, and after the bollocking Anders gave us back in Bahrain I knew I couldn’t take the piss. But even if I had behaved like golden boy, Mr Boring Bastard, himself, this thing would still have come back to bite me in the ass. Apparently they held a senior team meeting and decided I would be on a final warning. One more fuck-up and I’m out. Whatever Kian’s been whispering in Jackson’s ear has obviously filtered up to Anders. I’m just lucky that Elijah’s not fit enough to return yet otherwise I think they’d have fired me already.
People have been telling me my whole life to get my shit together. Not to do anything that would jeopardise my career. I’ve always told them to fuck off. But they were right. They’ve always been right. Maybe that’s why I push so hard, and drive so fast – because I’m trying to escape the demons I know are chasing me. The demons that are always chasing me. The mistakes I’ve already made. If I drink enough, fuck enough, win enough, then one day I’ll be big enough that the demons can’t hurt me anymore. Isn’t that the dream of every kid like me? To leave behind the fear that one day you’ll be found out and tossed back on the shit-heap you came from? I heard someone call it imposter syndrome once, but that’s some serious therapy bullshit right there. It’s different for kids like me, the ones with nothing to fall back on, with nowhere to go and no one to run to.
I’m fucking up all over the place – with the team, with Kian, with my life in general. I’ve probably been fucking up my whole life.
Now I’ve cost the team points and possibly the Constructors’ Championship. And for what? A couple of sub-par orgasms from guys who are clearly absolute dickheads.
I can’t even call Johannes. I’ve barely seen him recently. He’s always busy with the secret he’s keeping from me, and I don’t think he’d even understand anyway. And who else would care? There are so many names and numbers in my phone, but not a single one I can call about this.
So I slump back to the motorhome and lock myself in my room.
For what feels like hours, but in reality is just too many long minutes thinking about what’s gone wrong, I lie staring up at the dark ceiling. I’m not used to so much silence.
I’m so quiet that I hear Kian return, the way he potters around the living area. He’s probably tidying, but maybe he’s looking for me? Or maybe I must be delusional to even think Kian would care what I’m doing. There’s something comforting about the sound of him moving about. I imagine him being relieved that he’s got the place to himself for a bit. Of course he wants me gone. Who wouldn’t?
Well, he’ll get his wish soon enough. I knew this couldn’t last. I knew I’d mess it up eventually. Just like I mess everything up. I don’t belong here, after all.
I turn into the pillow and stuff it into my mouth to hide the sounds I’m making, but I don’t seem to be able to stop.
Eventually, I hear the shower turn on and I’m almost relieved that the noise of the water splashing against the tiles will cover my sobs. Maybe it will also drown out the noise in my head.
Except it’s short-lived. Kian’s either taken the quickest shower in history or he turned it on so I wouldn’t hear him shitting. I couldn’t decide which was worst, because a long shower was always needed after a race day to get rid of the stench of rubber and petrol. I carry on crying into my pillow until I’m all cried out. I think I heard Kian go out and I hope he’s just being kind and giving me some space, although I know I don’t deserve it.
The light knock on the door, when it comes, is both expected and unexpected.
Expected in that I thought he’d be straight in here the second he got home, shooting his mouth off about how shit I am, how disappointed he is, how I’ve fucked it for both of us. And I wouldn’t have even blamed him.
Unexpected, because when I mutter for him to come in there’s a bag of takeout in one of his hands and a couple of beers dangling between the fingers of the other.
‘Am I okay to come in?’ he asks from the doorway, a shaft of light creeping into my room.
I can’t remember the last time someone saw me cry. I was maybe … fourteen? That great foster home, the family I thought would finally adopt me, asked me to come in and sit down one evening. I knew exactly which conversation was coming.
Time to go. Again.
I was long past sobbing like a kid by then, but I hadn’t been able to prevent silent tears from running down my face as they let me know that the social worker would be by in the morning and they’d help me pack up my bits into a couple of bin bags. The bits which had made the room upstairs my own.
While it’s still relatively dark, I make an effort to wipe my face, just in case there’s any chance he doesn’t know. He rests the takeout on the end of my bed before whipping out two trays from under his arm. It’s a little fumbly until he turns on my bedside lamp which casts a warm glow over us both. It’s just enough light to plate up.
He’s brought a mixture of everything – noodles, rice, a variety of meats in different fruity sauces. Most importantly, salt-and-pepper chips. I’m not even sure what’s happening or why, but I can’t tell him how much I need this right now. I don’t have words to express how comforting this food is, and how much it reminds me of cheap dinners when I was young. No matter where I was living, salt-and-pepper chips from the Chinese tasted the same – and filled me up.
‘It’s not that I’m not grateful for this,’ I start, snuffling as I try to think of the best way to finish my sentence, ‘but … why?’
It’s not graceful, but then neither is the way I wipe my snotty nose on the duvet, but it’s who I am.
‘Today was shit and it’s Chinese takeout. I think we both might need it.’
