Perhaps Vivienne Westwood isn’t on the menu. Nor McQueen. Nor Galliano.
Oh God. That’s it.
Stark-Benzin’s aesthetic isJil Sander. And I’m being the chatty American who wouldn’t get into Berghain.
I stay quiet and business-oriented for the remainder of the tour, which Mei seems to appreciate. “It’s March now, and the first race of the season is in Australia on the sixteenth, so we have a lot we need to onboard you with,” she says, pausing only to gesture to the large, clean, well-organized rooms we pass by. A coffee room. A break room. A trophy room, one of them at least. “We were supposed to have another personal clothing manager already, but she decided to work with Cavalli this year. So we’re fucked, and she’s dead to me now.”
I hold back a giggle. “Uh-oh.”
“Yeah, it’s whatever. I’m just relieved you know how influencer marketing works. You actually do, right?”
“Yep,” I say, not exactly lying. Brand deals have helped me between jobs before. Sometimes, the American dream is selling powdered electrolytes to pay for your sister’s college tuition.
“Good,” Mei sighs, relieved. “Our global marketing team is looking to maximize our drivers’ impact through fashion. Foster parasocial relationships with fans, connect more authentically with the brands who want to throw money at us. Our drivers have millions of engaged followers who want to buy the clothes their favoriteathlete wears. More people will watch Bernard walk through the paddock at the Australian Grand Prix than will tune into Valentino’s next fashion show. And most of all, we don’t want fans to know that you exist. Viewers need to think that the drivers authentically chose to wear what they wear.”
I don’t know if that thing about Valentino is true, but I bite my tongue. Because being invisible works for me, big time. “I will neither be seen nor heard.”
“And what about your own online presence?” Mei says, skeptical. “You’re okay not sharing that you work in Formula 1? It’s something we can renegotiate at your end-of-season review, when we have a better handle on how this role may look moving forward.”
I could cackle. “I have some weird exes. I was planning on keeping it low-key.”
The other woman nods knowingly. “Your compensation should reflect our appreciation.”
Excitement crackles through me. I’m raking in what Imogen’s paying meanda decent motorsports salary. “Appreciate it,” I say.
Mei shows me more rooms. Bathroom, serenity room, drivers’ meeting room, another coffee room. “I’ve requested that you travel with us as much as possible this season,” she says as I welcome myself to the espresso machine. She watches, mildly impressed, as I skip the electric kettle and go straight for the portafilter. “But I can’t make any promises, and don’t request travel to any certain country. They hate that.”
“Noted. Thank you.” I try not to sound too excited, but first invisibility, now access? She’s giving me such a leg up on staying glued to Bernard’s side, I’m giddy. “Can I request generally being on the same continent as the people I’m supposed to be styling? That seems fair.”
Mei snorts. “That might work. We’re about to head to the practice circuit, by the way. It’s promo day.”
I set my coffee down. She really waited until I had it fully made. “Random guess here, but… no beverages by the circuit?”
“Quick learner.”
Outside, I finally understand why Stark-Benzin picked Surrey as their home base: they have space here.
A short practice track has been built into a dip between two rolling green hills, flanked by temporary trailers tastefully plastered with Stark-Benzin’s logo; a black droplet-shaped outline on a plain gray background. The whole space is just big enough to let the drivers film preseason promotional material, and not an inch larger. “In the past, we’d go to Silverstone for marketing, but we’ve been a bit—” Mei waves her hand. I have no idea what she means by it. “So the team worked hard for this temporary setup. But it’s good. This’ll help you get used to the sound.”
As if on cue, the noise of a jet engine taking off fills the air. I startle mid-step, almost bumping into Mei’s back, my new gray lanyard bouncing off her shoulder. She pretends not to notice, averting her eyes politely to the track. Note to self: fast cars are loud in real life. Who knew.
She gives in at the bottom of the steps. “Are you not good with loud noises?”
“No, I’m okay.”
“Good. What about film crews?” She nods to a cluster of camerapeople on the other side of the fence. “They’re with Formula 1 corporate, doing a film on Christine Fay.”
I don’t know if it’s the damp breeze or my own blood freezingmy skin. Sure, Christine. A documentary being made about Bernard’s teammate, while I’m here to commit non-crimes of passion. Momentarily, I feel like Mei has set me on that door fromTitanicand pushed me out to sea. “Will they be here all season?” It’d be nice if my voice didn’t sound like a cartoon mouse, but c’est la vie.
“No.” Mei inspects me. “Have you seen the news?”
I’m smart enough to know that askingwhat newsis not the answer an excited new Stark-Benzin employee would give on her first day. “Sorry, of course. I just meant—I get flustered around cameras. That was stupid.”
Mei’s expression softens, and while I got out of the frying pan this time, I’m acutely aware I’ve jumped right into the fire. What fire? I don’t know yet. “It shouldn’t affect you too much,” she says, “and you’ll learn to ignore the cameras. Just don’t do anything interesting and you’ll be fine.”
I laugh like I’m just another camera-shy ex-model—a type of person that totally exists somewhere—until Mei goes to a trailer to round up “the team.” Then my smile disappears.It.What happened? Leaning on the fence post for comfort, I peek at the camera crew. They’re all in black, super-serious-looking. There’s a short brunette woman with chunky black glasses and a clipboard, talking into awalkie-talkie, and I don’t know why that makes reality click for me, but it does. You don’t use a walkie-talkie unless you mean business or you’re a preteen actor in aGooniesrip-off.
You know I can’t come save you if this shit turns sideways.
