While this decision was made during promotional filming today in Surrey, Bernard’s statements to the team and media reflect that the car did not impact his decision-making. We believe in the car you all have meticulously created, and are excited for the public to see its full power during the Australian Grand Prix.
Faust remains with the team.
Moreover, we have taken this opportunity to sign Christine Fay as our second driver and Eddie Dooly as reserve driver. We are thrilled with the opening that Bernard’s exit created, as we have been working to usher Christine into what we know will be an illustrious Formula 1 career.
My phone screen flashes white. Renata’s video-calling me. I set my fork into my takeout container and pick up with a sighed, “Don’t say it.”
It’s mid-afternoon in New York, and she’s on a green park bench. She’s mostly in the frame of the camera, though her phone’s in her lap and the angle is wild. Big chin, thumb face, hot-pink curls. “I’m not going to.”
“Okay, one time. But then never again.”
“Only a shitty friend would say ‘I told you so’ in your hour of need.”
“I’m not that needy.”
“Actually yeah, I agree,” Renata says. “Like, this isn’t good. But think about this. You keep this job. You’re a stylist now, that’s sick. And you keep trying to get to Bernard while you’re traveling with the team. This is still your best chance, he’s just going to be—you know, not the person you dress. And hey, maybe you love workingin F1, and this is all a funny story you tell your grandkids one day about how you found your dream job.”
“Yourgrandkids.”
She eyes me again. “It’s not the worst thing, finding something you love that isn’t so hard.”
Sloshy March rain drips against the bedroom’s windowpane, and I count fiveta-tapsbefore I reply. “I don’t know,” I say, but I do. I’m not going to find something else. I’m twenty-nine, and that’s almost thirty, and that’s maybe not that much time left—or maybe not. Mom first got sick when she was only a few years older than me. Grandma made it way longer.
“I’m not trying to…” Renata’s forehead crinkles. “I ran into Maisie.”
“You did?”
“And I might’ve let it slip that you’d been in town. Sorry. But before you get mad”—man, she knows me well—“she was talking to me about the internship, too. Saying that she didn’t have to do it, or finish school, that it was so much money—”
“What?”
“I know.”
“She has to finish her degree.”
“I know. So, just… I get why you try so hard to take care of them all. You’re all so freaking self-sacrificing.”
“Uh-huh.” I’m checking my texts, distracted. Nothing from Maisie. She’d really tell my best friend that she’s thinking about dropping out of school before she’d tell me?
“She’s just worried about you,” Renata says lightly. “And maybe—God, I don’t know. Maybe she wouldn’t be if you told her that you’ve got this Formula 1 job and you’re working in fashion, too. You know she only got into it because of you. You’re her hero, dude.”
“Yeah, right.” If this is Renata’s grand plan to get me to settle down and give up Robin Hooding for good, it’s notnoteffective. I’m a Gemini. It won’t happen, but I love the flattery.
“You don’t sound convinced.”
“Well.”
“Have you done your tarot thing?”
“Not yet.”
“Go do the thing. Don’t let me be the only one saying staying is the right call.”
I flop to my side, unsure of what to say. Because she might be right, and I’m totally fine. But I think that’s what’s nagging me, as much as I hate to admit it. Faust forgot me, too, and there’s a tiny ridiculous piece of me that’s stupidly bothered by having such little impact on the man of my eighteen-year-old dreams. It would’ve potentially ruined my gig with Imogen, if not my sister’s education, and he’s so much weirder in person, but alas. Tragedy.
Here’s confirmation from the universe by way of my former hero: I just don’t have it.
It isn’t like I think I failed at modeling because I’m ugly. I’m not. I’m pretty enough totry, and that’s why I’m so good at my job. Like a discounted Jo Malone perfume, just eye-catching enough to make you think it’ll change your life, before you remember that you’re not a floral person and, wait, don’t you own this one already? I picked the last nameCromwellbecause it was just sophisticated enough without verging on Kennedy territory. When I realized I couldn’t say I was from Waterfield without exposing my family to the potential wrath of my exes, I started saying I was from Manhattan; chic, but not Monte Carlo. I bleach my hair, keep my nails plain, enjoy my own style on my own time, and only get tattoos where I can hide them, all so I can meet the same richidiots repeatedly when our paths cross, and make them try florals again. In, out, gone.
