by Nell Stark
“I did it,” she whispered fiercely, rubbing her thumbs in a caress over the handles on the steering wheel. She found herself wondering whether Alix had watched any of the action, or whether she had been completely absorbed by her ulterior motive for attending the race. Might she possibly be impressed by Thalia’s historical performance, or was history made by driving around in circles not impressive enough?
And then she laughed at herself, though it came out more like a croak. Why did she care what Alix thought? Plenty of people would recognize the magnitude of her accomplishment—not that she needed their praise, of course. What she needed was the first place trophy.
Thankfully, by the time the entrance to the pit lane appeared, she had regained her peripheral vision. Whether she could walk with the cramp in her calf was another question altogether. As she slid to a stop, her engineers crowded around boisterously, patting her on the helmet and offering their congratulations even as they went through their usual post-race systems check. This was it—the moment she had to stand on her own two feet.
In a motion she’d practiced a thousand times, Thalia pushed herself up and out of the car, putting as little weight as possible on her left leg as she landed on the garage floor. She disconnected her helmet from the head and neck support system and pushed it off, willing her arms not to visibly tremble. The afternoon air might have felt warm to everyone else, but to her it was deliciously cool. As she took a grateful breath, Carl stepped forward to give her a backslapping hug.
“How did Peter do?” she asked, catching sight of him sharing a moment with his wife across the room.
“Second place.”
“And who won?”
“Lucas. Mason took third. Brilliant of you to steal two points from Ferrari at the end, there.”
“I do have to say, it felt good.” With twenty-five points going to the winner, Aiglon had earned thirty-three and was on top of the table. But with the twenty-eight points she and Peter had amassed, they weren’t far behind. Trying to conceal her limp, she walked over to the nearest bank of monitors and peered at the leader board, but a sudden rush of dizziness forced her to clutch at the table edge. She needed the team doctor but didn’t want to call attention to herself. Carefully, she moved toward the far corner of the garage, which was curtained off to serve as a small medical station. By the time she was close enough to quietly hail Dr. Stevens, her dizziness had returned and her ears were ringing. He took one look at her and ordered her to sit with her head between her legs.
“Privacy?” she managed to whisper, and only relaxed when he closed the curtains around them.
“I know you’re dizzy. Headache too?”
“Yes.”
“Heat exhaustion. Breathe slowly into this.”
Thalia took the oxygen mask gratefully and held it over her face. Within a minute, the fog in her head had lifted and the pain was starting to diminish. She could hear her name being spoken in the garage beyond the curtain and didn’t want to lose any more time. With one last grateful inhalation, she removed the mask and held it out to Stevens.
“Thanks. I’ll be okay now.”
“You should keep that on for at least another ten minutes.”
“Can’t.” Carefully, she stood. “I will have more of that energy drink, if you’ve got it.”
He reached into a nearby cooler. “I’ll let you go back out there, but only if you promise to tell me if the dizziness returns.”
“Promise.” Now that she no longer felt as though she might keel over, Thalia was eager to be back in the crush of humanity. “Thanks, Doc.”
When she pulled back the curtain, several team members nearby turned and frowned, Alistair among them. “Are you all right?” he asked.
She brandished her drink. “Never better. Just needed one of these. Is Peter already off to the podium?”
“Yes.” He embraced her with his usual awkwardness, but his pleased expression was genuine. “Strong showing today. Let’s go watch him get his hardware.”
*
From her position at the railing of the Gambizi Tires box, Alix had a perfect view of the podium. The awards ceremony was a remarkably efficient affair; after some opening words and brief interviews with each driver as well as the chief engineer of Aiglon, the trophies were distributed. The French national anthem was played for Lucas, and she overheard someone nearby explaining that had the constructor been of a different nationality, that anthem would have been played as well. The winners then popped their magnums of champagne, obligatorily spraying the scantily clad women, whom Alix had heard referred to as “grid girls,” who shared their stage. They were dressed in identical outfits: low-cut red dresses stamped with the name of one of the circuit’s sponsors. The hem barely reached mid-thigh. A few of them had circulated through their box midway through the race, and she had noticed Sebastian chatting with one for quite some time.
As the celebration continued, Alix tried to determine why the presence of those women bothered her so much. Revealing garb aside, they behaved discreetly. None of the “girls” who visited the box had touched a drop of alcohol despite several offers. Clearly, they had a rigorous code of conduct to uphold, no matter how the spectators might construe their presence. But if they were meant to be the circuit’s ambassadors to the VIPs, then why were they exclusively female, clothed provocatively, and trained to exude sex appeal? Because most of the VIPs were male, of course. But was that an excuse to reinforce gender stereotypes (however misguided) and promote sexism?
Perhaps it came down to supply and demand. Men drove the cars, bet on the cars, and used the races as networking opportunities. Most men wanted women; therefore, women should be available as eye candy. But candy was something one consumed quickly. Ephemeral, it dissolved on the tongue within seconds to leave an aftertaste. The grid girls were objects to be consumed, not subjects to be conversed with. That was the problem, Alix realized—that the girls were content to be repeatedly objectified. It was their occupation, not an occupational hazard.
When the drivers went inside for a press conference, the box balcony began to empty. But Alix had caught sight of Thalia below, and remained outside to watch as the remaining members of the press corps surrounded her. She cut an impressive figure, her racing suit showing off her lean torso and sculpted legs. Dark hair swirled around her shoulders, and her cheeks were flushed. The reporters clustered around her like iron filings to a magnet. But where the grid girls existed to ornament the event, Thalia embodied its rush and thrill. The girls were meant to be seen and not heard, while Thalia’s performance demanded she be taken seriously.
At that moment, she looked up to the balcony and found Alix. Raising one hand above her head, she pumped her fist. Alix, half pleased and half embarrassed, gave a brief wave.
“Thalia, your performance today was groundbreaking,” someone from the BBC called out. “How do you feel about being the most successful female F1 driver ever?”
“It’s an honor to have made history in this way.” Thalia’s voice rang out over the buzz of the crowd. “And I want to take this moment to salute all the women—drivers, engineers, and team managers—who have paved the way for me to be standing here. But I think they’d agree that making history isn’t enough. Only winning is enough.”
That was a near-perfect answer, and Alix felt absurdly proud of her for remembering to publicly acknowledge her predecessors. How strange, that she had met Thalia in her inaugural and groundbreaking season, just as she was launching her own women’s rights initiative. The synchrony was eerie. Alix had stopped believing in God during her adolescence, and coincidence was nothing more than the human mind grasping at patterns within the chaotic framework of reality. But still—eerie.
“Do you see Aiglon as your main competition this season?” another reporter was asking.
Thalia brushed a strand of hair away from her mouth. “They’re an impressive team, but in any given race, anything can happen. Everyone else on that grid is our main competition. Pete
r and I are going to work as hard as we can to both make it to that podium, every time.”
Alix was quite frankly shocked by Thalia’s restraint: rather than rising to the bait, she had emphasized teamwork and downplayed the tension between Taggart’s former team and his current one.
“Last question, please,” Thalia said. “I seriously need a shower.”
That prompted a few chuckles. Alix had overheard part of a conversation about the extreme heat in a Formula One cockpit and could only imagine just how grueling it was to jockey for position at high speeds for over two hours while shedding every ounce of water weight. Not that she endorsed such behavior, but it was a feat of human stamina.
“You’ve already broken the record book, Thalia. What’s your next goal for this season?”
When Thalia went very still, Alix knew the question had offended her. Apparently, some of the reporters felt the same energy, because the paddock grew noticeably quieter.
“I’m not in this sport to be the best female driver,” she finally said. “I’m in it to be the best driver, period. See you in Italy, folks.”
But instead of turning back into the garage, Thalia made her way to the barrier and spoke with one of the guards, then gestured to the balcony. Was she coming up? When they disappeared into the grandstand, Alix hurried back inside, discomfited by the elevation of her pulse. Of course Thalia would visit the Gambizi box to greet many of the most important race sponsors. She probably had all kinds of obligations built into her contract.
Wishing she could leave, but knowing she should stay, Alix decided to pay another visit to the bar. She hadn’t touched a drop since that first glass of champagne. Now, she could use something to steady her nerves after such a protracted bout of extroversion.
“What may I get you, ma’am?” asked one of the many red-liveried bartenders.
“The punch,” sounded a familiar voice behind her. “Two, please.”
Shocked, Alix turned to find Thalia mere inches away. She smelled vaguely of heat and metal and motor oil, but somehow the combination wasn’t unpleasant. For a moment, it was difficult for Alix to understand how the same person who had been hurtling around the track at over two hundred miles per hour mere minutes ago could now be standing there with a grin, placing a drink order.
In the wake of her surprise, Alix meant to say something suitably congratulatory. Instead, “You’re here,” was what slipped out.
Thalia’s grin widened. “I sure am. Lived to race another day.” She cocked her head. “So…what did you think? As mind-numbingly dull as you expected?”
“No, actually.” As much as it might pain her to admit her error, Alix prided herself on honesty. “I still think you’re a lunatic but was impressed despite myself.” Their drinks arrived, and she held hers up between them. “Congratulations on breaking a record today.”
“The first of many.”
“How insufferably smug of you.”
“Not smug. Just confident.” Thalia clinked their glasses together. “Wait and see.”
Alix drank and found the punch not overly sweet and pleasantly effervescent. “That’s lovely, thank you.” She sipped again in an effort to mask her own self-consciousness. She hadn’t experienced this level of nerves around someone in quite some time. Why did Thalia bring out her insecurities?
“Was your day productive, I hope?”
“It was,” Alix said, wondering how much of the question came from a genuine desire to know, and how much from a desire to reinforce her indebtedness. “Lady Rufford and I will be breakfasting tomorrow. Thank you.”
Thalia waved her free hand in the air. “No thanks necessary.” And then, as though she had read her mind: “I honestly just wanted to know.”
At that moment, Rabeck approached with a group of young, well-dressed people in tow. “Thalia!” he called heartily. “Can we have you pose for some photos?”
“Of course.” She drained her drink and deposited the glass on the bar. “You should come to Italy,” she said under her breath, with a parting glance.
And then she was all practiced smiles as she laughed and posed with Rabeck’s entourage, leaving Alix to wonder whether Thalia had been flirting with her and why the notion didn’t bother her as much as perhaps it should have.
Chapter Seven
Alix knew something was wrong when her father joined her in the garden before the sun had fully risen above the horizon. She always breakfasted there when the weather was fine, preferring to savor her coffee. This morning was especially beautiful. Wispy clouds hovered at the horizon, a gauzy veil muting the vivid colors of the ascending star, spreading waves of pastel orange and purple and red and gold across the sky. Just like that, she had realized what her charity ought to be called: Rising Sun. A symbol of the hope and renewal she aspired to bring to the women of Uganda and, eventually, the rest of East Africa.
But then her father’s tall form blotted out the light, filling her with a sense of foreboding.
Prince Raphael Pierre Louis Francois of the house of Canella didn’t sleep very much. That was one attribute they had in common. But usually, he exercised at dawn and took his breakfast later, with her mother. As he took the seat across from her, she noticed that his eyes were bloodshot and the bags beneath them more prominent than usual. Something had happened.
“Pomme,” he said, “I need to speak with you about Florestan.”
“Is he all right?” she asked in some alarm. She had seen him earlier in the week, before he had left for a golfing trip to St. Andrews with his friends from university.
Her father’s expression soured. “He is apparently in excellent health, seeing as he has gotten Monique pregnant.”
“Another one?” Alix couldn’t believe it. Florestan already had two illegitimate children with different women: one had been a flight attendant before her royal payoff, and the other had been an interpreter for the United Nations who was now a New York socialite. She had thought Florestan might be starting to settle down, but this latest incident made him seem as much a cad as ever. What on earth did he have against safe sex?
Her father winced. “Indeed. But this one, he will have to marry.”
Alix stared at him in disbelief. The idea of Florestan married was about as easy to picture as a cat walking on its hind legs: theoretically, it might be possible, but it didn’t seem likely. And then it clicked. This wasn’t a matter of impregnating yet another commoner. He would have to marry Monique because she was a royal.
“How is Mother?” she asked, wondering whether she would be furious at the accident or blithely glad of the excuse to plan a wedding.
“She is already consumed with catering and color coordinating.”
Alix shared a smile with him before deciding her humor was inappropriate and masking it with her cup. “How can I help?”
Her father steepled his fingers beneath his chin and regarded her thoughtfully. Alix met his gaze. They had always gotten along fairly well—unlike her mother, he had some appreciation for her intellectual ambition, while she seemed only to tolerate it.
“The wedding will be held in two months’ time, before Monique’s condition is obvious. Florestan will need to temporarily abdicate many of his responsibilities in order to make the preparations.” He leaned toward her. “You did very well in London last month. I would like you to take over Florestan’s position as our liaison to the Automobile Club de Monaco, if you are willing.”
Alix flashed to the memory of Thalia after the Spanish Grand Prix, flushed and exultant, surrounded by fans and well-wishers. She thought of Lady Rufford and all of the other wealthy people in the room who gave to charity to assuage their guilt at their own good fortune. And she thought of the rising sun, that symbol of hope and perseverance.
“I am willing,” she said, turning her face up to the light as she met her father’s eyes.
*
Thalia crossed her ankles and leaned back in her chair, enjoying a rare sunny day and an equally rare opportunity to r
elax. Peter had invited her to spend the day at his home in Tunbridge Wells outside of London. It was the calm before the storm: tomorrow, they would board a flight for Milan to begin preparations for the Italian Grand Prix.
He lounged beside her, holding hands with his wife, Courtney. On the patio, their three-year-old, Bryce, pedaled his tricycle in furious circles. The family dog, a mutt they had rescued long before Bryce came along, watched his progress avidly and heaved a jowl-flapping sigh.
Courtney laughed and reached down to give him a pat. “Rex and I are thinking the exact same thing at the moment.”
Thalia could guess. “Bryce takes after Daddy in his need for speed?”
“And after Aunt Thalia,” Peter protested.
“There’s no pinning that”—she gestured at Bryce as he narrowly avoided clipping a planter containing a bonsai maple tree—“on me, my friend.”
“I suppose not.” He pushed himself up and gestured toward the outdoor bar, complete with a keg refrigerator. “Fancy another pint?”
“Is the sun hot?” She would need to stop drinking in the days leading up to the race, but for now, she was going to enjoy herself.
After refilling their glasses, Peter toasted their success in Monza. Thalia fervently echoed the sentiment and drank deeply. Fifth place had been fine for the first race of the season, but from here on out, she wanted to stand on the podium.
“So,” Peter said into the conversational lull, “when are you going to settle down and invest in a country manor of your own?” He indicated his property with an expansive gesture.
Thalia, who had been about to take another sip, looked at him incredulously. “Settle down? I just got here!” Her life was crazier than it had ever been, and she couldn’t imagine trying to cultivate a stable relationship on top of all the other demands on her time and energy. How Peter did it, she had no idea, though he had been racing much longer than she had. Perhaps the demands became more manageable with experience.