Keep Me In | DR3 | BOOK 1

67 - Here

Leanne stepped toward me, her hand contemplating reaching out as it twitched in mid-air. I glared down at it, and she opted to cross her arms behind her back instead. "I'm not trying to replace your mother."

"You can't replace something I've never had."

--

"Attention passengers of flight BA 770, this is your captain speaking. We have successfully landed at our destination, the Nice Cote d'Azur Airport. Local time is quarter past 7..."

My eyes opened as soon as it became clear we had settled along the runway. I wasn't asleep, however reflected the image of it. Following the cue of my seat partner, I leaned slightly forward from my upright position as the people around me stood, unbuckling their seatbelts. A flurry of movement ensued; people making sure their kids had their sweaters on and prepared, checking the cushion to confirm none of their belongings remained, patting their pockets to check they had their most valuable belongings close to them.

"Thank you for flying British Airways."

This was always the worst part of any flight. It's funny, how when one books a flight, a vacation, it's all you look forward to. The flight - especially one to the south of France. You could argue some people would be returning home, making the journey less of an excitable one, which is often true for me living in the heart of London, especially when I'm returning from somewhere sunny and warm. But when you get to call the south of France home, I can't imagine not being thrilled to get on that flight.

However as soon as the plane lands, people act like we're fleeing an ambush of rabid tigers that haven't had access to food all winter as soon as any seeming motion around us has ended.

I let the passengers around me all equally disguise their impatience together as they all stood, sardined in the aisle unmoving. What was the point? It's not like standing made anything go faster. In fact, if I worked for the airline, I'd make people wait longer just for disobeying the captains requests. As soon as the crowd had calmed, which happened quicker than it did on average, I grabbed my carry-on from the overhead compartment, and with a huff I made my way off the plane.

Those same people who battled for first rights off the plane stood impatiently again, elbows out, waiting for their luggage's to come floating down the carousel. I smirked, passing them all with my chin in the air, triumphant. I win, slow and steady.

My footsteps slowed, and my hand secured my black sunglasses to the top of my head as my brow furrowed in confusion. Because there, standing by the exit of the airport, was an older man in a chauffer's uniform holding a clear sign that said my name on it, in bold.

I didn't order a car, I thought to myself as I looked side to side. The man smiled at me, seemingly knowingly as he lowered his sign. As far as I know, I booked a rental to take into Monaco. A rental for me to drive, myself. The website mentioned no driver.

"Ms. October," the man acknowledged, gently removing my duffel bag from my clutches and settling it like it weighed nothing in one of his hands.

"There must be a mistake, I don't need a driver. I must have ordered one by accide-"

"Madam this car was not booked under your name. It has been ordered under the McLaren Group."

Dad and I weren't talking, and uncle Zak hadn't a clue about our fight - the reason I had decided to come to Monaco a day before everyone else. To book a flight, last minute. I would have been on one the second I left the Silverstone lot if I could have made that flight. However there wasn't one for me to make with such short notice, plus I had to consider packing for not just attending the race, but also for the F1 Live feature I had agreed to on Sunday.