Missing You // Lando Norris

Ch.26

             THE LONDONER: SOCIALITE GOSSIP COLUMN
Anastasia Villeroy: Money can't buy happiness?
By Elizabeth Kincaid

A billionaire father, a rich legacy, a successful brother, natural beauty, and one of the most eligible bachelors in sport as a boyfriend: nothing seems to please Anastasia Villeroy, daughter of Tycoon Rupert Villeroy.

As a columnist, there are moments in your career when stories feel repetitive, and you stop and ask yourself: How many more times must I retell the same story? When will it end?

Yet, Anastasia appears to consistently repeat her errors. The surname, Villeroy, may ring a bell, for the heiress' brother is successful Formula 1 driver, William Villeroy, and she has recently been romantically linked to Lando Norris, also an F1 driver.

Anastasia has proven on several occasions that beauty is not conducive of intellect, her debauchery wildly reported as a result of her surname. Most recently, Anastasia was hospitalised for three weeks, with sources reporting that it was the result of a potential overdose, though this has not been confirmed by her representatives.  Nonetheless, It would hardly be surprising: last year, Anastasia was institutionalised at a clinic in Arizona, as a result of alcohol and narcotic abuse. Before that, she was often pictured wildly partying, known for a string of affairs with London's most eligible bachelors, with much scandal following.

One thus wonders what implications this may have for those around her, particularly her brother and Mr. Norris. Amicable public relations are preferred in the world of Formula 1, and Anastasia seems to be the antithesis, making many wonder whether her presence in the paddock will continue for the remainder of the season.

Norris himself is not shy of a PR storm, though appears to have cleared up his act as of late, doubtlessly not as a result of Miss Villeroy. Whilst their romance has been short, fans have been quick to show their support on social media, branding the pair a 'match made in Heaven'. One can only wonder how long that will last, though I certainly wish Anastasia a smoother ride in future. 

"I don't know how she can live with herself, writing such nasty things about people she doesn't know." Will shakes his head, disgust seething from him like steam from a freshly boiled kettle, threatening to scold.

His anger is justified. I've become numb, immune, to the putrid disgust that columnists and the press seem to afford me, and I'd be lying if I suggested that most of what was written wasn't true.

It's been four weeks, and I've been out of the hospital for a week now. Gone are the white monotone walls, the dull silence, the repetitive days.

"I'm sorry Will." I take a sip of my cappuccino, my sunglasses nestled on the bridge of my nose, concealing my eyes and emotions. The eyes are the windows to the soul, and I'm more than aware. It's a pleasant day, the streets of London illuminated by the warm glow of the early summer sun, the temperature warm enough to wear a short sleeve with a light jumper, but not quite warm enough to go without. I look around, the colourful homes of Notting Hill dancing happily in my view, the street full of people either selling intricate things at little market stalls, hurrying to work in a particularly brisk London fashion, or walking their dogs. I smile at a little dog wearing a jumper, and I'm more than convinced that it wags its tail in response.

I like this time of year. Spring, and the colder months, are firmly behind us, the promise of warmth and joy ahead. Summer. I adore it: endless days spent lying amongst daisies in a field, playing in the brook, reading by the stables, firmly nestled in my heart. Besides, Summer beholds my birthday, which I adore; for it was the only time my mother and father showed interest, rather than scorn, in me. Even if it was fake.