Racing For Love

Chapter Eleven

I get back home on Monday afternoon. I'm absolutely exhausted - I knew that the travel would push me to my limit, but it was important to show my willingness, especially since Kate negotiated the shorter time to accommodate me, so I shouldn't have any complaints. The weekend was an eye opener in more ways than one - I've been around tracks before, but never in a work capacity, and it's fascinating all of the detail involved in the spectacle of a race weekend.

I picked up some racing souvenirs for Uncle Joe on my way to the airport, and after a quick change at home, I go and see him - the late March sunshine breaking through the clouds as I arrive - this means we have a lovely hour sitting in the garden, chatting about racing and cars. Though Joe's stories sometimes takes him back further than our shared memories, he seems relaxed and happy chatting about what was such a huge part of his life for so long. I'm thankful to have this link with him still, and he continues animatedly as we share tea together, before I leave him for the evening - he's tired now - the reminiscing and chatting having taken it out of him.

As evening draws in, I arrive back to the comfort of home - it's the one i've known since I was a teenager and I came to live with Joe after my parents passed away. Our relationship up to this point was limited to special occasions, visits during the break in the season and seeing him at races across Europe. My parent's loved racing - my mother loved the glamour and my father the fast cars - I was dragged around the Grand Prix circuits and into designer shops in all the cities we visited.

As a small child, I was more familiar with haute couture than high street fashion and whilst it was a privileged life, I grew up quickly since I spent my free time with grown ups, rather than my peers. Perhaps this helped me to rationalise what came next, as dealing with becoming a teenager, I faced the ultimate tragedy. My parents met their end amongst the bright lights and glitz of Monaco - a super car ploughed into the side of my father's vintage Aston Martin, and they died on impact - their passing fitting of the exuberant lifestyle they led. After their death, the only family I had left was Uncle Joe.

Joe took me in when he didn't have to - his life upended, not only by loosing his brother, but having to deal with me - broken and grieving with too much teenage angst and a bad attitude for someone who was barely 13. His racing commitments meant that I would spend time alone if I wasn't at school, refusing to go to races after my parents death, blaming them for killing my parents.

Joe could see the path ahead and made sure I had the best counselling available - he knew world renowned therapists through his position but we both used that support to help grow a solid relationship - healing with each other at the same time, and I came to appreciate the space and freedom living with Joe afforded. I was always invited to races and eventually made it back to them, travelling when I could and Joe kept in contact at all times.

Fast cars tore our family apart, but also brought it back together and as our relationship grew, I often felt closer to him than my own parents. Our relationship had changed course once again since his diagnosis, and we were both still dealing with how to navigate the changes. This time, the grief I felt was more tangible, grieving someone and something that was still here brought me some of the loneliest moments.

It was still bizarre to me that I now owned this beautiful house - Joe gifted it to me soon after his diagnosis. My parent's death had left me wealthy and I didn't need his financial support, but the house was much more than that. As someone who was always thinking one turn ahead, it was important to him that I could be at the house where our memories were made. With his mind failing, it was a place where he could keep his memories too. I loved that about Joe. For all the bravado people saw at work, he had the kindest soul, and even when he had so much to deal with himself, he continued to look after me, just as he'd promised my parents.

Despite the house being mine for two years, I'd not made any large changes. I didn't know where to start, to be honest. Joe and I had redecorated it about 5 years ago - choosing the furniture together. When I first moved in, it was the ultimate bachelor pad, with far too much leather and hard surfaces for my taste. It had taken a while to persuade him to change it, but that summer, we had been brought closer together by the decorating experience, and I had too many happy memories to get rid of anything. We'd also made layout changes so the house had two master bedrooms - both with en-suites, so I'd never needed to change Joe's room either as mine was just as spacious.

Although he didn't live here anymore, Joe's room was still decorated in his style, memorabilia beautifully framed along the walls and trophies and awards lined the shelves. The first time I brought a guy back here from uni, he was awed by it all and soon forgot the reason he had come back with me (much to my disappointment) as he looked around picking up awards and telling me all about their meaning. I normally kept the door shut these days as it was too hard to keep seeing as I walked past, but if Joe had a particularly difficult day, I would often sit in there, comforted by his presence.

Downstairs was airy and open plan with a large kitchen and dining space - Joe loved entertaining and we were forever hosting work friends and colleagues back in the day - sometimes girlfriends too, but they seemed to drift in and out of Joe's life, I don't think he was ever prepared for what the ultimate commitment having a partner would mean.

I opened the fridge, realising too late that I'd not picked anything up to eat for dinner, so I'd have to make do with the assortment of wilting ingredients that were left from before my trip and whatever I could find in the larder that was still edible. I made some pasta and as it was cooking, went to Uncle Joe's wine cellar - an unassuming door off the kitchen leading into a large room with wall to ceiling racks, filled with dusty bottles - it was one of my favourite things about the house.

Wine was one of Joe's passions and the extensive collection had been passed on to me as caretaker/occasional imbiber. It had a fully catalogued list which was annotated specifically for me - despite Joe's thorough education into wine, I was still petrified of accidentally drinking a very valuable bottle, or one that wasn't at its best, so relied on the list with every choice. I looked at his notes against certain bottles - humorous anecdotes about the wine, or the vineyard he'd visited connecting me to him, even when he wasn't here. I chose a French Chardonnay to accompany the pasta and help me relax after the last few days, hoping the alcohol would stop the constant noise of my brain and allow me to enjoy a decent night's sleep.

I just wish I had someone to share the bottle with. My face flushed as I remembered back to the night Lorenzo brought me dinner. I knew what I had allowed myself to do was dangerous - after Kate's warning about Jono, it was very clear her position on fraternising with the drivers, and she didn't even know anything about my closeness with Lorenzo. This was something I needed to speak to him about to make sure we were on the same page - as much as I'd love a repeat of what happened in Australia, there's no way that could happen again. Now, if I could just convince my heart that was the right thing...