𝙾𝚛𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚛𝚢┃ Charles Leclerc┃

Prologue

I always liked to believe that my life was simply normal. Average. Ordinary.

I mean, personally, I was nothing close to exceptional. I was your bog-standard girl from a tiny hamlet just outside of Surrey. By 21 years old, I still lived with my father, and I had no issue with that. My mother passed away only a mere two months ago, so I supposed that that wasn't exactly ordinary, but aneurysms of the brain weren't exactly known for their warning signs. My sister, Evie, was fifteen years my junior. My mum and dad had me young, so in that sense, Evie was probably more normal than I was.

My relationship with my parents was perfect. For the fifteen years before Evie came along, the three of us were the best of friends. Then, when my baby sister finally did arrive, the four of us were even stronger. Everything with them just felt so ordinary. My mother was my best friend, especially in my adolescent years. She acted like the older sister that I never had; young, fun, and full of helpful advice when it came to boys and teenager-dom. We shopped until we very nearly dropped, watched chick-flicks (especially ones with Hugh Grant), and shared the same odd obsession with Ryan Reynolds. My father was always my rock. He was supportive, yet full of appropriate discipline. He always made it clear that if a boy broke my heart, he would break the boy's teeth. We had just about everything in common, from our appearance to our favourite Quality Street chocolate (it's the Green Triangle).

My childhood was just how it needed to be. Ordinary. For the majority of it, I was an only child. I perhaps felt lonely at times, but that was nothing that couldn't be solved by a game of 'Curby' with the kids who lived down the street. I enjoyed primary school, too. When my mother dropped me off in the morning, I always looked pristine with a neat plait down the back of my neck. By the time I came home, said plait was loose and askew, and I often returned with my cardigan buttoned up wonkily or my shoes fastened on the wrong feet. Mum always knew that that meant I'd had a good day playing outside. I never came from a family of large fortune, nor ghastly poverty, so I was easy to keep entertained with a bouncy ball or a Barbie doll.

By seven years old, I'd developed a new hobby. I remember the day that the obsession accumulated so clearly. I had returned home from my after-school dance club to find my father cheering (absurdly loudly) at the television set. Upon closer inspection, my younger self discovered that my dad was watching colourful race cars soar across a roaring asphalt race track.

"This, poppet, is Formula One." My father explained after I had pounced upon his lap to watch the screen with him.

After that, after-school dance club and games of 'Curby' took a backseat. I was all about karting.

I was diagnosed with Type 1 diabetes when I was eight years old. This made karting a little harder than I would have liked, and it was completely up in the air at one point if I would be able to race at all. After all, I had to check my glucose levels every half an hour and inject insulin daily, but I was determined that it would not affect me. I wasn't going to let it make me feel any less ordinary. After all, 9 million other people on the planet had Type 1 diabetes too.

I never stuck out in high school, the same why that I hadn't in primary school. I attended your ordinary blazer-and-striped tie public school that amassed thousands of students. It was easy to blend in. I was never popular, but never unpopular, either. I had a small and stable group of friends, and that was all that I ever needed. My grades were good, never extraordinary, but allowed me to graduate.

I had to grow up quite a significant amount when I was 15. By that age that age, I was convinced that I was already mature and that I knew everything that I needed to know. I thought that all I needed to do was race. That I just had to focus on myself and get the promotion from karting that I so desired. Oh, how I was wrong. I suddenly had a tiny, blonde-haired and blue-eyed angel of a baby sister of whom needed protecting with everything I had. I was not her mother, yet I felt maternal. I instantly had a new best friend. Still, my life was fairly ordinary.

My high school prom took place on my 16th birthday. All of my friends were so giddy to go to the dance in long glitzy dresses and limousines, but all that I could think about was the fact that I was suddenly at an eligible age to be promoted to Formula 3. After begging my parents and discussing it at dire length with my karting coach, I joined the McLaren Driver Development Programme. From then on, every weekend for the next year, me and my parents travelled from our pokey little village to Woking, just so that I could take place in Formula 3. Evie was only 1 at the time, so she often spent my practice periods with Auntie Caroline, our mum's sister.

By 17, I was pushed to Formula 2. I was always good at karting, my coach said that I had a natural talent, but I was good at racing. 20 years of age soon came along, and I was firmly settled within Formula 2. My parents and I (and even 5 year old Evie) dreamed of nothing more than a seat in Formula 1. That exact dream is what made me realise that my life was definitely, and most certainly, not ordinary.

Then, my mother died. Just like that. She died as quick as I could say that sentence. I had just come home from Woking when it happened. It was a Saturday, and a rainy one at that. I remember the water droplets running down our windows and sploshing loudly on the driveway.

My father was in his office downstairs, working away as he always did, whilst my mother was heading for a shower in preparation for her night shift at the hospital. I was making myself and Evie, who was watching SpongeBob Squarepants in the living room, a jam sandwich. I heard a thud come from the bathroom above me; a thud that was much louder than the usual slippery shampoo bottle hitting the bottom of the shower.

"You okay, Mum?" I called from the bottom of the stairs, jammy knife in hand. There was no answer. I just remember the sound of running water. Drip, drip, dripping. "Mum?"

After instructing Evie to remain focused on her tv show, I ventured up the stairs. "Mum?" The bathroom door was bolted shut, yet I was still receiving no response from my mother. "Mum, can you hear me? Mum! Dad, get up here!"

I watched with bated breath and trembling hands as my dad spoke through the sealed bathroom door. He, too, received no answer. He barged the bolted door open, and it was that exact moment that I spotted my mother sprawled out across the bathroom floor. She hadn't made it to the shower; she was still fully clothed. I didn't have to look at her for more than a second before I knew. Her skin was as washed out and mottled as stone; her eyes half closed; her lips blue. I knew that my mother was dead, and that I was going to be suffocated by the twisting trauma of it for the rest of my days.

Two months later, I received a text message from my manager that changed my life and my sense of normalcy forever.