Hot off the Press | Charles Leclerc | F1

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Sadie appeared on Fia's computer screen as a pixelated blur. When the internet connection steadied, the clear picture it revealed was no less unfamiliar. She was sitting in a large room with a row of beautiful arched windows behind her.

"Fia!" she greeted with a smile.

"Hey. Where are you?"

"Oh, this place?" Sadie looked around and adjusted the position of her laptop camera to give Fia a better view. One of the walls was made of exposed stone, giving way to a wide fireplace, and oil paintings with heavy gold frames hung around the room. "We're staying with Paul's parents for the weekend. They live in the Cotswolds."

Of course they do, Fia thought. Paul had alluded to his family's estate, complete with acres of rolling countryside that bordered Jeremy Clarkson's farm, numerous times. Whenever he dropped it into conversation, he'd get this look on his face like he was waiting for her to show that she was impressed. It was as if he wanted her to congratulate him for growing up in a house with tennis courts and a swimming pool.

"Are they nice?" she asked. "I'm glad he finally invited you to meet them."

"Well, they aren't actually here at the moment," Sadie said, looking sheepish. "They're on a cruise in the Caribbean, so we're looking after the house and animals for them. You should see the place, Fia. It's gorgeous. The views are so much better than in flat old Norfolk."

Sadie had grown up in a big farmhouse in west Norfolk that her mother, a retired human rights lawyer, was constantly renovating. It looked out over the endlessly flat marshland of the Fens. Neither of Sadie's parents came from money, which her mum was acutely aware of and tried to mitigate by emulating the lives of other people who did. She had a subscription to Tatler—her version of the Bible—that she used for inspiration about what to wear (wax Barber jackets and Dubarry boots in the countryside; cashmere jumpers and silk blouses in the city) and who to associate with (anybody with a Soho House membership). One year, on a whim, she'd made the whole family take up clay pigeon shooting. The aesthetic she aspired to could only be described as Tory chic.

Fia suspected Sadie's attraction to Paul was directly linked to her need for her mother's approval.

"So you still haven't met them?" Sadie shook her head, looking uncomfortable. "Will you meet them when they're back from the Caribbean?"

"I'm not sure, to be honest."

Fia raised an eyebrow. Paul's unwillingness to introduce Sadie to his parents was a bright red flag.

"I'm sure Paul will arrange an introduction when he's ready. Anyway," said Sadie, changing the subject, "how's Italy?"

"Hot." It was true; Fia was terrible at coping with this weather. She turned the air-con up as she spoke.

"Hot? You leave me to join the F1 circus, and all the information I get is that it's hot? What's your boss like? How's the job going? Have you met any drivers yet?"

"I thought I was the one with the journalism background. Slow down, Sade, one question at a time." Fia was amused by her friend's enthusiasm. "Silvia is kind of intimidating. She's brilliant, but I wouldn't want to get on the wrong side of her. Tomorrow, I'm helping her prepare for the first press conference of the season."

"And the drivers?"

"Carlos is nice. He gave me a lift to the test circuit in his Ferrari earlier."

Sadie's mouth fell open in shock. She'd always had a crush on Carlos. "No way," she said.

"He saved me from being really late on my first day. After Charles told Silvia not to wait for me, I—"

"Wait," Sadie interrupted. "What?"