Hot off the Press | Charles Leclerc | F1

f i v e

When Carlos saw Fia, he fixed her with the biggest shit-eating grin she'd ever seen. "I knew you'd come!"

"One drink," she warned. She was quietly relieved that a handful of people from the Ferrari team were joining them; she wouldn't have to spend any time alone with Charles, whose eyes she could feel pinned to her back as she hugged Carlos.

"Charles," she greeted him curtly, forcing herself to look at him.

"Fiona."

"Her name is Fia, douche bag." Carlos hit Charles on the shoulder, laughing. "Want me to start calling you Sir Perceval again?"

"I think Percy suits him better," Fia said. She fixed Charles with a smirk and was pleased to see a flash of irritation clouding his features.

Two can play at that game.

"Percy!" Carlos shouted, laughing and wiping tears from his eyes. "Brilliant. Look how annoyed he is!" He ruffled Charles' hair. "Why didn't I think of that?"

"Because she went to Oxford, and you left school to drive fast cars in a circle," Charles muttered.

Carlos was too busy laughing to hear what he said, but Fia caught every word. He must have noticed the university stash she'd been wearing the first time they met. She was surprised he'd paid that much attention to someone he evidently despised.

Charles walked ahead, striking up a conversation with someone else, while Carlos and Fia chatted all the way to the bar. Carlos told her about his family and how supportive they were—his cousin, who was also his manager, and his father, the world rally driving champion, attended almost every race. When he spoke about them, she could sense the love he felt in every word.

Fia thought about her mum and looked at her phone. There were no messages or missed calls. The last time they spoke, she had told her about the internship, and it hadn't gone well. 

"Mum?" The line stopped ringing as if someone had answered, but nobody spoke. Fia could hear low, thumping music in the background, the hum of other voices, the clinking of glasses. "Hello?"

"Fia," said her mum. "You finally called."

She couldn't tell if her mum's voice was thick with relief or alcohol. She wished she'd gone home to see her and make sure she was going to be okay, but her flight was tomorrow morning. Her stomach twisted with guilt when she realised it had been weeks since they'd last spoken. "Are you okay, mum?"

"Why wouldn't I be?" The forced lightness of her voice was a thin veneer.

Fia frowned. She suspected her mum was in a bar or pub, judging by the background noise of the call. "Are you out somewhere? It sounds busy."

"Just a restaurant." It was what she always said when she'd been out drinking. "Am I not allowed to have a nice time?"

"Of course you are," she said, trying to keep her voice level.

When Fia's mum drank, it made her antagonistic and unpredictable. Alcohol turned her into someone who was hard to be around—the complete opposite of her true self, who was warm and loving and generous. But it was the crutch she leaned on when she was feeling down—which, with Fia's dad gone, was all the time.

Fia resented the way it felt like their roles had switched, as if she was the responsible one, the caregiver. She wished she could stop caring. Ever since her dad passed away, her mum's life had been like a car crash you see coming but can't stop: every bad decision leads to a calamity that you watch through your fingers, hoping the wreck will be salvageable.