Hot off the Press | Charles Leclerc | F1

s i x t e e n

Fia was grateful to have the morning to herself. After the phone call with her mum, she felt shaken and anxious, emotions compounded by the firm line she had drawn under whatever she felt for Charles.

She woke early with the dawn light and spent thirty minutes on the treadmill before heading to the hotel's buffet breakfast, where she piled her plate with buttery pastries and exotic candied fruit, trundling it back to her table, where she sat alone.

Her mind was working overtime. She needed to work out how she'd pay her mum and ensure she didn't get into financial trouble again, but facing the reality of the life she'd left behind was hard. If she still lived in London, she'd have got the train home and fixed the mess in person, but that wasn't an option anymore. All it had taken was one phone call for everything to shift under her feet like quicksand. The illusion of a different world that the F1 circuit had temporarily provided was gone.

She sipped her coffee and peered over the mug's rim, watching people as they went about their lives. At the far side of the room, a family that had just walked into the restaurant caught Fia's eye. They looked like they belonged in a Ralph Lauren ad campaign—preppy styling, well-worn loafers, neutral colours and sandy-blonde hair. They reminded her of the family she'd met on her first day of university who thought her room belonged to them. The mother smiled as she guided her son towards a table. Her husband, whose pale blue shirt was just starting to tighten around the softness of middle age, gave her a charming smile and went to retrieve coffee and orange juice. Their happiness made Fia's chest ache with longing. When the husband returned, he kissed his wife on the forehead, and Fia had to look away. The strawberry she'd just popped into her mouth tasted sour. Her appetite was gone.

She left her breakfast unfinished and headed to her room, where she opened her laptop and found the number for Henson's garage through a quick Google search. After she'd typed it into her phone, she paused, dread and embarrassment gathering in her chest.

Here goes nothing.

The phone rang for so long that Fia expected it to go through to voicemail. When Henson finally answered, she didn't know if she felt relieved or disappointed.

"Hello?"

"Hi, Henson." She waited to see if he would recognise her voice. He'd been her dad's best friend, so she'd spent a lot of time in his workshop when she was a kid, and he'd had dinner at their house most weekends. "It's Fia."

"Oh, hi, Fia." There was a long pause. "How are you?" He didn't sound pleased to hear from her—in fact, she thought he sounded a bit uncomfortable, which didn't bode well for the conversation they were about to have.

"I'm good, thanks. You?"

Stop being so awkward, she cursed herself. Her stomach was tying itself in knots.

"Good," he said. "The garage is busy."

"Sorry for bothering you. It's just, well, I had a phone call from my mum yesterday. She's in a bit of trouble."

Fia could hear a tinny radio playing in the background, and she imagined that precisely nothing had changed since she last visited—his garage office was still a mess, with him standing tall in the middle of it, surrounded by a sea of paperwork and tools. "I need to know if she's still working for you," she prompted when he said nothing.

"Fia," Henson started after a moment of drawn-out silence. Somehow, he made her name sound like an apology. "You know how close I was to your dad. I miss him, too, but..."