Hot off the Press | Charles Leclerc | F1

f i f t y

Mark Sandwell had become something of a crutch for Fia since Canada. They often crossed paths in the paddock, and he was generous with his time, offering to buy her a coffee and something to eat when he could spare half an hour. Speaking to him made her feel better—or at least a little less miserable—so even though she suspected Sadie had asked him to keep an eye on her, she didn't think too deeply about their serendipitous meetings.

The summer break was fast approaching, and with it, her new job in Italy. Talking to Mark had changed her perspective somewhat. While she was still disappointed to leave the F1 circus behind, he had helped her see it as a stop on a longer journey rather than her final destination. Who was to say she wouldn't return in years to come, or find a better job elsewhere? Possibilities seemed to open up before her for the first time, the path she had sought to follow becoming unclear as she realised she had the power to diverge from it. It was freeing to think of her future as fluid, unrestrained by the expectations of her younger self.

Increasingly, her mind returned to a memorable university lecture she'd attended on The Road Not Taken by Robert Frost. Most people thought it was a serious poem that promoted individualism—going off the beaten track—but really, it was intended as a joke about the indecisiveness of one of Frost's friends. The crux of the matter, the lecturer had argued, was that human decisions are impulsive, and meaning is only ascribed retrospectively. The tendency to regret the decision not taken is essentially pointless. She liked the idea that no matter what she chose to do, she had control over the meaning of her choice—how it fitted into the story she wanted to tell about herself.

The poem also made her think about Charles. Like the narrator, she stood at a fork in the road and was acutely aware of having to decide which way to go. Forgive and let go, or let her heart clench tighter around the hurt, carrying it with her. Hearing his voice on the phone in France had been nice; she could admit that. But what he had said to her that night on the yacht had stuck with her. The look on his face, the tone of his voice—those details were painfully vivid in her mind. She couldn't imagine saying something similarly hurtful to someone she loved. Then again, people said things they didn't mean all the time. It was their actions that spoke the loudest, and Charles hadn't done anything to suggest he believed what he'd said about her.

But even if she chose to forgive him, what then? She was moving to Maranello in a matter of months. It wasn't like they could have any kind of meaningful relationship with Charles travelling almost constantly and her working full-time thousands of miles away. She was conflicted, to say the least.

It didn't help matters when, on her way into the paddock in Austria, she spotted Charles, who gave her a hopeful smile. The sight of his dimples briefly made her heart thud. Then she remembered it was media day—there were hundreds of photographers and journalists roaming around—and a sense of panic set in. Surely he wouldn't try to approach her, would he? Not somewhere so public, not after everything that had happened. Bits of their phone conversation drifted back to her, and suddenly, she wasn't so sure.

Keeping her eyes fixed on the ground, she fumbled with her paddock pass and stumbled through the gates, her previous train of thought lost. She didn't look up again until she was almost at Ferrari's motorhome.

"Running from somebody?" Adam teased when he saw her casting anxious glances over her shoulder. He was standing outside discreetly toking on a vape.

"They'll kick you out of the paddock if they notice that," she replied, pointing to the small green device.

"I'd like to see them try." Despite his defiance, he dropped it into his pocket and slung his arm around Fia's shoulders instead. He smelt like kiwi fruit and artificial sweetness. "How is the apartment hunting going?"