CHAPTER 1
Chloe
Singapore Grand Prix
Qualifying
I’m just very keen to sign the contract before we do this,” I say, picking up my pace to keep up with Arden Racing owner Barry Arden as we stride down the hallway, followed by the pitter-patter of his two greyhounds.“Because once we announce, we can’t take it back.”
That’s the most I’m going to push him, because oh my god, I would not take this moment back.I am fizzing with excitement.Or is it anxiety?Anxitement?Either way, I feel so high, I’m virtually levitating as I follow behind him.
My dream was always this, to be among the very best in the fastest, most advanced motor racing sport on the planet—Formula 1.And now it’s happening.It might not be perfect, but it’s happening.
There will be no take-backs.Not a chance.I spent most of the summer working with Barry and the team to get to this moment, and nowit’s time.
“We’ve agreed to the deal terms, love.Plus, there’s no time with qualifying in just a few hours,” Barry says as we reach the door to the pressroom, where a handful of the team are waiting.My friend Keyla always says I can trust a man who loves flowers, animals, or children, and Barry has two dogs, so that’s something, at least.I nod at him, swallowing a frustrated sigh.Fine.
“Okay, soon?”
“Stop worrying.This is your moment,” he says, beaming at me with too large teeth, his ruddy complexion dewy with sweat.Barry Arden also has this slightly performative cockney-gangster accent, which makes him sound like something from a Guy Ritchie movie.
“Okay.But one other thing, Mr.Arden.It would be great if you could call me Chloe.Especially in public,” I say, clearing my throat as I do.
“All right, love.”
“Chloe,” I repeat, as evenly as I can.
“You got it, darlin’,” he says, cocking his head as his eyes move down to my green pantsuit and then back up to my mop of red curls.“You ready?Want to fix your hair or something?”
Ouch.I thought I looked quite tidy and well put together in my new Bottega suit.Not my typical vibe, but that’s the point.Today, I have to look elevated, professional, like I deserve to be here.Because...
I do.Don’t I?
I think back to the bug-eyed, flame-haired kid with skinny legs and braces, interviewing herself in the bathtub after she’d placed third in her first ever go-kart race.ESPN, Graham Norton, and even Oprah would bring me on to rapturousapplause.I practiced remaining cool, humble, and thoroughly impressive.
“Oh, stop.Really.I’m no wunderkind,” eleven-year-old me would say to my mirror, smiling coyly.That kid quietly believed in herself.Thiswomanis not so sure.
Am I truly cut out to compete at this level?Can I make myself heard?Will people listen?It is such a big jump up to F1.I put my hand on the wall to steady myself as I feel the anxiety wrap around me like some kind of giant python, starting to squeeze.
No!You are not going there, Chloe, I tell myself, burying the train of thought before impostor syndrome overtakes my body and I start to hyperventilate.
I steady my voice before answering Barry.“The suit is new,” I say, while I force my dark red curls into a low ponytail.“And it’s our team green.”
“No offense, but you look a bit like a Christmas tree,” he says, guffawing.
I fake a chuckle back at him.
“Don’t look so uptight, love.You’ve worked hard for this.And besides, it’s good you came dressed as a Christmas tree.”Barry Arden grins mischievously.“We’ve got a present for you.”
Before I have a chance to ask what the fuck that means, the doors to the hotel conference room fling open.Cameras, lights, and boom microphones line the back wall, and journalists, dozens of them, turn their excitable expressions in our direction.So many eyes, is all I can think.So many eyes on me.I’m not sure I’ll ever get used to this attention.
For a moment, we stand frozen in the doorway.Just two greyhounds, both with a single paw lifted—tiny me and theman mountain that is Barry Arden side by side, and behind us, the team, all wearing Arden Racing kit.
It’s an entrance, all right.
Lights burst on us almost immediately.Shielding my eyes, I notice everyone is here.The BBC, ESPN, DAZN, even Eurosport.I feel my chest constrict and I force an even breath.My appearance next to Barry is the reason the press corps are murmuring and fidgeting with anticipation.
“Showtime,” Barry says, and we’re quickly on the move, past the rows of journalists with their big-eyed excitement and on to the long table with the FIA-emblazoned tablecloth at the front of the room.I remove a short preprepared speech from my pocket and take my seat behind the little tented cardboard name card: Chloe Coleman.
