“I’ll be there.”
“You’ll be collected at seven,” he says gruffly, before hanging up.
When you feel on the outs with everyone, it’s easy to fall into a mode where you’re happy just taking the shit.Like a dog with its ears flat and its tail between its legs.
My hair is blow-dried.Makeup perfectly applied thanks to the stylist Barry sent over.Feels a little over-the-top, but if this really is our make-or-break moment, I’ll do anything to win.
“Nearly finished?”I say, looking up from my screen, trying not to sound desperate.
“Nearly,” says the makeup artist, spraying my face with a mist.“There!Slay, you F1 queen.”
“Thanks.It kills me that Barry will have had a two-minute shower and pulled on a suit,” I say, grumbling as I head over to the dress bag and unzip it.I am almost blinded by sparkles.Oh, good god.
I unzip a little more tentatively, frightened of catching the fragile sequins in the zipper.Inside is a very short silver dress, which moves like molten metal as I free it from the bag and hold it up.
“Wow, is that a Stella McCartney?”she asks, gasping.
“It’s beautiful,” I say as I put it on.I glance at my face in the mirror and am shocked at the reflection.
I lookgood.The blowout is voluminous with soft bouncy curls, and my makeup is subtle with smoky grays and muted neutral lips to match the dress.My eyes pop out even more than normal.“Gosh.Thank you.You’re a makeup wizard.”
“I know.”She grins a wide toothy grin.“What’s the event for?”
“It’s a pre-race mixer for sponsors and teams.A chance to woo new investment in your team.”
“Will the drivers be there?”
I turn to her, and she flutters her eyelashes playfully.“I have a big crush on Lando, though my best friend is more of a Lewis girl.”
I laugh.The first laugh in days.
“You probably find them all a pain in the ass,” she says bashfully.
I raise my eyebrows and grin wryly.“Absolutely not.”
I pull the dress down fully and it smooths like still wateragainst my curves.I turn to check out the back, and yank the hem down a little.
“It’s immoral,” I mutter.
“You’re a long way from church,” she says, thumbing toward the view of the strip.
Well, I think, sliding my stockinged feet into a pair of shiny silver heels, I’m going to go enjoy what might be my last night as team principal of an F1 team.I might as well go out there and schmooze my ass off.
There is a knock on the door, and then a gruff “Let’s go” from Barry on the other side.
Ginger the greyhound is in a silver bow tie, Roger in a black bow tie, and I walk alongside Barry, who is not wearing a bow tie or even a tie, and has instead opted for something you might wear to a summer wedding in Spain: a pale blue linen suit and fedora.
We walk to the lift and I step in, feeling self-conscious and slightly uncomfortable.I don’t think I’ve gotten this dressed upever, certainly not for an F1 event.
Barry is quiet, for once, until the lift dings for the top floor, and we exit into the rooftop foyer.“You go out there and you be charming,” he says.
“It’s okay, Barry.I’ll do what needs to be done for Arden.”“Good,” he says, offering a slight smile, then reaches down to pet Ginger.I’m reminded that Barry is a man whose entire character is built on loyalty and trust.He saved those dogs, and he gave me a shot, and he needs to hear more than
I’ll do what needs to be done.
“Barry,” I say, as he looks up from stroking Ginger’s ear.“I want you to know that I am so grateful to you.And that I will never forget what you’ve done for me.And that Iam loyal to Arden until the end.Whatever that looks like.Okay?”
He stands and shrugs, petulant, as if it’s too late for all that.But I don’t care.I want him to know.“Okay.Go get me a sponsor, then,” he says.“You’re quite the golden girl on the circuit now, it seems.”
