“Have you had any lunch?” Helena asked me when she’d finished and got herself a coffee. She favoured Portuguese over Hungarian. “We can see what Zolt has in.”
I joined her, and we rifled through the cupboards. I didn’t answer, in case I told her the only snack I’d had that day was her son.Why did those thoughts keep invading my mind?
“Scones?” she laughed, examining them carefully.
He was too damn cute.
Then again, they may not be for me. He loved them so much, he’d probably bought them for himself.
“They’re mine,”I said around my smile. “But we can have them as a sweet treat.”
She shook her head.“Oh no, you have them later. I wasthinking more along the lines of a pasta salad.”
We made lunch as she told me stories about Zolt. He always used to copy his older brother cooking, but couldn’t be trusted when he somehow managed to set fire to his plastic kitchen set. His dad had howled the house down and sent him outside to play on his bike. She spoke of Zolt’s dad easily, laughing at how Zolt often ended up telling his dad how to ride a bike.
Her voice was light with pride.
Zolt’s dad had passed when he was seven years old. She’d been without her first husband for nearly twenty years.
“Zolt was so worried his life was over,” she said, hunting for some sweetcorn in her bowl as we ate at the table.“After the accident, he thought he would never race again, and it nearly killed him. When MotoBike said no, he became so depressed. But at StormSprint, he’s the happiest he’s ever been.”
My laughter vibrated with guilt. I wasn’t modest in thinking I had a little to do with that. And she didn’t — couldn’t — know it.
I grinned into my bowl. “He’s still a grumpy git.”
She nodded. “Oh, yeah, I don’t envy you having to work with him. There’s a lot of pressure, what with his grandad. Benedek always wants his brother to be the best. It’s sweet how he supports him. He was Zolt’s absolute rock after the accident.”
Did Helena think he was completely recovered? Did she know he was taking experimental measures?
“And Benedek never raced?”
She breathed in deeply and pushed back her half-finished bowl. “He tried. He wasn’t as fast as his brother. Then his epilepsy got in the way.”
I blinked hard. I’d had no idea.
“He’s accepted it. But I think that makes Zoltán feeleven more of a need to prove he’s his grandfather’s grandson. The Farkas name needs to ride the track.”
Silence settled over us, and she tried to speak and then thought better of it. I wasn’t going to press, especially when her question could be,“Are you sleeping with my son?”and I would simply roll over and die.
Eventually, she mustered the courage.“And your family?” she asked hesitantly.
“My dad was a racer—” I realised too late what I’d said. But I wasn’t about to lie. Cris Bacque might not be my biological father, but he was there when the biological one wasn’t. “After, he was the director of Ciclati for nearly fifteen years. My mum—” I stopped again. I hated that we were fighting. Kind of. We still spoke every day, but there was this awkward undertone… a silence where neither of us said what we needed to. “She looks after my two younger brothers.”
“And you’re all close?”
“Really close,” I told her, stabbing my pasta. “My sister and I are best friends.”
She smiled. “I’m glad. It must be weird adding two more brothers to the mix… and a step-mum.”
I cringed, hoping my smile looked real despite the overdone way I tugged at the corners of my lips. “It’s nice that Imre’s found people he cares about.”
It wasn’t meant to come out bitter, but she dropped her hand on top of mine, her diamond engagement ring glinting. “He cares about you. He just doesn’t know how to show it. Not after all this time.”
But that wasn’t my fault. He’d left me. I wasn’t about to feel bad.
“Well, we’re seeing a lot more of each other now, aren’t we?”
She nodded and retrieved her hand. “It will all work out, I’m sure of it.”
