‘Let’s go,’ he calls.
We pick our way through the sidewalks, me trying very hard to keep up with André’s clipped pace. Fortunately, he slows down a couple of minutes in, enough for me to catch my breath.
‘So,’ I huff as I match his steps, hiking my backpack straps up on my shoulders, ‘you never answered my question.’
‘No, I’m not on the team … What’s your connection?’ He points to my shirt, Heidelberg Hybridge’s kit from last year. It has the ice blue and white, and the printed logos of the sponsors. ‘The city’s got Formula fever with that new track out here, and that livery’s one they know well. They can probably smell the affiliation on you.’
‘I’m no driver,’ I start.
‘What are you? Paddock team?’
‘Here to set up the training program,’ I explain. ‘I’m integrating it with their practice plans.’
‘That’s pretty cool,’ remarks André. ‘Are you a fan of the sport?’
There’s humour in his voice, as if he sees right through me, but I just shrug. ‘I watch on and off. Maybe Silverstone each year, nothing much.’
‘Okay.’ He nods. ‘Is there something you have against it, or …?’
‘I don’t know. It’s a little long.’ I struggle to find the right words. ‘Two hours of just racing? The same path, over and over?’
‘Two hours isn’t the worst.’
‘That’s true, but I’m impatient.’
He chuckles. ‘Yeah. Speaking of which, this should be you.’
I follow his line of sight, and indeed, there it is: Vila Atlântica, as promised. It’s not a traditional hotel, with just a few floors and a terrace rooftop. The exterior is a fresh cream colour, illuminated by both sconces and pole lights.
‘Is that the only bag you’ve got?’ André remarks of my backpack.
‘They said the rest will be sent over.’
‘Ah. Sure you aren’t a driver?’
I roll my eyes. ‘Fairly positive.’
He smirks, still apparently amused. It’s a great first hour in Brazil if my stupidity has already been exposed by a local who’s also had to serve as my tour guide. That would be enough on its own, but the laughter dancing in his dark eyes sends me spiralling into a pit of questions. If this André finds me so funny and inept, what will that say about my work here?
‘Don’t worry.’ He seems to know just what’s on my mind. ‘Rio gets easier as you spend time here. She’s not as bad as she seems.’
The diamond studs in André’s ears glint under the streetlights as he waves with a charmingly dimpled smile, stepping back the way we came. Lights cast perfect shadows on his strong nose and slightly stubbled jaw. ‘Good luck.’
He’s around the corner and out of sight within the minute. I look up at the cosy villa and, with one last tug of my backpack strap, I make my way up the stairs to the door.
Chapter Seven
Darien
The streets become more and more crowded with cars and foot traffic as I drive closer to the Urca neighbourhood. I’ve never seen this many people in the area, but it’s evident that the arrival of Heidelberg Hybridge to our new state-of-the-art facility has snagged their interest. I take in the sights of sidewalks awash in pedestrians beneath endless blue skies as my silver AMG putters along happily.
Watching all the locals interspersed with tourists, I think of the girl from yesterday. I’d say the map situation was hysterical but, as well as I know Rio, I can’t say I’m much better on race weekends, when I’m on unfamiliar turf. I don’t know quite how to explain it. Just the fact that she didn’t have a shred of an idea about the crazy half of my life … it was like having my goggles on in the garage. It felt good to fly under the radar for ten minutes, so I rolled with it.
The drive into the complex tugs me back to reality. It’s anightmare. I can hear the screams of anticipation, the heavy thump of funk music.
But beyond it all, there’s the Heidelberg Hybridge Ring Complex. It’s not tall so much as wide, the exterior glittering white beneath the Brazilian sun. I have to do a full left-to-right scan to make out the individual sections: the squarer block towards the back likely houses the drivers’ rooms; the circular offshoot in front is possibly a gym. What stands out most, though, is the track. It weaves around the building, with its own mini pit and garages embedded behind the complex. The reality of the project almost makes all the pressure worth it. Maybe I could have imagined something this groundbreaking in America or in one of Europe’s many wealthy, racing-crazy nations, but in Brazil? I’m still processing it.
I’m led to a kerb by a few officers on scooters, where I park my car and turn it over to a valet. He informs me that there’s a car park gated off just past the complex.
