Page 39 of Full Throttle

It was quite hard to give someone an imposing stare when you were developing frostbite in your pinky toe, but she did her best. Obviously she knew where drivers could activate their drag reduction systems on track; it essentially allowed any car within a second to temporarily gain superspeed, which meant it would be easier to overtake her. And she wasn’t about to let that happen.

“Between turns seven and eight.”

“What about Bahrain?” Dominic prompted, and then shifted closer, damn him. She trained her eyes on the ceiling. “What’s the gear shift into the first turn?”

Juliette flexed her toes. Her feet were numb, and her jaw ached from clenching her teeth. “How long do I have left?”

“Answer the question.”

She squinted. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

“Marchmont.” He clucked his tongue. “This is a test of mental fortitude. You’re not complaining, are you?”

“Depends,” Juliette muttered, flexing her frozen fingers. “You’re not purposely being an arsehole, are you?”

Dominic glanced at his watch. “Why don’t you stew on that for an extra minute in the tub?” He rose. “Don’t make it two.”

And on and on it went. Juliette collapsed in bed every night, her muscles aching, her head throbbing with new information. Don’t forget that F1 cars are bigger than F2 cars; you need to watch that you don’t clip the wall. Remember that you’ll get a time penalty for exceeding track limits. She felt as if parts of her were breaking down and re-forming, like broken bones knitting together.

And then, suddenly, the three weeks were over.

Bahrain qualifying passed. She placed twelfth, which wasn’t terrible for a rookie, but not good enough to keep her seat on the team. Still. Making up two places wasn’t impossible. She could do it. Dominic, unsurprisingly, placed fifth, which went to show that you really could behave like an arsehole and get away with it.

She’d wanted nothing more than to go back to her hotel and soak in the tub, accompanied by an episode of that television show where a couple had to decide whether they wanted a mortgage on a French chateau or a million-pound wedding, but alas.

The universe had other plans.

“I hate these things,” Liêm muttered.

He peered around a black curtain. Juliette shifted her weight. Whoever had planned this post-qualifying interview hadn’t accounted for there being six male drivers crammed into a narrow space backstage. No amount of antiperspirant could hide what was, she estimated, enough sweat to cure a small drought in sub-Saharan Africa.

Cap looked up from his crossword. “Which part?”

“The audience,” Liêm said, dropping the curtain.

Cap nudged him. “But you love people.”

“In small numbers.”

“It’ll only be a few minutes.” Cap leaned over Liêm’s shoulder, waving at Baz, who was sitting in the third row. “Then we can go for burgers.” He tapped his pen against the crossword grid. “Also, does anyone know a five-letter word for an immature domestic pigeon?”

“What about pizza?” Juliette asked.

Cap frowned. “No, that’s not—” His face lit up. “Wait, I’ve got it. Squab.”

Juliette tilted her head as he scribbled. Sounded like the name of an indie band. “I meant pizza for dinner.”

Cap made a derisive noise. “Good one.”

Liêm raised an eyebrow, and Juliette added, “He hates pizza.”

Liêm stared. “What kind of monster hates pizza? No, wait.” He held up a hand. “I can’t think about food. I might be sick.” He scanned the backstage area, pausing on Juliette’s pink cowboy boots, and she turned her feet protectively inward.

“No.”

“What?” Liêm looked innocent. “I didn’t say anything.”

“You didn’t have to. These are expensive.”