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Chapter Seven

Darien

T he 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 a nightmare. 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.

Although now, I notice, a lot is gated off. It’s more like Granja Comary than I had imagined, with crash-fencing cutting the track off from the greenery, and the open black gates I’d come in through. I’m not yet sure if I like that.

‘Darien!’ someone yells. My time to think is limited as the officers, now on foot, clear a path towards the complex.

I’ve decided to go effective for today’s outfit: the new kit hasn’t yet ended up in my hands, so I went with a white Balenciaga tee and beige sweat shorts, paired with a Heidelberg cap, as per usual. Naturally, shoes had to carry the outfit, so I pulled out one of my favourite pairs of white Dunks to match.

I move pretty slowly, though, wary of the excited fans here. Without them, I doubt I’d even have reason to race. They wave flags and posters and caps my way. I grin and sign all I can with a flourish. Every so often, an avid group of fans hand me a phone for a selfie.

I’m almost to the doors when a young journalist off to my right shouts, ‘Do you know who else is joining you on this project?’

I just chuckle and shrug the journalist’s way. I have my guesses, people in the motorsport world I could name who might help with all this tech, but I can’t say anything for sure.

As I continue into the complex, the same crowd of officials is holding open the doors as if parting an ocean of metal and glass. But just past them, interacting with the press inside by the staircase to the next floor, I see a familiar face.

The first thing I notice is the glint of her nose ring, winking at me as if to grab my attention. It works. I stop directly in my tracks as I take in the slightly upturned chocolate eyes, the perfect lips shining with a brown gloss, the proud tilt of her chin. She holds herself with poise. Her hair is down now, instead of in the scrunchie ponytail of yesterday, just sweeping her shoulders in waves. She looks freer, effortless yet confident, determined. It’s a good look on her. A really good look.

Her gaze shifts just slightly my way. ‘Oh, shit.’ I cough as we make the briefest eye contact, and slip behind an officer. Ah, yes. André.

These days, like I said, I don’t get a moment’s peace. F1 has vaulted me further into the public eye than I ever would have chosen. And now, it’s pushed an enormous responsibility onto me for the coming season. So sure, maybe our interaction was funny, but maybe it was also nice to have some anonymity. For someone to look at me and see nothing but another dude who knows all the nooks and crannies of his home, who floats around the Arches looking for good beer and a party and maybe a pickup football game. In her eyes, there was indifference, and I don’t want to lose that.

But now we’re here. She’d mentioned helping with the set-up around here; I thought it might be in passing. Yet she stands here surrounded by media. I suppose I’m not the only one who understated their role in this operation.

‘Darien, you there?’

Crap. That’s Celina, nothing if not right on time. I’ll do anything to keep this situation from going sour, but I can’t in good conscience hide from my trainer (and life coach, for the record).

Slowly, I creep out from behind the officer still standing on guard. Celina is at the door, arms akimbo, eyebrows raised.

My dear Celina is not the kind of person who likes to blend in. She is both my confidante and my tormentor. Her blonde-rose-dyed hair is thrown into a high ponytail. There is no mercy in her grey eyes today. She is inches shorter than me and still manages to make it feel like I am cowering beneath her.

‘What in god’s name are you doing?’ she demands. ‘Are you hiding ? Darien, this is your chance to make a good impression!’

‘I know,’ I grumble in reply. But my eyes still unconsciously float to the circle of reporters, double-checking that this woman hasn’t found me out.

Too late, though. She’s been replaced by some old white man. Which means she could now be anywhere.

Celina and I walk through the doors, beneath built-in metal detectors and into the lobby of the facility. The glossed floors glimmer and, over our heads, the ceiling is a great big window that lends a complete view of the clear sky.

Immediately, the press envelop us without mercy. A million questions are shouted as we go elbow to elbow with packs of reporters. I just raise a hand and forge towards the elevators, which is what (I think) Celina had instructed in her ‘arrival plan’ email. I’m not one for minute details, as I’m sure you can tell.

‘Someone should meet us here,’ she says. ‘Help us find our way up to the conference room.’

I almost gag. A conference? I won’t survive it.

‘Excuse me?’

We turn around. Our guide is here …

… and it’s her.

Her eyebrows furrow as the math starts to click. She exhales slowly and deliberately, sweeping a curl from her round face.

She forces a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. It makes me shift slightly in my spot. I’ve screwed up … clearly. ‘Darien Cardoso-Magalh?es and Celina Valdez?’

Celina nods happily. I can’t bring myself to do the same. An invisible vice grips my chest as I watch the acute discomfort cross our guide’s face.

‘Pleasure to meet you. I’m Shantal Mangal.’ Shantal swallows hard, straightens a minuscule crease in her white team top. ‘Let me take you up.’