Page 81 of Away We Go

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Race day.

After the scrimmage in front of the hotel three days ago, things have gone from bad to worse. As expected, the scuffle was captured from every available angle, and news about it spread like wildfire. Tanya, trying to cheer me up, had sent me one such video showing Nicky in a rage-filled state, desperately trying to get to me. The video is zoomed in on his panicked face and if you didn’t know the truth of the situation, of our ‘relationship,’ you’d think he was a man in love with me.

Hmph.Watching this video on repeat three hundred times has done little to lift my spirits.

To make matters worse, attempting to do my job looking like I’ve gone ten rounds with Mike Tyson is proving to be futile.Everywhere I go in the paddock, people are whispering about me. The ones I’ve gotten to know over the season have sent sympathetic glances my way, which is nice, but everyone else is eyeing me with suspicious speculation.

It’s a thing. I looked it up. It’s when a person is both buying into the gossip and sensing malicious intent behind it. Like they know not to wholly believe what the media are reporting but are also now wondering if I got this job because I’m sleeping with the boss.

Despite all I’ve done to build back my confidence since the Troy of it all, it’s shaking me up.

“Maybe, just lie low for the rest of the day?” Serena says, pulling me in for a bear hug.

I’d just attempted to record my behind-the-scenes segment with some of the backend hospitality ladies, the ones who seem friendly and stock our favourite snacks, but it hadn’t gone so well. They were the ones asking all the questions, wanting to get the inside scoop from me, and after ten fruitless minutes, I’d given up.

Just photos onCherry’s Cornerthis weekend, it seems.

“Yeah.” I rest my head on her shoulder and draw in a deep breath. So far, I’d kept the tears at bay outside of my hotel room, but everything is escalating and the already tenuous control I have over my emotions is close to snapping.

“How are you feeling?”

I pull myself out of my daze and let go of Serena, turning to give Patrick my best impression of a smile. “I’m good,” I lie.

He steps closer to us. “Tell me the truth.”

The truth? These last few days have been awful. The paparazzi have followed every move I’ve made, shouting all sorts of terrible things at me to get a reaction. The bruise on my face has taken on a life of its own and refuses to be covered by any sort of concealeror foundation. And I’ve not spoken to or been near Nicky in over seventy-two hours, and Imisshim.

“I’ve been better,” I admit, biting my lip to stop it quivering.

Come on, Cherry. You’ve been doing so well. You can’t start blubbering just because the lovely Patrick Laurent is being kind to you.

“For what it’s worth, I don’t think Nicky’s doing all that great, either.”

This doesn’t make me feel any better. In fact, it has the opposite effect.

Plus, I didn’t need Patrick to tell me that the events of the last few days appear to have affected Nicky as well. He qualified in P9 yesterday; his lowest qualifying position of the season.

I can’t help but feel somewhat responsible.

“Let’s hope he has a better day today,” is all I can say. It’s not like it can get much worse.

His gaze searches my mine, and he does me a solid by changing the subject. “When are you guys heading home?”

Home. To London and not to Nicky’s place. Gosh, the media would have a field day if I did that.

“The day after tomorrow,” Serena answers.

We have two weeks until the next race in Monaco. I had wanted to see a bit more of Montreal before leaving, now though, I’d rather head back to Serena’s flat and bury my head under a blanket and let the world fade away.

“Then let’s go out tonight.”

That sounds terrible. Out is where the press lives.

“Patrick…”

He holds his hand up and gives Serena a look. She jumps on his telepathy and pokes me in the ribs. “Come on. You need a night out. To relax and maybe have a little fun?”

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