Issuu

PROLOGUE

Downhill Mountain Bike Youth Championship, Scotland

I’M GOING TO WIN. I can literally feel it in my bones. I’ve never been so sure of my body or my control of the bike. Even in these conditions, with the combination of Scottish mizzle and nine pairs of tyres churning up the track, I know instinctively where my wheels are going to land every time I send a drop or carve a berm. I’ve never made such a perfect descent before. Mud sprays everywhere and I smile behind my full-face helmet because I know that I’m going to win.

I dodge round a tree root, float over a rock garden, whip my bike at a ninety-degree angle, and then I’m out of the pine trees and flying towards the finish line. I can see the timer above it: 3 minutes, 4.7 seconds, almost two seconds faster than my last competition. Take it one race at a time, Dad’s voice warns in my head, but my heart thunders anyway because I can taste victory like popping candy on my tongue. Just one more drop, a smooth slide to the finish, and I’ll be Downhill Mountain Bike Youth Champion of Great Britain. This is it, the moment I’ve spent nine years training for, ever since I met my first pump track age seven.

I lower my head, shift my weight backwards and spread my elbows wide as I pick a line into the last drop. It’s an easy one, a six-foot wooden platform built for spectacle not skill, a way to grab air and impress the crowds gathered at the railings below. That’s where Dad will be, screaming his lungs out, ready to tell me he’s never been so proud. This will be his victory too, the first good thing to happen to us in three years.

I hit the edge of the jump and my front tyre skids sideways.

It’s so unexpected that for a moment my brain can’t process what’s happening. I try to compensate, but my bike jackknifes and I lose my grip on the handlebars, my body hurtling over the top of them like I’ve been shot from a catapult.

Wash out, I think, as the world tilts on its axis and I hit the ground, shoulder first. It’s compacted dirt and feels hard as concrete, even through my body armour. Somewhere, somebody screams, but it seems to come from a long way off. Mum? The idea is comforting until I realize it’s also impossible.

I try to sit up because that’s what you should do, isn’t it? Get back in the saddle as quickly as possible. But my limbs feel numb and there’s a man in a neon vest running in my direction, waving his arms and yelling at me not to move. I glare at him because I don’t appreciate being shouted at, especially when all of my dreams have just been shattered, but the effort is so exhausting I have to close my eyes.

The next thing I know, a woman with a large red bag is crouching by my side. She wraps a collar round my neck and

tells me everything’s going to be OK , which is honestly hard to believe, but what do I know? I thought I was going to win. I was so totally sure of it. Now I’m just another DNF.

Three months into the Formula 1 season and it seems team principal Mark Haddon is losing patience with his star signing, twenty-one-year-old F2 sensation Giovanni Bauer. Son of three-time world champion Helmut Bauer and Palme D’Orwinning actress Morena Mancini, Gio might be finishing in the points most races, but his wild behaviour off the grid is raising a lot of eyebrows, not least among the team’s sponsors. With his teammate, thirty-nine-year-old driver Luc Farron, ahead in the points, many pundits think it’s only a matter of time before bad boy Gio finds himself looking for a new seat.

A £ 10 million mistake or can F 1’s youngest driver still prove he’s got what it takes?

Single Seat News, 7 June

ONE

Three and a half years later

THE SPIKY HEELS OF the catering manager click viciously across the marble floor as she barks orders up and down the line of waiting staff.

‘Don’t talk to the guests unless they ask you a question. Don’t gawp at the celebrities. Be there when you’re needed, otherwise be invisible. Is that clear?’

‘Yes, Khloe,’ we all murmur together. There are twelve of us, six to serve drinks, six to offer canapés. I’ve never waitressed before, but one of the regular staff fell sick and my flatmate Ava volunteered me to her boss. She waitresses at these kinds of swanky events part time, to fund her way through university. By rights, we ought to be out celebrating the end of our second-year exams – mine in sports psychology, hers in media studies – but I agreed to come to work with her instead because I’m a good friend and it’s decent money, which I desperately need. Plus, she has an ulterior motive for working tonight, and I’m curious to see how the top 1 per cent live.

‘Good.’ Khloe shoots one last withering look down the line. I know I don’t imagine the way her gaze narrows in on me. ‘Now, get out there and don’t fuck it up.’

‘Is she always like this?’ I whisper to Ava as we go to collect our trays.

‘Yes.’ Ava flicks a long, gingerbread-coloured braid over one shoulder. ‘I want to be that scary someday.’

‘You already are. Remember when I ate your HäagenDazs last week? I haven’t dared touch ice cream since.’

‘Liar. You ate two Magnums last night.’

‘They were mini ones.’ I hoist a tray of micro fish fillets and miniature lobster burgers into the air and toss my hair too, which is a mistake, as several curls seize their chance to escape from the messy bun on top of my head. ‘And they were medicinal. I can’t believe you’re holding that against me.’

‘You’re right. Totally unfair. You’ve been going through a lot. Have I mentioned what a bastard Harrison is, recently?’

‘No, but thank you.’

She gives me a supportive wink and then gets down to business. ‘So, remember, I want to speak to Letitia Haddon tonight. She’s one of the best aerodynamics engineers in Formula 1, so getting an interview with her for Single Seat News would be amazing – women in Formula 1 still don’t get the attention they deserve. She’s married to Mark Haddon, Fraser’s team principal, and this party is to celebrate their wedding anniversary, so hopefully it’ll be a good time to ask.’

‘And you need me to distract your terrifying boss while you do it – I know.’ I give her a cheeky nudge with my elbow. ‘Just try to control yourself around all their fabulous F1 friends. I know you’re a superfan.’

‘I’m always controlled.’ She looks offended that I could suggest otherwise. ‘Just wait for my signal, remember?’

I nod, outwardly confident, though deep down I’m dubious. It sounded like a reasonable plan when Ava explained it to me earlier, but now I’ve met Khloe I have a feeling that distracting her is going to be a lot easier said than done. Fortunately, I’m nothing if not adaptable.

‘Get out there!’ the catering manager hisses suddenly, thrusting her face between us like a cobra in high heels. I have no idea how she got so close without making any more clicking sounds, but I’m weirdly impressed. ‘I’m not paying you to stand around.’

We mutter our apologies and hurry out of the kitchen into the fanciest room in the fanciest house I’ve ever seen. The decor is all glaringly white, and it’s packed with beautiful people, the men in expensive suits, the women in barely-there designer dresses and glittering jewellery. Everyone’s so toned and tanned and shiny, it’s like walking into the pages of a glossy magazine, one that’s been sprinkled with stardust for added glamour. I spot a few famous people straight away, a couple of singers, a celebrity chef and a Love Island contestant, but I avert my gaze in case Khloe is watching me.

Annoyingly, all the beautiful people make me feel selfconscious about my own appearance. I’m not generally insecure, but right now I feel like a goose in a bevy of swans. I’m five foot six and my body shape hasn’t changed much since I was thirteen years old. Basically, I’ve given up waiting for either my hips or boobs to grow. My face is squarish, my hair is mid-brown – ditto my eyes – and the most expensive item of clothing I own is a pair of olive Doc Martens Mary Janes.

‘Canapé?’ I murmur in a barely audible pitch, moving from one group of gorgeous- looking people to another,

while a pianist plays softly in the background. Most of them ignore me, which is a relief and faintly soul-destroying at the same time.

It’s half an hour before all my canapés are gone and I’m able to scurry back to the kitchen for a break – but Khloe has other ideas. My tray is instantly whipped away and I’m handed another, this one containing several rows of miniature desserts, just about the cruellest thing you can do to a person who’s recently broken up with their boyfriend. According to a harassed-looking minion, there are dark chocolate and cherry mousse domes, whisky and coffee macaroons, and clementine tartlets topped with edible flowers. I’m not hungry, because Ava insisted we eat a pre-emptive mountain of toast earlier, but I lick my lips anyway.

‘Don’t even think about it,’ Khloe murmurs as I pass her in the doorway. If the kitchen were even half as dirty as the accompanying look she gives me, it would be shut down with immediate effect by the Food Standards Agency.

I make another tour of the room, keeping an eye out for Ava. She’s loitering in a corner, close to a glamorous blonde couple who appear to be the hosts of the event, but since she’s not waggling her eyebrows at me or jerking her head in any meaningful way I keep moving.

‘That’s enough food.’ Khloe gestures towards a tray of champagne flutes on my next return to the kitchen. ‘Take that around the other rooms. People are splintering off.’

‘Are you sure?’ Panic flashes through me. The flutes look expensive and I’m pretty sure the contents are Dom Perignon. ‘The desserts are popular.’

She gives me a look that suggests she’s not paying me to have opinions, so I do what I’m told, making my way down a

long, tiled corridor that feels like something from an art gallery, with low-hung pendant lights illuminating tasteful black-andwhite photographs of people holding trophies. At the far end is an archway leading into another reception room, almost as big as the first, only with moodier lighting, a selection of white sofas placed at interesting angles and a woman with long platinum hair and bare feet strumming soulfully on a guitar.

I make a circuit, offloading two flutes and gaining three empty ones in return, then carry on into an adjoining sunroom. It’s deserted except for a couple on a daybed behind a palm tree giving off strong Do Not Disturb vibes, so I step through another door on to a terrace. There’s a large, kidney-shaped pool out here, with lights below the waterline so that it shimmers in the darkness like some kind of magical grotto; the effect is so pretty, accompanied by the gentle tinkling sound of a short waterfall, that I can’t resist stopping and staring for a few moments.

It’s so soothing it makes me feel calm in a way I haven’t felt for months, not since before February when Dad called to tell me about his heart scare, the angina attack he said not to worry about but that put him in hospital for three days and means he’ll be on medication for the rest of his life . . .

I shake my head and focus my attention back on my surroundings, letting them calm me again. I wish I could stay out here all evening, but since Khloe has probably already sensed I’m skiving I turn reluctantly to go back inside.

That’s when I hear a voice call out.

It’s such a surprise that I swivel round on the spot, inadvertently catching my left ankle behind my right foot and tipping myself off balance. I contort wildly, briefly imagining I’ve found my centre of gravity again before I topple forward,

sending the entire contents of my tray flying. As if that isn’t enough, I manage to throw the tray too.

Everything seems to happen in slow motion as the champagne flutes arc through the air and land with a cacophony of smashing glass, the final clatter of the tray sounding like the cymbal at the end of a chorus.

‘Shit!’ I exclaim loudly before remembering that somebody else is out here. ‘Sorry.’

‘Don’t be. It was my fault,’ the voice answers back from the shadows on the other side of the pool. It’s male, with a faintly European accent.

I look down at my ankle, the real culprit, then over my shoulder at the door, wondering how long it will take for Khloe to materialize and sack me. Given the amount of noise I just made, I’m guessing half a minute at most.

‘Are you OK ?’ my invisible companion asks. ‘Did you cut yourself?’

‘I don’t think so.’ I tense, wondering if I’m imagining the click of rapidly approaching heels.

I’m not. Khloe appears in front of me suddenly, her expression livid.

‘It was an accident. I’ll clean it up,’ I rush to explain. I hate scenes, but I know there’s no avoiding this one. I only wish we didn’t have an audience – not that anyone else would know he was there.

‘You can’t just sweep it up!’ Her eyes are like laser pointers, flashing so brightly they practically scorch my retinas. ‘It’s glass. They’ll have to drain the pool.’

‘What?’ I’m genuinely mortified. ‘I’m so sorry.’

‘Enough.’ She holds a hand up, palm outwards. ‘Get your things and go. And don’t expect to be paid for tonight.’

‘I’ll pay for the damage.’ The man speaks again, causing Khloe to emit a high-pitched and extremely satisfying yelp. I think about telling her that’s how my accident happened, but I’d rather not be eviscerated.

Instead I follow her gaze as the man emerges from the shadows and strolls round the edge of the pool towards us. He looks even more gorgeous and glossy than all of the other gorgeous, glossy people, slim yet broad-shouldered, with lightly curling dark hair and cheekbones so sharp you’d probably cut yourself if you got too close, although it might be worth it. Some people would pay a fortune for that kind of bone structure.

He’s not particularly tall, but he moves with a feline grace, and practically exudes confidence and charisma. For a few stunned seconds all I can do is stare. If I were still holding my tray, I’d be in genuine danger of dropping it all over again. It’s honestly ridiculous how good-looking he is. Maybe this really is a magical grotto?

‘I’m so sorry. I didn’t know you were there.’ Khloe’s expression turns flustered.

‘I guessed.’ He stops in front of us, dressed in a crisp white shirt and slim-fit black suit, looking vaguely familiar. An actor? If I had to guess, I’d say he plays a vampire in some gothic drama, a sexy, conflicted member of the undead who spends eternity brooding about soulmates.

‘We’ll deal with this inside.’ Khloe’s heels click backwards. ‘Please excuse us.’

He holds a hand up, the way she just did, halting her in her tracks. ‘Actually, if Miss . . . ?’ He turns his head to look me straight in the eye. His are blue, I notice, the same turquoise shade as the swimming pool; piercing yet filled with

mysterious dark shadows. Definitely a vampire because I feel mesmerised.

‘Evans?’ I don’t know why I answer like it’s a question, but I can’t seem to help it.

‘If Miss Evans is no longer working tonight, I’d like her to stay as my guest.’ His lips quirk in a half-smile. ‘If you’d like to, that is, Miss Evans?’

‘Um . . . yes?’ Apparently I’m still asking questions.

‘And we’d like some more champagne,’ he says to Khloe, though he doesn’t shift his gaze from mine. ‘Bring the bottle.’

I lift a hand to my mouth, hiding my grin, as Khloe makes a strangled sound and then storms away.

‘Thank you.’ I burst out laughing the moment I can’t hear clicking any longer. ‘I can’t believe you did that!’

‘She deserved it.’ He slides his hands into his pockets, still smiling that half-smile. ‘So now that you’re officially a guest, what do you think of the party?’

‘I think I don’t meet the dress code.’ I gesture at my practical outfit of three-quarter-length black trousers and black shirt, and then realize I’ve just invited him to check me out.

‘You look good to me.’

‘Thanks,’ I mutter, aware of my cheeks warming under his gaze. ‘So I appreciate the help, but I should probably go.’

‘Already?’ His thick, dark brows draw together. ‘Don’t you want her to serve you champagne?’

I open my mouth to say I don’t believe in revenge, then remember I came with Ava and she’s my ride home. If I leave now, I’ll only have to spend the rest of the evening sitting in a car waiting for her to either finish work or get fired as well. I just hope she’s used my accidental distraction to speak

with Letitia Haddon, because I’m definitely not providing another.

‘Are you sure you’re allowed to invite me?’ I ask, tempted because I’ve never had Dom Perignon with a vampire before.

‘The invitation said plus one.’

‘But didn’t you bring a date?’ I look over his shoulder, half expecting a supermodel to sashay out of the shadows behind him.

‘No.’ He spreads his hands out. ‘I’m all yours.’

I blink, unable to answer for several seconds because this whole situation is so bizarre and unexpected, and the thought of him actually being all mine makes my pulse stutter. I don’t understand what he’s doing out here by himself or why he’s inviting me to join him. It’s probably just guilt for getting me fired, but then again, what does it matter? Why shouldn’t I have a little champagne?

‘OK .’ I sit on one of the sunloungers beside the pool and stretch my legs out. ‘Thanks.’

‘You’re welcome.’ He takes the lounger beside mine, as Khloe comes back with a bottle and two flutes. ‘You can put them there.’ He gestures to a table on his other side, waiting until she’s stalked away again before popping the cork, then pouring and handing me a glass.

‘Cheers,’ I say, then realize his own hand is empty. ‘Aren’t you having any?’

‘No, I’m taking a break from alcohol.’

‘Then why did you ask for a bottle?’ I ask in confusion. ‘I can’t drink all of it.’

‘You can try.’ He grins wickedly. ‘I wanted to annoy her.’

I gulp, swallowing a mouthful of bubbles as his grin hits me straight in the stomach. I’ve felt butterflies before, but

these ones are so powerful they’re practically bats. Fortunately, another question pops into my head to distract me. ‘But if you didn’t want a drink, why did you call out to me before?’

‘Ah . . .’ He leans back on his sunlounger, lying close enough for me to catch the scent of something musky and expensive. ‘I wanted to know what you were thinking. You looked like you were daydreaming. It was . . . captivating.’

I catch my breath as the butterflies flap their wings a little harder. I’ve never been called captivating before. It makes me feel noticed among all these beautiful people.

‘And I was bored,’ he adds.

‘Oh.’ The butterflies drop dead and my stomach contracts into a knot of disappointment. ‘Why didn’t you go inside, if you wanted somebody to talk to?’

‘Because I was sent out here to calm down.’ He lifts a shoulder when I look at him quizzically. ‘I had a minor disagreement with another guest earlier. I’ll be thrown out completely if I show my face again too soon, and there’s no way I’m giving that dickhead Farron the satisfaction.’

I touch a hand to my throat, surprised by the sudden venom in his tone. The name Farron sounds familiar, but I can’t place it. ‘So when you say disagreement, you mean a real fight?’

His grin is more of a smirk this time. ‘Well, we didn’t use pillows.’

‘That’s a minor disagreement?’ I open my eyes wide. ‘Did anyone get hurt?’

He shrugs again, flicking some imaginary dust off his shoulder. ‘I got a smudge on my suit.’

‘O-K.’ I frown and take another sip of champagne. It seems pretty uncool to throw fists at someone’s anniversary

party. Maybe there’s more to the story, but him being out here suggests he wasn’t exactly blameless. He doesn’t sound sorry either. He sounds like he’s just morphed from a sexy vampire into an immature asshole. Suddenly I’m no longer mesmerized . . .

‘So, how do you know the hosts?’ I ask, changing the subject.

He’s the one to look surprised this time. ‘Mark Haddon is my boss.’

‘No way!’ I lift my eyebrows because this sounds a lot more promising. ‘My friend says he runs one of the Formula 1 teams. Are you in racing too?’

‘Something like that.’ He answers slowly, with a kind of bemused expression. ‘You’re not a fan of F1?’

‘Not really,’ I admit. ‘I mean, I’ve seen bits of races, but to be honest I’ve never totally understood how anything with an engine counts as a sport. No offence.’

‘None taken. It’s a common misconception. So what sports do you like?’

Mountain biking . Downhill racing. The words are on the tip of my tongue, but I can’t get them past my lips. ‘I don’t know. Athletics, tennis, swimming.’ A lightbulb suddenly pops to life in my head. ‘How well do you know your boss’s wife?’

He laughs so hard my cheeks turn hot.

‘Sorry!’ I press my champagne flute to my face to cool it. ‘That came out wrong. I’m only asking because my friend has an F1 podcast and she’d really like an interview with Letitia Haddon. That’s actually the reason I was working tonight, to help her get close enough to ask. She’s basically a Letitia superfan.’ I glance over my shoulder at the house, wishing I

could text Ava to let her know where I am, but we weren’t allowed to bring phones in case we took celeb photos and tried to sell them.

‘I know Letitia pretty well,’ my companion says, folding his arms behind his head. ‘What’s the name of your friend’s podcast?’

‘Single Seat News.’

‘I’ll see what I can do.’

‘That would be amazing!’ I beam at him. Suddenly all my glass smashing seems worthwhile, a stroke of genius even.

‘On one condition.’

My face freezes suspiciously. ‘What condition?’

‘Nothing terrible. Just tell me what your friend thinks of the season so far.’

‘Oh . . .’ I hesitate, but I can’t see any harm in sharing. ‘Fair enough, but I warn you, I’m not good with names. So she thinks the championship is between three drivers. She liked some new driver at first, but now she thinks he’s thrown his chance away. He’s been in the tabloids a lot recently, partying and drinking and behaving like a total fuckboy—’ I stop talking abruptly, noticing the lift of my companion’s dark eyebrows, like he’s waiting for me to join the dots.

I may not know much about Formula 1, but I’ve caught snippets of it when Ava’s been watching. I realize in a moment of horrible, humiliating clarity why he looks so familiar. He’s not an actor, he’s a driver. That driver. That fuckboy.

Crap.

‘You could have told me who you were.’ I narrow my eyes accusingly.

‘Until a couple of minutes ago, I assumed you already knew. Then I was curious to know what your F1 podcaster

friend thinks of me, and now I do.’ A cocky grin spreads over his face, like he’s pleased with himself for having tricked me, despite what I just called him. ‘I’m Giovanni Bauer.’ He winks. ‘You can call me Gio.’

I gulp the last of my champagne and then swing my legs over the side of my lounger. Considering the venue tonight, him being a racing driver makes a lot more sense than smallscreen heartthrob, but hindsight is everything. My foot is so far down my throat, there doesn’t seem to be much point in apologizing, and he doesn’t seem like the kind of guy whose ego is easily dinted. ‘I’ll go wait outside.’

‘You don’t have to.’ He mirrors my movements so that our knees are almost touching. ‘Your friend is right. I’ve been in the headlines for all the wrong reasons lately, but you can tell her I’ve put all that behind me. I plan on being the youngest world champion in Formula 1 history.’

‘Sounds ambitious,’ I say, jutting my chin out. I refuse to say anything more positive when I’m still annoyed at him.

‘I am. I’m also the best driver on the grid this year.’ He tips his head to one side, his gaze holding on to mine like he’s trying to mesmerize me again. ‘Why don’t you come to the race next weekend and watch me prove it? It’s in Montreal.’

‘Canada? That sounds fun, but I just sold my private jet.’ I stand up, breaking eye contact before I can be tempted. It’s an incredible offer, but he can’t be serious. And, anyway, I’m not about to fly halfway around the world with a guy I just met, no matter how attractive he is. Especially not one who’s this arrogant. ‘Now I need to go and find my friend. Good luck winning your championship.’

‘Sure. Thanks.’ He stretches out on his sunlounger again.

‘I don’t suppose you’ll tell me your first name before you go, Miss Evans?’

‘Not that you deserve it –’ I hand him my champagne flute like he’s the hired help and I’m the millionaire in this scenario – ‘but it’s Maisie.’

‘Maisie Evans . . .’ he echoes, like he’s making a point of remembering it.

I turn and walk back into the house, feeling kind of a badass and then totally ridiculous.

As if he’ll ever say my name again.

Despite celebrating his twenty-five-year wedding anniversary this weekend, the fortunes of Fraser team principal Mark Haddon appear to have gone from bad to worse. With reports of a physical altercation between his two drivers, inside r sources think he’ll soon be facing a stark – and expensive –choice. Who will he favour: reliable veteran Luc Farron, the best driver never to win the championship, or talented but volatile rookie Giovanni Bauer? Nobody’s placing their bets yet, but we can’t wait to find out!

Single Seat News, 8 June

TWO

I’M ON CAMPUS EARLY because I have an interview with my favourite lecturer, personal tutor and style icon, Dr Bethany Meyer. She’s looking for someone to help research her new book on success and sports psychology over the summer – the kind of project that would look great on my CV. I’m actually amazed I’ve made it this far in her selection process because jobs like this are usually given to graduate students, but I’m prepared to give it everything I’ve got. Academia is a much more ruthless, cut-throat business than I ever anticipated, and if I’m going to get a place on a decent MA course next year I’ll need some kind of edge.

I feel a little formal in a navy Zara linen dress and a blazer, but since I wore my other smart clothes last night, they were my only option. Hopefully they also convey what a serious and professional person I am, as opposed to somebody who got fired from a job less than twelve hours ago.

‘Come in,’ Dr Meyer calls when I knock on her office door, beckoning to me when I stick my head inside. ‘Maisie, right on time. Would you like some coffee? The kettle’s just boiled.’

‘No, thank you.’ I decline because I’m already a jittery bag of caffeinated nerves, thanks to the double espresso Ava made for me before I left. I didn’t want it, but accepting seemed like the best friend thing to do, especially after the fiasco of last night. She never got a chance to approach Letitia Haddon because she was fired by Khloe approximately five minutes after I was, simply for recommending me. She was so gutted I never even told her about my conversation with Gio, although I spent most of the drive home replaying it in my head. I didn’t want to make things any worse by admitting I spent a large part of the evening lounging by a pool with a very hot, if arrogant, man.

‘I’m sorry to drag you in on a Saturday, but I’m travelling to Greece early next week and I’m trying to clear my desk,’ Dr Meyer says, preparing a cafetière for herself and then sitting at her desk, wearing her customary wide smile. She’s like a walking advertisement for good mental health, always cheerful and relentlessly upbeat. Also glamorous, with a large collection of accessories; today’s choice is a pair of black Jimmy Fairly glasses and a striped neckerchief.

‘Happy to be here,’ I say, trying to look as positive and together as she is.

‘Good. Now . . .’ Her smile falls away as she riffles through her notes. ‘Maisie, I think we have a problem.’

‘We do? Wait, I thought I was here to interview for the research position?’

‘Research position?’ She peers over the top of her glasses. ‘Aren’t you going home for the summer?’

‘No. My flatmate and I have decided to stay here. My home is pretty remote, so there aren’t many job opportunities.’

The first part of this is true. The second part less so, since

there are plenty of jobs I could do in my dad’s bike shop. I just refuse to consider any of them.

‘I see.’ Dr Meyer fixes me with an uncharacteristically hard stare. ‘I’m afraid that the position has already been filled. What I want to discuss is your work ethic.’

‘Oh . . .’ I squirm in my seat, trying to remember what exactly her email said. Now that I think of it, she only suggested a meeting and I assumed she meant interview. Oh no . . . The realization is doubly mortifying. I know my work fell off a cliff in the spring, but I’ve tried really hard to make up for it recently.

‘Your attendance has been somewhat erratic, and a few of your marks this past term were lower than I would have expected, bringing your overall grade down much further than either of us would like.’ Her frown deepens. ‘Until now, you’ve been an excellent student, one of our best. It makes me wonder if there’s some issue I don’t know about?’

I curl my hands into fists, feeling a powerful urge to run out of the room. I don’t want to talk about this, but . . . ‘It’s my dad.’ Somehow I manage to push the words past gritted teeth. ‘He’s had . . . some health problems.’

‘Ah. I’m sorry to hear that.’

I nod quickly and look down at my hands. It’s nothing serious, Dad tells me when we FaceTime. There’s absolutely no need to worry. He needs to make a few lifestyle changes and take a couple of pills every day, that’s all. I know that he’s putting on a brave face and I wish I could be brave too, but I can’t. Losing Mum was bad enough; the thought of losing him as well is unbearable. The last time I went home to see him I was a nervous wreck. Being around so many trails and mountain bikers already made me feel panicky – I still can’t

stand to be near that stuff since my accident – but I spent most of the time watching him like he was about to collapse. Worse, I could tell that he noticed. That’s another reason I can’t go home this summer: me being there does more harm than good. To both of us.

‘He’s better now,’ I say, overemphatically. ‘He’s on a diet, he’s managing his stress levels and he’s on medication.’

‘I’m glad to hear it.’ Dr Meyer’s brow is still furrowed, but her expression softens. ‘As your personal tutor, I wish you’d told me sooner. I might have arranged an extension for your exams. However, in that case, perhaps you might consider retaking the year, if the university allows it?’

‘No!’ The word comes out several decibels louder than I intend.

‘There’s no shame in it, Maisie, especially if you’ve been having a difficult time.’

‘But I won’t get funding if I retake the year. Dr Meyer, I didn’t talk to you about all this because I’ve made a huge effort to catch up with my work over the past few months. And I tried really hard in my exams. I was hoping that would make up for my shortfall.’

I’m not lying. I’ve hardly done anything except eat, sleep and revise. It’s no wonder Harrison said I was no fun any more. I worked so hard I actually deluded myself into thinking I had a shot at Dr Meyer’s research position. Exam results won’t be out for another month, but I know – I think – I hope –

I haven’t failed. My mind races, trying to work out what could be dragging my overall grade down so badly. The only thing I rushed was one of my early coursework assignments . . .

I inhale sharply. ‘Is this because of my coursework on the benefits of sports psychology?’

‘It’s the biggest issue, yes.’ Dr Meyer sounds genuinely regretful. ‘It actually contributes a large percentage to your overall grade. And as it stands, it’s a fail.’

I wince with embarrassment. No wonder she’s talking as if she expects me to fail all my exams. I knew the essay I submitted wasn’t great, but I’d hoped it would scrape through. ‘I’m sorry. I wrote it in a rush between visits back home, but I know I’ll do better in my exams.’

‘Well, then . . .’ She looks thoughtful, tapping her fingernails on the desk for a few seconds. ‘Since there are mitigating circumstances, I’m sure I can convince the university to let you resubmit that particular assignment.’

‘Really?’ My heart lifts.

‘Yes. If you can do that, and it meets your previous standard of work, then we’ll discuss the situation again once we have your exam results. Hopefully then you’ll be able to continue with the programme as planned.’ Her smile settles back into place. ‘And by the way, there’s no need to revisit the same essay. As you know, the assignment is on how psychologists help athletes to perform at their best, with a focus on one sport. You chose tennis, but it occurs to me that perhaps downhill cycling might make a better subject for you? I remember you telling me about your previous sporting career when you first came here for an open day. Perhaps you could write about some of your own experiences?’

‘My experiences . . . ?’ I echo weakly as my heart plummets again. I ought to have known that telling Dr Meyer about my accident would come back to bite me someday. I was so desperate to get on this course that I made myself talk about it, the second worst thing that’s ever happened to me, even though it meant twenty minutes in the toilets

vomiting afterwards. It worked – I got in – but it means she knows who I was before I came here.

There’s only one problem: I don’t want to think about mountain biking ever again, let alone write about it.

I’m self-aware enough to know this is unhealthy, psychologically speaking. I’m also not prepared to do anything about it.

‘The thing is . . .’ I say. ‘I never had a sports psychologist.’

‘But you could still write about the potential benefits of psychology to the sport in general, or how it might have helped you if you’d continued with your sporting career, for example?’

‘That does sound interesting . . .’ I twist my fingers together as I clear my throat. ‘But if you don’t mind, I think I’d prefer to revise my original essay.’

‘Of course. That would be acceptable too.’ She agrees, though there’s a speculative gleam in her eyes that makes me want to bolt for the door again. ‘In that case, why don’t you take some time to think about it, let me know what you decide, and then use the rest of the month to come up with something you’re happy with. In fact, take until mid-July as I’m on leave until then. I’ll sort out the admin.’

‘That’s great. I really appreciate it.’ I get up and inch towards the door with relief. ‘Thank you, Dr Meyer. Have a nice holiday.’

‘I’m sure I will. And, Maisie . . . ?’ She looks on the verge of saying something else, before shaking her head. ‘Take care of yourself.’

I practically run out of her office, the building, the campus, then across the park towards home in a fog of self-pity and misery. Any mention of my downhill biking career always does

this – plunges me into a pit of depression so deep it feels like a monumental effort to scramble out again. My dad worried that me studying sports psychology would be a constant reminder. Just like living in a town like Cambridge, where it seems half the population rides a bike, might be a bit masochistic. But I still wanted to have some connection to sport. That sense of striving towards a goal, of testing yourself and your limits, is the thing I’ve always loved, and since I can’t bring myself to compete any more I intend to help others achieve their dreams instead. Then when they triumph it will be partly my win too, a victory at one remove, the best I can do. So long as nobody expects me to talk about my past or get on an actual bike.

‘How did it go?’ Ava calls from the kitchen/living/diningroom as I stomp through the front door of our first-floor flat. She and I met as neighbours in our first-year halls and got along so well we decided to rent somewhere together in our second year. This place belongs to one of Ava’s cousins, a physics lecturer at Girton who moved in with his boyfriend last summer and gave us a cheap deal. It’s better than we should be able to afford, and it means we can stay in Cambridge instead of going home in the holidays.

‘On a scale of one to ten? Minus a million.’ I hurl my blazer on to a chair and collapse next to her on our ancient, tea-stained sofa. ‘It wasn’t even an interview. She wanted to discuss my grades and suggested that I repeat the year.’

‘What? ’

I smile at her outraged reaction. ‘It should be fine. I just need to resubmit one assignment and pass my exams.’

Should be . . . I bite my lip, experiencing a moment of disquiet because what if I’ve deluded myself about the exams too?

‘Phew! In that case, don’t worry. You worked so hard, you’re definitely going to pass.’ Ava thrusts a bowl into my lap. ‘Here. Have some breakfast.’

I look at the bowl and then back at her quizzically. ‘Popcorn?’

‘Yes. Corn. Like cereal. Though FYI , we really need to go shopping.’ She tips her head on to my shoulder as I scoop out a handful. ‘I’m sorry about your interview.’

‘I’m sorry about last night.’

‘Don’t be. Khloe was a nightmare to work for. I was going to quit soon anyway.’

‘When you start your internship, you mean?’

Ava lifts her head, wearing an expression that looks simultaneously guilty and excited as she reaches forward to pluck her phone from the coffee table. She’s got a paid position over the holidays as a digital marketing intern at some incredibly trendy development company that makes racing games because she’s the smartest, most organized and motivated person I’ve ever met.

‘It’s OK ,’ I reassure her. ‘Just because my morning was a disaster doesn’t mean I’m not pleased for you, and at least I still have my job at Suds. I can probably get some more shifts over the summer.’ I attempt a smile, but it feels so stiff and unconvincing that I have to stuff another handful of popcorn into my mouth to hide it. Selling soap isn’t quite the cuttingedge academic research position I was hoping for.

‘No way!’ Ava exclaims suddenly.

‘What?’ I try to see what’s on her screen.

‘Giovanni Bauer! The Giovanni Bauer! I just got a message from his PR team. He’s offering to be on my podcast!’ She’s practically vibrating with excitement now,

staring at her phone like it’s transformed into a gold nugget in her hand.

‘Oh, wow.’ My pulse jumps at his name. ‘Can I see?’

She whips her head towards me, her green eyes huge. ‘It says you recommended me?’

‘Yes.’ I smile and then bow my head graciously. ‘Yes, I did.’

‘When did you speak to Giovanni Bauer?’

‘At the party . . .’

‘And you didn’t tell me?’

‘I was going to! But you were so upset last night and then I was stressed this morning.’ I purse my lips. ‘Although technically I asked him to ask Letitia Haddon, so I don’t know why he’s volunteering himself. It’s a little arrogant, don’t you think?’

‘I don’t care, he’s Giovanni Bauer! This is amazing!’ She flings her arms round me so tightly, I feel like a squeaky toy. I hug her back, briefly wondering what happened to women in F1 getting the recognition they deserve, but she seems so happy I don’t want to spoil the moment. There is one teeny-tiny issue I ought to mention, however . . .

‘Ava?’

‘Yes?’ She pulls away to grin at me.

‘Just so you know, there’s a chance I told him what you said . . . about him messing up his chance of the championship.’

Her face freezes. ‘There’s a chance you told him, or you told him?’

‘I told him, but only because I didn’t know who he was.’

‘How?’ She leaps up from the sofa. ‘How is that possible?’

‘Because I don’t watch Formula 1!’

‘But I do! How many times have you sat here while I’ve been watching a race?’

9780241714645

PENGUIN BOOKS

PENGUIN BOOKS

PROLOGUE

ONE

TWO