Pole Position (17 page)

The mystery of the missing phones was partly solved in the morning when Bev went into the now empty horsebox for the tack. My lovely new phone was smashed into pieces on the floor. It looked as though I’d dropped it, and one of the horses had kicked it, after dancing all over it. I was in tears. Jon had bought me that, could it be a bad omen for me?

I had just enough time for the briefest of calls to Jon before my class started on Saturday. Again, it went through to his voicemail system, and I left a message. He hadn’t called back on Danny’s phone, and I didn’t like to keep asking to borrow it. Today would be the first of Jon’s two races, and I hoped he did well. I had an idea of how much it meant to him.

We were rushed off our feet all day on Saturday. Clare and I had the preliminary rounds for our main class, the Blue Riband Cup, but Brutus and Sam jumped beautifully and qualified, much to our relief. Then we had Danny’s preliminary rounds for the prestigious BSJA National 6 Year Old Championship. Two rounds, not against the clock, but with fences larger than we would have in our Championship round. The mighty Boomerang dispensed with them all with ease.

We took turns watching the horses, seeking out the many trade and market stalls, and catching up with other riders we knew. The weather had turned out gorgeous, and the showground was packed. Colette spent her time with Danny. He even managed to coax her up on Boom at one point, balancing her securely on the saddle in front of him and laughing at her squeals at the huge distance to the ground.

Danny took loads of pictures of us, with and without our horses. Sam and the others looked fantastic. We had rugs emblazoned with ‘Webster’s Horses’ to match the horsebox, and their coats gleamed. I was immensely proud of our turnout.

I missed the regular texts from Jon; already they’d become part of my daily life. There was no point in me ringing him during the day as he had his own championship to focus on. Clare and Colette did their best to distract me.

Saturday night found us in the pub for dinner, along with what looked like half the people from the showground. Danny was going to the shops before we went out to eat, and I asked him to pick up some newspapers. Jon had mentioned the press interviewing him, and I might get some news of how he’d done in the qualifying sessions. Danny met us in the pub with an armful of tabloids that we eagerly picked through as we waited for our food to be served.

I found a column about the Formula 3 competition and shared it with Clare and Mark. Jon had done well in the qualifying laps and was in sixth position on the starting grid for both races. I was so proud of him. Folding the paper to show this column on top, I dived into the pile and pulled out another tabloid to search through.

Minutes later, there was a gasp from the other side of the table. I looked up to see Colette staring at me, her eyes wide and shocked.

“What? What’s the matter?” I asked.

She glanced around the table, and then closed the paper, folding it in half. “It’s nothing,” she said, but she wouldn’t meet my eyes.

“Colette, what’s the matter? Is it something to do with Jon?”

“It’s just some tabloid trash. You don’t want to read it.”

Maybe it was another picture of him snogging a track girl. I didn’t want to see that, but I trusted him now. “Pass it over, let’s have a look.”

Colette picked up the paper and held it to her chest. “Trust me,” she said, her voice fierce. “You really don’t.”

“Don’t what?” Danny rejoined us and whipped the paper from Colette, before passing it to me. Colette sat frozen, staring at me.

I had a bad feeling as I unfolded the newspaper. It was a trashy gossip rag, but Danny had picked it up with all the others. Flicking through the paper, I paused when I reached the center spread. Jon grinned up from the page, looking delicious as usual, but standing with his wife. There was a picture of Jon kissing me, and two pictures of him with Colette, taken at the show last week, when they were watching my jumping class. In the first they leaned against the fence rails, and he smiled down at her, and in the second she was in his arms. I remembered this moment. They’d briefly hugged when I finished my clear round, but in this paper, they were completely out of context. There was a picture of Jon with the blonde bimbo at Oulton Park the other week, and then a series of smaller shots of him with a variety of beautiful women.

I swallowed hard, and forced myself to read the accompanying story.

A Girl In Every Port—Or Should That Be Every Pit Lane?

Jonathan Craigowan, known as widely for his off-track antics as his motor racing, is planning a return to the U.S. once his Formula 3 season is complete. He’s widely tipped to take the championship this year following a scorching series of wins, but The Daily Comet doesn’t expect him to stay in Britain. There are rumors he may get tapped on the shoulder for the ultimate glory—Formula 1 Grand Prix—for next year. Who knows?

Jonathan is taking part in the penultimate rounds for the British F3 Championship this weekend. We’re wondering where he thinks he will go from here? From the Belgian circuit Spa-Francorchamps, he told us:

“I’m not ruling out a return to Indy Cars, but obviously F1 Grand Prix would be tempting.”

He’d previously been invited to participate in the European version of F3:

“I’m not sure my wife would be too keen on following me all round Europe, but it is a possibility.”

What we can reveal though, is that his wife is none too happy with his frequent tabloid appearances, and has been bombarding him with emails. If he plans to stay in Europe, top of his shopping list will be somewhere to live, so the gorgeous Susie can join him. She already has a significant role lined up in Mike Walker’s new thriller, soon to be filmed in the London Docklands.

“I came back to Britain to race in the Formula 3 competitions,” he told us. “While I’d had a successful run in Indy Cars, I wanted to expand my horizons and try some different cars.”

Was that different “cars” Jonathan, or different “tarts”?

From his temporary base in rural Cheshire, he’s been seen escorting not one, but two local girls, in addition to the gorgeous babes at each of the race tracks.

One thing is for sure, the longer Jonathan Craigowan stays in Europe—and Susie stays in the U.S.—the longer the list will be of Jonathan’s Babes
.

It was nonsense, all of it. It
had
to be.

Danny tugged the paper back, and quickly read the article. “Oh, lovey.” Sitting next to me, he slung his arm around my shoulders. “What a pile of rubbish. Look, they’ve even got a picture of Colette in there. How the hell did they get those pictures of you both? Wasn’t that at the show last week? There must have been a reporter there on the off chance.”

Colette stared at me open mouthed, then she looked at Danny. I thought she was about to say something, but Danny spoke again. “I don’t want to worry you, but it doesn’t say anything about his divorce. He hasn’t reconciled with his wife has he?”

“No, of course not.”
He couldn’t have.
Just the idea made me go cold.

I stood up, my knees shaking. “I’m going to phone Jon, I’ll be back in a minute.”

I headed straight for the payphone, dialing Jon’s number from memory. Again, it went to voicemail. I hadn’t actually spoken to him since Thursday, the day after he’d spoken to the press. I left another message.

“Hi babe, it’s me, Anita. I hope it went well for you today. I saw the papers tonight and was a bit surprised at the story in the Comet. You never said Susie was coming to London. Anyway, I’ll call you again tomorrow.” I blew a kiss before I hung up, then stood leaning back against the wall, trying to think straight.

Having given his story to the press, was he now avoiding me? He’d only mentioned Susie a couple of times and been completely scathing about her. He mentioned a number of emails, and I assumed they were from his divorce lawyer. If this story was to be believed, he wasn’t getting divorced at all.

I wandered back to our table, just as the food arrived. The rest of the group tucked in, but my appetite had gone. I desperately wanted to talk to Jon. We wouldn’t see each other again until Tuesday, unless things changed. Three long days away.

I woke several times, imagining Anita there. I missed the gentle curves of her body lying next to me, and each time I woke, I reached out to the space where I expected to find her. I was still blown away by the incredible sensation of making love to her without a condom. Susie had always refused to consider the pill, in case she put on weight, and this was the first time I’d ever gone bareback. It stood out as one of the most amazing things I’d ever experienced. I couldn’t wait to repeat it with her.

The weather changed overnight. When I checked the forecast on Saturday morning there was a low cloud base and a gusting wind, with a forecast of heavy rain. Not ideal for this circuit. Tom talked me through our strategy after an early breakfast. He’d competed here a dozen or more times, often in bad conditions, and I trusted his guidance.

“Attrition can be moderate to high at Spa-Francorchamps so finishing is everything,” said Tom. “Spa, being a road-based track, is also different from the more common artificial circuits. As you’ve already found out, it’s complex, with a long lap time, some highly technical corners and a surface with comparatively low grip characteristics. Remember that the surface tends to retain water even after it has stopped raining.”

I nodded and tried to concentrate on his words, but couldn’t completely ignore my mobile vibrating inside my pocket.

“It’s important to make a good exit from Eau Rouge because after that, there’s Raidillon and the long Kemmel straight. At Eau Rouge, it’s very easy to lose the car and come off, especially in the wet. Our car should be good in the medium-speed corners, but we might have a problem with the long straights.”

He stared at me, as though checking I was paying him my full attention. “Last time I raced here in the wet, I lost it at Pouhon, spun and hit the barriers. That was the end of the race for me.”

My mobile vibrated again. Had Anita finally found her phone?

“So how do you feel? Confident?”

I nodded, gave him a winning smile. “Definitely.”

He sat back in his chair. He knew me well enough to sense when I was distracted. “If you make it here, you’re set for the championship, but you don’t need me to remind you of that. And the weather is so changeable, you might race today in the pouring rain while tomorrow it could be sparkling sunshine again. You did bloody well in practice, so keep your head and focus. Okay?”

The briefing was over. Pity the rain wasn’t.

I escaped to my room to check my phone in peace. Eleven new text messages and seventeen voicemails. I stared at it, the back of my neck prickling in alarm.

There were two cheery voice messages from Anita, wishing me luck and telling me how much she missed me. The rest was junk. A succession of tabloid journalists asking for quotes and one particularly persistent American, some guy called Jay Malone who claimed to write for the Daily Comet. How the fuck had they gotten my private number? I’d have no peace now. The texts were all in a similar vein. Fuck it. Now, I daren’t answer my phone at all, in case it was a reporter. I leaned back against the wall, and wondered how my private number could have been made public. I seethed all over again.

****

At this stage, the weather could go either way, and Tom was deep in discussions about tire strategy. Did we start with
wet
tires and hope the track didn’t dry out, or start with
slicks
, the dry weather tires, which were awful on a wet track. Coming into the pits to change tires used precious time, so it was a key decision to get right. Tom eventually settled on
wets
, the car was readied, and I climbed in to perform the usual last-minute checks.

I had a ritual for every race; most drivers were similarly superstitious. I settled in my seat, dropped my head forward for a few seconds, and then rolled it, right and left, combined with deep breathing. All the while, I focused on the start. At that stage, nothing else mattered. My entire concentration was directed toward a clean and fast start to the race.

The track had mostly dried from the earlier downpour but still appeared damp and greasy. Getting tire temperature right would be crucial as the low-grip circuit would be made one step worse.

I lined up on the grid, did another dummy start in my mind to prepare myself, and then waited for the warm-up lap. I selected first gear, held the revs lower than normal, and as soon as the red light went off, I lifted the clutch and shot down the straight. The warm-up lap was designed to get the tires to the optimum temperature and after pushing really hard to get that, I lined up on the grid ready to start the race, right up beside my main rival, Daniel Jerman.

Everything hung in the balance. Everyone waited for that single moment in time when we all moved.

The lights went on. Went off.

We were away
.

I underestimated the lack of grip and made a shitty start, with a wheel spin and loss of traction.
Fuck!
I visualized Tom sitting beside me, talking me down. Daniel Jerman pulled ahead, and I floundered briefly in his slipstream as several other cars hurtled past, struggling to adjust to the
dirty air
effect from being overtaken.

I dug deep, found traction and pushed forward, only to be nailed straight away by two stalled cars farther up the grid. That called for rapid braking and weaving to avoid hitting them, but I made it cleanly to Eau Rouge. Heeding Tom’s warning, I went easy through it on the first lap and was soon tearing down the long Kemmel straight.

Voices crackled in my earpiece as the pit team relayed a warning. Numerous vehicles were stricken across the track behind me, and the race had to be red flagged. Already. And only just into the first lap.

I sat on the grid waiting for the mess to be cleared, and after ten minutes, we were going again. It was a safety car restart as the field had bunched up, and it was critical to get a good break. I did and hurtled ahead with a decent gap behind me.

Daniel Jerman held onto the lead, and I took a deep breath and got on with the job. Corners flashed by. The car responded as I hoped, and the rain kept falling. The tires stayed good.

It was the Pouhon corner that got me, as it had Tom, on the fifth lap.

I turned in a meter or two late and ran slightly wide on the damp track, with Pedro Orveila, my teammate, right behind. He was close enough to slipstream and comfortably overtake me. Jerman was still up ahead, although I’d already started to close the gap. As Pedro inched past me, I saw the sight I never wanted to see on a racetrack. Three cars spinning and flying down the outside line, straight toward me.

And nowhere for me to go.