Daughter of a fallen former Formula 1 pilot, Camila has had only one mission since her early childhood : to disappear from the public eye and the journalists who eagerly await to tear apart the last ties holding her family together. Torn between her...
Ups! Gambar ini tidak mengikuti Pedoman Konten kami. Untuk melanjutkan publikasi, hapuslah gambar ini atau unggah gambar lain.
June 2004.
"Do you think I could be a pilot?" I ask, pretending to hold a steering wheel in my hands.
My dad, who's sitting on the opposite side of the couch, puts down the newspaper he was reading and thinks for a second, lost in thoughts.
"I think you'd be an excellent pilot. Although I wouldn't want you to become one" comes his response.
"Why ? That's what you do !"
"It's a merciless sport. A merciless environment. The slightest mistake can cost you your life. I would hate to see you lead that kind of life."
"Why do you do it, then" I reply, scoffing.
"I wish I could stop, but I'm too deep into it. I feel like it's become part of my DNA. I breathe, eat, sleep, thinking about my next race. I'm done for. But you," he says, pointing at me. "You, stay away from this world. Promise me."
•
June 2019.
The text came on a Monday morning.
It was barely 9 am and I had already been lying on a wheeled wooden board for several hours, alternating from one car to another, my back begging me to stretch. I feel my phone vibrating in my pocket and contort myself to reach it. Squinting at the overly bright screen, it took me a few seconds to decipher the notification that had just appeared.
"Hey, I'll be around this weekend for the French Grand Prix. Would you like to attend ? I could get you a pass. Pierre."
Unsure of what I've just read, I try to sit up, but my face hits the chassis of the car under which I was working. "Ah, fuck," I curse as I emerge from under the vehicle, holding my nose, phone still in hand.
"What's wrong with you?" comes my brother's voice from the other side of the room.
It had been two weeks since he had returned to Monaco, and it felt good to have some company in the garage, even though I had to endure his ridiculous music blaring from the speakers all day long... and his unhealthy curiosity.
"Nothing, mind your business," I reply, eyes still glued to the screen. I don't even hear him coming up behind me and snatching the phone. "Who's Pierre?" he asks, clicking on the notification. "Don't click on it! I don't want him to see that I've read it!" I yell, jumping in the air to retrieve my phone from my brother's outstretched arm. Despite my best efforts, the bastard has thirty centimeters on me, and my arms flail in the air without even coming close to the phone. I watch horrified as I see him click on the WhatsApp profile picture of my correspondent, and he suddenly stops, eyes wide with disbelief.
"Are you for real right now... I leave for three weeks and I come back to my sister texting motherfucking Pierre Gasly?" he almost shouts as I finally manage to grab the phone, yelling. "I said mind your own business!"
