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...
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September 2003.
"Why did we have to come to Indiana?" Bianca whines, dragging her feet. "Couldn't we go to New York or something?"
"Well, little Miss Fashion Icon, there are no races in New York," my father explains, running his hand through my sister's hair as she lets out a scream.
"I like it here," I say, taking a sip of a radioactive-colored slushie.
"There are plenty of great things to do in Indiana, Bianca," my mother says, pulling out a paper map from her backpack while my sister, behind her, rolls her eyes. "By the way, Gianni, Sophie asked if we'd be joining them at the children zoo this afternoon."
"I heard there's a zoo in Central Park", Bianca says, earning a sigh from both our parents.
"Tell her yes," my father answers. "It'll be good for the little ones to have other kids to play with."
•
October 2019.
"I'm so sorry for being late, I totally underestimated how long it would take me to walk here, from the garage" I announce as I lean in to kiss Pierre on the cheek before taking the empty seat across from him.
"No worries, I had time to sign three autographs while waiting for you," the driver replies, eyeing me through his sunglasses.
"You're such a diva," I reply, chuckling.
A waiter approaches us and hands each of us a menu before offering us a wine that probably costs a month's salary, which Pierre accepts without hesitation. I open my menu, raising an eyebrow when I notice that no prices are listed. Seeing my discomfort, Pierre smiles at me.
"Women's menu. No prices. You're not supposed to know how much I'll be paying to invite you," he explains, clearly amused by my discovery.
"Wow, I haven't seen something this tacky in ages. Give me your menu," I ask, reaching out my arm.
As if to annoy me, the pilot doesn't move, still engrossed in reading the menu. "The lobster looks pretty good, do you fancy it?"
"No, Pierre, I don't want lobster. I eat tuna sandwiches five days a week at the garage. I'm not even sure if my palate can survive such a culinary shock."
The pilot bursts into laughter before listing several dishes, and we agree on a meat dish and a fish dish to share.
"How was Russia?" I ask, spinning my glass of red wine to let it breathe before bringing it to my nose.
"You know, you're quite sophisticated for a mechanic who runs on nothing but tuna," the Frenchman adds, making me laugh in return. "The race wasn't easy, but we did well. Especially Max. I think he has a shot for third in the championship."
