Rookie mistakes, p.9
Rookie Mistakes, page 9
Mitch
Rob had insisted I leave the dishes for him to deal with while I had a shower. And as I stood under the spray, that surreal feeling hit me again—Robert Andilet was clearing up our breakfast things while I showered. It was all so mundane and…lovely.
Rinsing the suds off my chest, I wondered what was more strange, that Rob was an F1 driver, or that I’d shared a blissful domestic morning with a man and not freaked out but instead had enjoyed it.
After Lee, I’d thought for a long time I was done with relationships. And then Robert had sauntered into my life, injecting it with high-speed cars and thrills. But the food tour and this morning were hands down my favorite moments spent with Rob—and there were a lot to choose from.
I shut off the shower and dressed quickly, gathering most of my belongings as I did and shoved them back into my case as I went. Reality calls. I had to get back up north and Rob, well, I didn’t know where he was off to.
After a final check of the room to make sure I hadn’t left anything, I dragged my bag behind me out into the living room, where Rob was waiting, hands shoved into the pockets of his tracksuit bottoms. He shuffled from foot to foot looking as miserable as I felt at having to leave.
Setting my case aside, I stepped up to Rob, my hands curling around his hips. He wrapped his arms around my back, pulling me tight against his chest. “I’ve had a wonderful time.”
“Me too.” Rob rested his forehead against mine. “I wish you didn’t have to go. I wish I didn’t need to check in back at headquarters. I wish we’d had longer together.”
My eyes stung at his words, because I wished for that too. I buried my nose into the crook of his neck and mumbled, “Me too.”
Rob kissed my temple. “As soon as I can get more time off, we’ll do this again. Or maybe, if you can get a weekend off, you could come to a race.”
I nodded, not wanting to say that I couldn’t afford to go to an away race. The only reason I’d been able to attend Silverstone was because the tickets had been free.
Rob cupped my face in his palms, tilting my head so he could capture my lips. I pushed all the realities aside for now and opened to the probing of his tongue, welcoming him into my mouth.
I pressed myself as close to him as I could so every inch of us was touching. This kiss would have to last me until we could meet up in person again, and I had a feeling that wouldn’t be for a long time.
8
I’d thanked my parents for letting me crash at theirs while they’d been in Spain, and I was as settled into my new flat as I was likely to get. And while I’d also thanked my dad for the tickets, I hadn’t told him everything I’d thanked him for. In other words, Robert. So that was how I ended up in the kitchen, baking a carrot cake—my dad’s favorite dessert.
Two hours later, it was safely ensconced in a Tupperware box and on its way, along with me, to my parents’. I rang the doorbell and waited as I heard feet stomping on the stairs, then my mum’s voice asking what my dad had done with the key. My lips twitched up into a fond smile, and it was still there when my mum managed to open the front door.
“Hello, love. This is a surprise. Come in, come in.”
She pulled the door open wide and I slid past her straight into the kitchen.
“Do you want a brew—ooh what have you got there?”
I peeled the lid off to reveal the baked delight.
“Oh, are you asking him for a favor?”
That make me chuckle. “No. Is he in though?”
“Yes.” She headed for the doorway and shouted, “Dale! Mitch is here. And he’s got something for you.”
It was a safe bet everyone would want a cuppa, so I filled the electric kettle and flicked it on. And then realized I hadn’t thought this through, because how could I thank him for, in a roundabout way, introducing me to Rob, if my mum didn’t know anything about the tickets. I busied myself with the cups and tea bags.
The familiar shuffle of my dad’s slippers over the lino caught my attention.
“Is that for me, Son?”
“It is. It’s your favorite and I wanted to…” My gaze flicked over to my mum sat at the table, checking the cake over, then back to my dad.
“Ahh, for the tickets.”
My eyes widened and I didn’t know what to say. Dad laughed and clasped my shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze.
“Do you think I could keep something like that secret from your mother forever?”
Mum snickered and I glanced between the two of them bewildered. “Well, I think you’re keeping something from me. Where did the tickets come from?”
Mum shooed me out of the way and took over making the drinks and slicing up the carrot cake. I took a seat opposite Dad and waited him out.
“All right. A friend did give me them, but for you because I asked him if he could get them, and I called in a favor at the racing club for the driving experience.”
“With an F1 driver?”
“What?”
“A favor from a driver? I was taken out on the track by Robert Andilet.”
“Shit! No way. If I’d known, I’d have gone myself.”
“Dale! Language. And what would Mitch have done if you’d hijacked your own gift?”
My dad held up his palms up to my mum. “Okay, okay. I wouldn’t have, but man I’m so jealous. You got to drive a Lotus and with Andilet. I mean he’s no Santiago Garcia, but still.”
I wondered if the fact my dad was a Fibonacci fan would cause problems but I chuckled, then crossed my arms over my chest and leaned back in the chair. “You might not want to lead with that when, or if, you meet Rob.”
My dad lifted an eyebrow at my reply, but then Mum slid plates of cake and cups of tea onto the table, interrupting us. Dad dug in forking up a mouthful and letting out an appreciative hum.
“And when would I get the opportunity to meet Robert Andilet anytime soon?”
Goddammit I was forty-two years old, but I could still feel the heat in my cheeks from my dad’s scrutiny, almost as embarrassed as the day I’d brought my first boyfriend round for tea. “Erm…I’m not sure, but…maybe soon?”
Mum slid onto the seat beside me and patted my hand before making a start on her own slice of yumminess. “Are you going to bring him around to meet us?”
God bless mothers and their intuition. I nodded and swallowed the lump of cake threatening to choke me. “I was thinking about it, I’m just not sure when, what with his schedule.”
“Of course not, dear. He must be busy. So, what happened after the driving experience? Was he enamored by your lack of driving skills and ability to stall a car.” Mum smirked at me, and I relaxed, although I should have known I’d regret telling her that.
“Ha ha. He was more than understanding about that and he took me out for dinner after the race. We’ve been messaging and calling each other, and we met up in London on his break.” I speared my fork through my slice, making it crumble. “But it’s hard, you know? Not being able to see him, but he’s…” An F1 driver. Wonderful. Sexy. Everything. Instead, what I added was, “Worth it.”
“The best things are never easy, sweetheart.” She gave my hand a squeeze and Dad was still flicking his attention between me and my mum, as though he were watching a tennis match.
“You’re dating Robert Andilet?”
I chuckled. My dad never did do subtle well, needing things spelled out to him.
“Yes, Dad. I’m dating Rob. Robert Andilet.”
He hooted with laughter. “Well, I didn’t see that one coming when I gave you the tickets. Does he know you’re not the biggest fan of F1?”
I sipped my tea to buy myself some time before I confessed to my dad. Running a finger around the curve of the handle, I said, “Yeah, so, it turns out it might not be as boring as I thought.”
Dad’s laughter had him doubling over and slapping a hand against the tabletop. When he managed to calm himself down, he said, “He’s turned you into a Formula 1 fan, then, has he?”
“Oh, be quiet. Or I won’t take you if he gets me hospitality tickets again.” That shut him up.
Spa, Belgium – Round 14
Andilet (Robert)
Race day
Even though the night with Mitch had been more than two weeks ago, and many, many, many texts since, I was still riding the high. And I couldn’t wait to get back out on the track. I’d finished ninth, two places ahead of my teammate but outside the points in eighth position, in the sprint race on Saturday and P9 would be where I started in today’s main race. It felt as though this was going to be a weekend where everything came together and just worked.
I wandered back into the garage once I’d found a snack after the team strategy meeting to the sight of Daniel draping himself over a stack of tires, still in their warmers, phone held over his head. His chest was bare, and he was flexing his pecs. He looked like a right idiot, as far as I was concerned, but assumed he was posting another thirst trap for his millions of Insta and TikTok followers.
I didn’t get it. If I were going to post anything, it would be F1 related or about how my race went, but I was grateful I had Libby to take care of my social media accounts, only getting me to do live tweet sessions sometimes, and the odd post myself. According to her, my feeds were “lacking” before she’d taken them over. Whatever. Daniel turned the phone around to me and shouted, “Say hello to your fans, Andilet.”
I shook my head at his antics, but gave his phone a smile and a lame wave. “Hey, everyone.”
Daniel snorted a half laugh at me and turned the mobile back on himself. I left him to it, happy to not be a part of the crazy world of thirst traps, videos, trolls, and all that bullshit.
I had better things to do with my phone, like read messages from Mitch. He had texted, as he always did before a race now, to wish me good luck but I didn’t think I’d need it. Plus, I had his lucky cat charm on my boot.
I accelerated away from my starting spot and weaved around, trying to get a bit of heat into my tires on the formation lap. Saturday had been damp and it seemed the race would be too. Which didn’t have to be a bad thing, I seemed to remember a race a few years back where a rookie had won because of the rain causing a crash at the front of the grid, not that I was hoping for any incidents.
I tucked back in behind the car in front of me on the grid in seventh place and focused on the lights. As I sat there waiting for the cars behind to line up, the view became more and more blurred from behind my visor as the rain got heavier.
I focused on the red flashing light on the rear of the car in front of me, knowing that when we pulled away, the spray from the tires would make it difficult to see anything, and increase the likelihood someone could crash and I didn’t want to be taken out as collateral damage.
Out of the corner of my eye I watched as the five lights flickered on one by one and then all of them blinked out and we were racing. I got a slow start, the car not happy with the wet conditions, but I was grateful we all made it out of the first corner without any contact.
The rain came down harder as I completed the first lap and water started to pool on the track in several places. It didn’t look like it was going to ease up anytime soon. “Any update on the rain?” I asked Greg.
“Satellite shows it hanging around for at least the first twenty laps. I’ll let you know if there’s any change,” he replied from the pits via my earpiece.
Five laps later and it didn’t matter how wet it got as the car was stuck in seventh gear and I’d lost all power. I drifted to a slow roll and pulled off the racing line searching for the safest place to stop. “I’ve lost drive. I can’t select a gear.”
The frustration was obvious in my voice, but Greg sounded as calm as he always did over the comms. “Understood. Telemetry shows it’s the power unit. Pull over where you can safely.”
I slapped the steering wheel with my gloved hand at the lost opportunity. There was a service lane not far ahead and I aimed my car for it, but didn’t quite make it, rolling to a stop about ten meters before the entrance.
The yellow light flashed up on my steering wheel to signal the yellow flags were out and to let me know to slow down. Can’t get slower than stopped.
I yanked the HANS device free with a frustrated growl and then tossed it onto the front of the car. Not with enough force to damage it, but with sufficient to vent a little of my anger as I pushed myself up out of the cockpit after I’d detached the steering wheel and unbuckled my harness.
The marshals were running towards me and I knew they would want to push the car away from the track and out of danger, so I reaffixed the steering wheel and walked off as the first marshal grabbed the side of the cockpit, ready to push.
I lifted my head, the rain pouring over my visor. This far into the season I couldn’t afford any more retirements—there were only nine races left after this weekend. Unreliability and points for only four races in a season were going to get me nowhere in the standings.
A motorcycle pulled up beside me and I climbed on behind the marshal so he could drive me back to the pits.
It was going to be a long night in the garage working out what had gone wrong and coming up with some damage limitation.
Mitch
It felt like months since I had met up with Rob in London instead of only a couple of weeks. We’d been texting still, but no video chats since getting together in real life. And despite having met each other twice, in the flesh, I was getting more and more attached with each text. Not just to Rob, but to my bloody phone. I’d gone from forgetting where I’d left the damn thing to it being attached to my hand.
It had been hard after our brief time together in London to go back to drawn-out text conversations, the gaps between them prolonging our chats and giving them a stilted quality. But Rob always replied.
I checked my screen, but nope, still no new messages. I’d watched the Belgian Grand Prix and my heart had hurt when he’d stood at the side of the track staring up into the wet sky, the disappointment and anger evident in every line of his taut body and sharp movements. I hadn’t expected a reply to my message straight away, I was sure he had things to do after not finishing a race, but they wouldn’t take all evening, would they?
Frustrated at my own behavior, I set the alarm on my phone, then dropped it onto the bedside table. After a quick trip to the bathroom, I slipped under the bedcovers without checking the screen and tossed and turned for most of the night with strange dreams of being trapped in a flooded kitchen, which I hoped wasn’t a premonition.
The following morning at the restaurant, I was tired and distracted, which were not good traits for a busy kitchen.
“Mitch! Where are those apples for the crumble?”
Fuck. My boss’s shout had me jumping a mile. I’d been prepping said apples, but at the bark of my name, my arm jerked and the blade sank into my skin like a hot knife through butter.
“Shit.” Blood poured from the gash on my finger and I thrust my hand away from the chunks of apples on the chopping board. Rachel rushed over at my cursing and grabbed my wrist, tugging me over to the sink. She thrust my cut finger under the cold water as our boss yelled again.
“Mitch!”
I shouted back. “They’re on the counter. There’s about ten left to do.”
“Well, why aren’t they—” He stopped abruptly as he took in the sight of me and Rachel. “Are you okay?”
“Sliced my finger open. I’ll be fine once it stops bleeding. Just need to cover it up.”
He nodded. “Okay. I’ll finish the apples while you get yourself cleaned up.”
“Thanks.” As bosses went, Paul wasn’t a bad guy. And he had taken me on on a temporary basis as a favor to me, knowing I wasn’t sure what I wanted to do and so I could cover for his employee who was on maternity leave. A win-win situation for both of us, for now at least.
He was like every other chef I’d worked for though, expected you to give two hundred percent and had a temper as hot as a scotch bonnet chili, but it fizzled out as fast as it flared up. And it was only one of the reasons why I wanted to work in my own kitchen again.
Rachel turned the tap off and I grabbed a clean tea towel. She wrapped it tight around my finger and I held my hand up towards my head to help stop the bleeding.
“I’ll grab the first-aid kit for you.”
I gave her a smile I didn’t feel, although I was grateful for her taking care of me. “Thanks.”
She scuttled off and I rested my arse against the deep stainless steel sink. My finger throbbed and it about summed up how my career was going right now.
I’d viewed several premises that might work as a coffee/cake shop, but when I thought about putting a deposit down on a lease, my gut churned faster than my KitchenAid mixer on its highest setting.
I wasn’t sure if it was because of what had happened with Lee or more. If he couldn’t make a restaurant profitable, what chance did I have with no experience in managing the business side and zero training in finances?
When I thought about kitting out the space or finding suppliers, it was all so…overwhelming. I had no network of contacts up north. The only people I knew in the catering business were Paul and Rachel. And never in a million years did I think Paul would help me set up my own business if it meant losing a member of staff before his other member returned. One who was way too experienced for this underpaid and overworked position, despite the fact this was a temporary arrangement.
Rachel appeared beside me, setting the green box on the draining board and flicking open the catch. I lowered my hand and she unwrapped the towel. The bleeding had stopped and I took the bloodstained cotton from her. She opened a bandage and slid it over my fingertip, held the top in place as I rolled the rest of it down my finger. She handed me a waterproof covering for over the bandage and I was as good as new—sort of.
