Chapter Theme:

Fleetwood Mac - The Chain

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Here we go :)   I'm planning on adding a picture of each circuit for the chapters so it's easier to follow along with the technical race parts and I've tried making them as simple as possible while also being realistic, so I hope it's not too confusing. Anyway if this chapter feels like too much technical stuff, don't worry, there will be more fluff/relationship stuff in the future I promise. Enjoy! :)

The three weeks from testing to the first race of the season feel like twenty years.

Irene warned her it would be like that. Said it felt like waiting for something that would never arrive. But as the cab pulls into the parkinglot outside and Seulgi glances at the trackside garages for the first time in the early March sun the smile on her face tells the whole story, from start to finish, wherever that may be. It’s a smile that says: This is it. This is my life now.

The first person she sees is, predictably, Wendy. She’s already busying herself with equipment and iPads and data when Seulgi steps through the door at the back of the garage and smells the motor oil and the unmistakable stench of fresh rubber from the tires. Nobody else notices her come in. The mechanics are buried in the screens of their laptops, the engineers running over notes, the jackmen and pit crews preparing themselves already. And there it is, in the centre of the rightside garage, sat there, cold and sleek and enormous and glinting in the pale ceilinglight. The paintwork is a smooth white this year, the APEX Motorsport accents in a burning orange, the logos and sponsors in black to offset it. Seulgi takes a moment to just gawp at it. Then she takes ten more moments.

‘When did you come in?’

She looks up, unaware she’s been staring at all. Wendy sets her iPad down on one of the little push dollies and runs a hand through her hair and smiles. It’s a cropped blonde, a stark contrast to what it had been last year, different to what it had been in testing three weeks prior, and Seulgi notices it immediately. Notices what it stands for – a change. New season, new things. Everything feels fresh and vibrant and good and full of smiles. She thinks about Irene, three garages over, having taken a separate cab to the track. And then she’s smiling again.

‘Seulgi?’

‘Sorry,’ Seulgi says. ‘About a minute ago. Did you not see me?’

‘I was busy. Sorry. How are you feeling?’

Seulgi holds out her shaking hand. ‘Like that,’ she says.

‘Got the jitters?’

‘Something like that.’

‘Good,’ Wendy says. ‘It’s good to be nervous. I think someone told you that before.’

‘You did.’

‘Well, probably. But I meant it. You’d be—’

‘Stupid not to be nervous. Yeah. I know.’

Wendy smiles again. It’s a friendly and teasing grin, one Seulgi’s missed an awful lot in the long winter months. ‘You sound confident,’ she says. ‘Are you confident?’

‘More than I was six months ago, less than I was three weeks ago.’

‘What? What does that mean?’

Seulgi shrugs. The honest truth is she doesn’t know what she meant. It’s just one of those things, a gut feeling that tells her private testing – rain or otherwise – was just that. A test. Little more than one of her simulators, or games. The real thing is different entirely. Worlds apart. Her momentary lapse is brought to an end by the sound of one of the engines somewhere along the row of garages roaring into life. The engineers move about and disappear and reappear with more tablets and cameras and hi-tech equipment Seulgi swears she’s never seen before. ‘What’s the weather forecast like?’ she says.

‘In Bahrain? Is that a joke?’

‘Well.’

‘Well,’ Wendy says.

‘Are you going to tell me?’

Wendy gives her a glance that says more than she could. Then she adds anyway, ‘Dry, surprisingly enough.’

‘All weekend.’

‘All weekend. Why? Don’t tell me you’re scared of the rain again, are you?’

‘No,’ Seulgi says. ‘I didn’t mean it like that. Not at all. I just…you know.’

‘What?’

Seulgi shrugs shyly. The afternoon outside soars in the March heat. ‘I was just making small talk,’ she admits. ‘I feel like it’s been years since I’ve seen you.’

‘Two and a half weeks.’

‘Still, though.’

‘Well, I’m here now, for the foreseeable future.’

‘Better or for worse.’

‘Uh huh.’

‘Where’s Joy?’

Wendy shrugs. The other garage bay across from them houses the other Apex but Joy is absent. ‘She hasn’t been in all day,’ Wendy says. ‘But she never comes to these, really. Only for an hour or two.’

‘Why?’

‘Just one of her things she does. She prefers to just show up on Friday and hit it out of the park for practice. Being around all this equipment has never really been her thing. Seulgi. Seulgi, are you listening to me?’

‘God,’ Seulgi mutters.

‘What?’

‘Look at it.’

‘I know.’

‘Just look at it, Wendy.’

‘I’ve been looking at it for a month now.’

She runs a hand along the carbon bodywork on the left side, down the sidepods, across the bargeboards, toward the rear splitter. Then it’s the diffuser and the rear wing, and then around to the front to marvel at the complex geometry of the front of it. It looks like a spaceship. Like something designed by a madman. ‘This is it,’ she says, smiling. ‘This is it.’

‘What?’

‘I’ve got a good feeling about this car. Something about the way it looks just screams championship material, you know?’

‘Well. That’s up to you and Joy, really.’

Seulgi turns and gazes out at the day. The white sun sits cloudless to the high west and the Thursday stands are empty, still closed off to the public. She takes a moment to inspect it all and thinks absently: Tomorrow. Tomorrow, it all begins again.

‘Can I?’ she says.

‘No.’

‘Please, Wendy.’

‘Not a chance.’

‘Please?’

‘It’s again the rules,’ Wendy says. ‘You know it is.’

‘Just a couple laps. I promise I won’t bin it.’

‘It’s not my call to make. Or the boss’.’

‘Whose, then?’

Wendy makes a broad gesture to nothing. ‘It’s the rules of the sport,’ she says. ‘Sorry. Just wait.’

‘I don’t think I can.’

‘It’s not even twenty-four hours.’

‘Still.’

‘God, listen to you.’

‘What?’ Seulgi says.

‘You sound so…I don’t know. Happy?’

‘Is that a bad thing?’

‘No. Not at all.’ Wendy offers another warm smile. ‘Is it just this?’ she says.

‘What?’

‘Just the car? And the feel of it?’

She thinks about lying for a second, for some reason. Then she says truthfully, ‘No.’

‘Irene?’

‘You want to say it any louder?’

‘Everyone knows.’

‘In this garage, sure. And in hers. But not in public. Not the whole world. And they can’t. You know they can’t.’

‘Relax,’ Wendy says. ‘I’m not going to tell anyone else. Just…you know.’

‘What?’

‘Well…you know.’

Seulgi motions for her to continue.

‘It’s going to be quite hard, no? To keep it a secret, I mean. You already took different cabs this morning. That’ll be the least of your worries.’

‘We’ll make it work. I’m not worried at all.’

‘Good. I’m glad. And I’m glad to see you in such high spirits. Just keep it up for tomorrow, you know?’

‘Yeah,’ Seulgi says with a smile. She glances at the car once again. ‘I think I will.’

She knocks and waits. The champagne glasses in her right hand clink gently against each other and in the hotel hallway there’s no other sound at all. The doorlock clicks and the door opens and Irene looks at her and smiles gently. It’s a smile Seulgi adores more than any other. One that twelve months ago she would’ve never imagined had even the capacity to exist, let alone like this. Her hair is tied back in a neat ponytail and she’s wearing a seablue polo shirt and she catches a glimpse of the champagne and raises an amused eyebrow.

‘Ah,’ she says, ‘your classic strategy of getting me drunk before a race.’

‘Don’t be a spoilsport.’

‘I never said no, did I?’

To this Seulgi only smiles. She lets herself in and closes the door behind her and before she can even fully turn back around Irene presses her against the doorframe and kisses her deeply. She smells of expensive perfume, a strange and yet wonderfully synchronous blend of coffee and vanilla afternotes that is almost overpowering. Seulgi lets herself go limp. The champagne almost slips to the carpet. When Irene pulls back she’s smiling again, that same smile that Seulgi has to stare at and do a double take and remind herself actually exists, is actually Irene and not some imitation pretending at happiness.

‘I missed you,’ she says.

‘I missed you too.’

‘How are things?’

Seulgi sets the glasses down on the little walnut table and pours out the champagne evenly. ‘What things?’ she says.

‘With Wendy and Joy.’

‘You know I can’t tell you that.’

‘I just meant it in a friendly way.’

‘Uh huh. Sure you did.’

‘I did,’ Irene insists. She turns toward the sliding doors at the back of the room. The curtains are drawn back and it smells of the cool evening dusk and the sun bleeds like a hot coal disc out there in the blue of it all. ‘Should I?’ she says.

‘No. Leave them open. I like the breeze.’

Irene drinks with a wince and holds the glass up in the narrow light. ‘What is this?’ she says.

‘Don’t know. I got it at the bar downstairs.’ Seulgi drinks and drinks a second time and swishes it around in .

‘Well?’

‘Not quite the Chateau at the Hermitage, is it?’

‘To be fair, there’s quite a price difference.’

They drink and talk quietly for a long time. Seulgi never notices the sun fall away, the day return to pale moonlight. She only notices Irene. When she’s there in the hotel room Apex doesn’t exist, nor Formula 1, nor Wendy or Joy or anyone. Just her and Irene together, every moment savoured. It’s almost nine in the evening when Irene asks her the question she’s been expecting all day. ‘How are you feeling?’ she says, full of sincerity and curiosity.

‘I don’t know,’ Seulgi says. ‘Nervous, I guess. Excited. But there’s something else. It’s strange. I didn’t feel it last year.’

‘I know what you mean.’

‘Yeah?’

Irene nods sagely. ‘It’s an alien feeling. It’s about you and I, isn’t it?’

‘Yeah. How did you know?’

‘Because I feel it too. And I can’t describe it either. I don’t think I ever could. It’s like a mix of everything together.’

There’s a silence between them Seulgi doesn’t want to break. It talks for them. The odd nature of this new shared feeling implies in its existence that it can’t be accurately described or put into words, so they don’t even try. They just let it sit, simmering slowly, the uncanny foretaste of what is yet to come. It’s Irene that breaks the quiet at last, when she stares down into the bottom of her empty glass and says softly, ‘Whatever happens, it’s just racing. You know that, right?’

‘Yeah,’ Seulgi says.

‘It won’t come between us. It didn’t last year and it won’t this year. I mean that. Properly mean it.’

‘Me too.’ Seulgi laughs. ‘I can’t believe you’ve just said that.’

‘What?’

‘I mean, when I met you last year – hell, when we were even friends – you told me more than once that F1 was all you had in your life.’

‘Yeah.’

‘And now—’

‘I’ve got you, too.’

Seulgi smiles. Every time Irene says it feels new and different, and the reality of it is still moderately absurd to her. The stoicism of Bahrain a year ago and the anger of China and the reserved coldness in Russia seems as if it had never existed at all. This Irene is different, changed, new. Changing with the season. Like Wendy’s hair, like the new car. Like all of it, Seulgi thinks, piecing it together in her head with a smile.

‘What? What are you grinning about?’

‘Nothing,’ Seulgi says. ‘Just things. Sometimes I sit down I think about everything and I’m just like…how? How did I get to be so lucky?’

‘Don’t dwell on it. It tends to weigh on you the more you do.’

‘Even if it’s positive reflection?’

‘Especially if it’s positive reflection.’

‘Well then.’

‘You got any more of that champagne?’

‘No,’ Seulgi says. ‘I thought you didn’t like it.’

‘I never said that.’

‘Should you be getting drunk?’

‘I’m the best racing driver in the world,’ Irene says, and it has Seulgi giggling again. ‘What? What did I say?’

‘There’s a point where confidence just becomes cockiness, you know?’

‘Did I cross it?’

‘Leapt right over it, yeah.’

‘Well.’ Irene points to the bedside table. Four golden trophies, shining flatly. Four world championships. ‘I think maybe I get to be a bit cocky, no?’

‘Guess so.’

‘We should sleep.’

‘I love you,’ Seulgi says unprompted. It’s a habit she’s taken to doing more nowadays, for whatever reason, but Irene doesn’t seem to complain. She leans over the table and draws Seulgi in for a kiss and says gently, ‘I love you too. And I’ll love you even if you beat me. Not that you will, of course.’

‘Of course,’ Seulgi says with a smile. And when she awakes at nine the next morning, she’s still smiling.

The grandstands are already nearly filled by the time first practice rolls around a couple hours later. She’s in the garage mulling things over with Wendy when Joy walks in, helmet already in hand, hair tied back neatly, looking as regal as ever. ‘Hey,’ she says enthusiastic.

‘Hey.’

‘Sorry I didn’t see you yesterday. I was a bit busy doing shots at the bar.’

‘It’s okay.’

‘How are you?’

‘Good,’ Seulgi says, aware it’s the tenth or eleventh time she’s been asked the same thing in two days. Not that it matters. Joy looks at the car and whistles. ‘She’s a beauty,’ she says.

‘That she is.’

‘You ready?’

‘As I’ll ever be.’

‘Good. No going easy on you this season, you know?’ She winks at Seulgi and Seulgi can only laugh in response. Three of the cars are already out there on the track. She can hear the engines from the garage. The whine of the turbo. The instantaneous hum of downshifts when they break for the hairpin at turn one, hundreds of metres away. In the dim outside light the car still looks almost inhuman. It smells of burnt rubber and fresh rubber and cigarettes and many other things too. ‘I’ll see you out there,’ Joy says, and pulls her helmet over her head. Seulgi only gives her a thumbs up in response. She joins Wendy by the front of the car again, poring over data on her tablet. It’s a digital 3D model of the circuit.

‘Okay,’ she says, ‘here it is. Figured I’d go over it with you, even though you don’t need it at all. I know you could drive around here in your sleep, but I’ve got to do it. I think it’s actually written into my contract.’

‘Really?’

‘Dunno. Anyway.’

Seulgi only motions for her to continue with the obvious and the inevitable.

‘Right,’ Wendy says, pointing to the 3D map. ‘You know the drill. Brake early for the hairpin, lots of kerb at turn two, good exit yadda yadda, don’t miss the braking point at T8, don’t overshoot T9, good exit for the straight, don’t lose it on the inside kerbs at eleven and twelve, blah blah blah. I don’t even know why I’ve got to tell you this. As if you’d have forgotten it or something. Oh, and just be careful if you try anymore fancy superstar divebombs at turn four again. We don’t want a repeat of China.’

‘Neither do I. Thanks for reminding me.’

‘Of China?’

‘Yeah. And I was being sarcastic.’

‘Naturally.’ Wendy nods to the car behind them. The engine already hums. The engineers have stepped away. ‘You’re up, cowboy. Cowgirl. Whatever.’

The first time back inside the cockpit since testing feels very different. Everything has changed. The car has been altered since testing and it’s all new and odd and yet immediately comfortable. It feels like home. She nestles herself down and attaches the steeringwheel and fastens her gloves and waits. Listening to her own rapid heartbeat. The sun out there looks like chalk light. Hands on the wheel, all beginning again. Here goes, she thinks, and her blood is pumping like there’s no tomorrow.

‘Okay,’ Wendy says over the radio, the static cutting in briefly. ‘Radio check, one two, one two.’

‘Yes boss.’

‘Good. Well, then.’

‘Well?’

‘Ready when you are.’

Seulgi gives a little thumbs up to the guys with the tire warmers keeping her new tires at the right temperature and they step away and remove the blankets. She waits. The engine humming, the car attuned to her. Outside sits Bahrain International Circuit and twenty-thousand anxious fans. There are already six cars on track and one of them is Irene, another Joy. From down the long row of garages the number twenty-two LG-Renault of Jennie Kim races along the pitlane and disappears onto the track to join them. Hands shaking now. She’s not thinking: You can do this, Seulgi. She’s thinking, with a grin: Let’s go have some fun.

Practice never tells the full story and Seulgi knows that as well as anyone. Teams all running different setups and strategies, some purposely hiding their true speed, some with other intentions. Some gathering data for qualifying and some for the race and some for both, nestled in the middle. When she pulls the car back into the garage after the second practice session it’s four in the afternoon and a slight cooler and for that she’s thankful because the sweat has stained her suit all down the back and her hair sticks to her head so that she can see almost nothing when she pulls off her helmet.

‘Well?’ Wendy says expectantly. ‘How did it feel?’

‘Felt really good,’ Seulgi replies with a beaming grin. ‘Felt really, really good. God, I’ve missed this.’

‘Me too. You fancy a look at the data?’

Seulgi nods. Wendy passes her the tablet, the times superimposed from the boards all around the garage. She’s put in the fastest time by a good three tenths of a second. Then it’s the two Samsungs, Jennie, Joy, and the other Renault. Same as last year. The more things change, the more they remain the same.

‘Well,’ she says.

‘Yeah. Figured it’d be good to show you, but we can’t get anything from this, really. It’s just practice.’

‘Were the Samsungs doing race runs?’

Wendy shrugs. ‘We don’t know,’ she says. ‘They didn’t show much. Anything you can gleam?’

‘What? What do you mean?’

‘You know…’

‘You mean, can I ask Irene?’

Another shrug.

‘Won’t work,’ Seulgi says. ‘Believe me, I’ve tried.’

‘Worth a shot. We’ll just have to see tomorrow. How did it feel? Compared to last year’s car, I mean.’

‘Sturdier in the slow corners. Decent in a straight line. Pretty similar overall, but it’s a good similar, in all the right places. I like it. I like it a lot.’

‘Good,’ Wendy says. ‘That’s good.’

‘I should go get some rest. I stink. Why does it have to be so warm in Bahrain?’

‘Is that a serious question too?’

‘No. Ignore me. I’ll see you tomorrow.’

‘Yeah.’ Wendy gives a little wave as Seulgi’s by the back of the garage. ‘Say hi to your girlfriend for me, will you?’

It isn’t until she’s standing on the little balcony with her back to the setting sun that she thinks about it and says, ‘Should we be doing this?’

‘What?’ Irene says.

‘Should I be doing this, I mean.’

‘Doing what?’

‘Standing here, on your balcony.’

‘Why shouldn’t you?’

‘I mean, if someone saw…’

‘Saw you, what? Hanging out with me? That’s not a crime is it?’

‘They might get the wrong idea.’

‘They won’t,’ Irene says from the table.

‘They might.’

‘It’s just you standing there. As long as we don’t start making out in the middle of the street, I think we’ll be okay.’

To this Seulgi has no reply, only blushing. A cool breeze blows up and down the quiet streets. From Irene’s hotel window the track glimmers against the overhanging spotlights like a circuit of diamond. Seulgi watches it for a long time, soaking it in, adjusting to it. She thinks about saying a lot of things. So much on her mind. Then eventually all she can manage is, ‘We should go for a meal.’

‘When?’

‘Sunday night, after the race and the celebrations. I won’t see you tomorrow.’

‘I know. I’ve got data to be looking over too.’

‘We should go out after the race.’

‘Sure,’ Irene says. ‘Where?’

‘Wherever,’ says Seulgi, not really thinking about it. It’s just an excuse for more alone time together, before their flights take them off separately, back to Korea for a week before Spain rolls around and it all begins again. A travelling circus. A carnival show on a biweekly basis. Out there Bahrain International Circuit seems to beckon her. She traces the outline of it with a finger in the air. The hairpin and the straight. The right-hander at turn four where she pulled off that death-defying overtake on Joy a year ago. It isn’t her favourite track but it might as well be, here still in the honeymoon phase, the bliss of the season still yet to wear off. She turns to Irene sat at the table reading her phone and takes a moment to just appreciate her silently. Their quiet moments are some of Seulgi’s favourite, so comfortable as to do away with speaking entirely. Just soft glances and tender smiles.

‘I should go,’ she says thinly. ‘Get some sleep.’

‘Big day tomorrow.’

‘Yeah.’

‘Irene.’

‘What?’

‘I love you.’

Irene smiles at her. ‘I love you too,’ she says. ‘Good luck tomorrow.’

Final practice feels the same as the other practice sessions. None of the teams are pushing it and Seulgi is very aware of that fact. In the garage she tells Wendy the same and Wendy nods and holds up the tablet with the times on it.

‘They’re still trailing behind us,’ Seulgi says.

‘Yeah.’

‘Their times today are slower than yesterday, too.’

‘They’re keeping their cards close to their chest. But one thing’s for certain.’

‘What’s that?’

‘That Samsung is quick in a straight line. Very quick.’

‘Just like last year. Do you think we have a good enough car?’

‘I don’t know,’ Wendy says. ‘You tell me.’

‘I will in about an hour’s time.’

And an hour later, sitting in the cockpit waiting for the garage lights to go green, her hands are shaking again. The stands murmur with new life. Everything has taken on that fresh air of racing sentience that exists only on these weekends. It’s a culture all of its own. Her feet tap anxiously in the narrow monocoque chassis. A minute later her radio crackles into action. ‘Okay,’ Wendy says.

‘I can hear you.’

‘It’s showtime.’

‘Wish me luck.’

‘Break a leg,’ says Wendy. Seulgi takes a moment to soak it all in. Joy is out first, the engine enormous from across the garage. She closes her eyes and thinks first of Irene, then of herself, another learned habit. The world falls away. Silence becomes everything. Then she pushes down the accelerator pedal and slips out of the garage and along the pitlane and into the cool afternoon sun.

On her outlap Wendy talks in her ear again. ‘You’ve got some clear air in front of you,’ she says. ‘Don’t worry about it. And don’t push it too hard. No need yet.’

Her first flying lap comes to her as easily as riding a bike. She takes a bit too much kerb at turn six and loses a tenth of a second and is late on the gas out of turn thirteen but it doesn’t matter. The Apex is fast. Last year’s times are half a second slower already. She crosses the line with the wind harsh against her helmet and her fingers numb and the crowd massive and specular and slowly receding as she slows for turn one again. The car feels alive, as much a part of her as her arms or feet. ‘Wendy,’ she says. ‘Was that good enough? Or do I need to go again?’

‘No, you’re good. That’s P1 for now.’

‘And the Samsungs?’

‘We’ll wait and see. They’re still sandbagging.’

The same happens in the second round of qualifying. Only the top ten advance, and she’s comfortably in first again, but the Samsungs aren’t as fast as she’s been expecting them to be all weekend. It’s only when she’s on her slow lap in the final round of qualifying that Wendy hums back into action to say, ‘Okay, this is it. Give it everything you’ve got. I know they will be.’

It’s the first time since Korea last year that she feels it again. The kitewire turning of her stomach. The thrill of being on the edge. The main straight evaporates at three hundred kilometres per hour. The air past feels like a thunderclap. She brakes early for the hairpin turn one and takes enough kerb like Wendy told her to and gets a great exit onto the second straight. The turns go by. The crowds in the grandstands look like matchstick people. The two-turn complex at nine and ten is her least favourite but she hits the braking point exactly and the straight soars by and the car feels alive again. She’s smiling in her seat. The joy of knowing it’s a good lap already. When she crosses the line and slows for her inlap it takes a moment for her to process the cheering. One of the slow green Chamisuls coasts up alongside her and gives a thumbs up from the cockpit and she gives one back.

‘Wendy,’ she says.

‘Yeah.’

‘Well? Tell me.’

A pause. Then: ‘P2. Good job.’

‘. Are you kidding me?’

‘P2 is good. Pick up rubber and bring it back okay.’

She dwells on it on the way around. In the pits she climbs out and tosses her helmet to the side and looks at the timing screens at the back of the garage. In great white font they say:

IRENE BAE – 1:27:752

SEULGI KANG – 1:27:759

‘,’ she mutters, half elated at their places on the grid and half disappointed.

‘ happens,’ Wendy says in consolation.

‘So we were right. They were hiding their speed.’

‘Somewhat.’ She points to the screen. It’s Yeri’s Samsung in third, Joy in fourth, the two Renaults behind.

‘Seven milliseconds, Wendy. That’s it. Not even time to blink.’

‘Like I said, happens. Don’t sweat it.’

‘I could’ve had pole.’

‘Hey, look on the bright side. Last year you were P3, this year P2. So next year…you know.’

‘Guess so,’ Seulgi says. She looks down at her shaking hands. ‘I should probably go do my interview.’

‘Probably.’

‘Thanks.’

‘Any time,’ Wendy says with a smile. On the grid for the post-qualifying interviews it takes all of her remaining energy to not stare at Irene stood across from her in her racing overalls, waving out at the crowd, hair matted and sweaty, the polesitter. She’s almost smiling. They go their separate ways and Seulgi makes her own way back to the hotel in a cab. The ride gives her time to settle with her newfound feelings. It still has a strangeness to it. Is she happy at Irene’s pole? Upset at her own failings? Both? Neither? The truth is more complicated than that. Competition breeds by its very nature a raw and unfiltered harshness, the perceived need to go above and beyond in pursuit of the ultimate goal, at the expense of everyone and everything else. Is this a form of such? She doesn’t know that either. Her evening time poring over the data and race simulations gives her ample opportunity to think on it. And every time, without fail, the conclusion is the same: I don’t know.

She barely sees Irene at all the next day.

By the time she’s in the car and strapped in and ready to hit the grid the only time she’s seen her at all is a brief glance down the end of the pitlane. The two Apexes glint in the evening sun, the ringed track floodlights like liquid silver in the purple dusk. The cars hum on the starting grid. Everything has a terrible and incredible tension to it, a unique paradox. She thinks briefly about their relationship again. What it means and what it does not. And only Wendy can rouse her from it.

‘Okay champ,’ she says. ‘Have fun out there.’

Seulgi says that she will, very much so.

‘You know the plan. Careful into turn one, take it easy, let the race come to us.’

‘Is that it?’

‘Do you need anything else? You’re the driver, not me.’

‘Suppose you’re right. Thanks.’

‘Head up.’

The first of the five lights comes on ahead of her and suddenly the whole world slips away. Hands on the wheel. Two lights and then three. The engines roar into life, clutch ready, tires aching. She steals a single glance at the blue Samsung on pole position just beside her and breaks into a smile. Then it’s four lights, five lights, lights out.

The first three laps are clean and easy.

She’s in second and looks good for it. Already the gap to Yeri in third is a second and a half. The soft tires have an immense amount of grip and every corner feels that much smoother, every braking point a touch later. She pushes it. The crowds come alive when she does that. Dynamite, she thinks, smiling again. By lap twelve the gap is less than a second to Irene.

‘Careful,’ Wendy says amid static.

‘I am being careful.’

By the time they hit the sweeping right-hander at turn twelve the gap is half a second.

‘It might be time to ease off,’ Wendy says.

‘Already?’

‘You’re at risk of overheating in the dirty air. Brake temps are way up.’

‘I can get past her. I know it.’

But on the main straight and even with DRS the Samsung seems no closer. She brakes late for turn one and almost overshoots the hairpin and it costs her a good half a second.

‘Careful,’ Wendy mutters. ‘Don’t overdo it. Don’t get flashy.’

‘How are they so fast in a straight line?’

‘Good engine, I guess. How are the tires?’

‘The front left is done,’ Seulgi says. ‘Sorry. I think I’ve pushed too hard.’

‘It’s cool. Box this lap.’

She comes into the pits for new soft tires and is back out in two seconds. The grip is immediately better. Everything feels smoother. Irene pits next lap and comes out just ahead of Seulgi, still half a second, still faster on the straights. By the time they pit again for the medium tires they’re a good fifteen seconds clear of the rest of the field. ‘Seulgi,’ she hears over the radio.

‘Yeah. Talk to me.’

‘You’ll overheat if you keep at it. We can’t run in this engine mode much longer.’

‘I can do this. Trust me. Please.’

‘Well. Your call.’

She thinks about that for a moment. About the trust the team have in her, how much it’s grown in the past twelve months. Laps thirty-nine and forty go by. On lap forty-one she attempts the impossible. At turn four she dummies Irene and cuts into the inside line and brakes late. The crowd hold their breath in déjà vu. A second feels like a year. Seulgi braces.

Joy gave her room. Irene in China did not. But this is a new year, new rules, new people. Times have changed. Irene gives up the corner and instead tries to power out on the straight but it’s not enough and Seulgi has the lead.

‘Yes!’ Wendy says. ‘Did you see that? Unbelievable. God, you’re a star.’

‘Told you I could do it.’

‘Just play it cool now. Don’t get cocky.’

‘I won’t,’ Seulgi says. ‘I promise.’

With seven laps to go she’s pulled out a two second gap to Irene. The danger is the straights. Even without DRS the Samsung is faster but the corners are hers, just like last year. She’s smiling in her helmet involuntarily. Smiling as she passes the grandstand on the main straight. Smiling as Wendy radios in to tell her she's the best driver in the world. She's smiling all the way up until the car cuts out on lap fifty-two and dies instantly.

No fanfare, no sparks, no noise. Not even a gradual purring of the engine as it powers down. Just complete and unceremonious failure. Even the LED on her steeringwheel shuts off. ‘No,’ she mumbles. ‘Oh, no no no. Please no.’

‘Seulgi? Are you okay?’

She pulls the car to the side of the track and eases it into the barrier slowly. The brakes have stopped working too.

‘Seulgi?’

It takes her a moment to respond. The gravity of it fully sinking in. ‘,’ she says.

‘What was it?’

‘I don't know. The whole thing just cut out.’

‘Are you okay?’

‘I’m fine.’

But she takes a look at the track and sees Irene coast on by and realises that she is not fine at all.

The long wait alone in her hotel room is like the wait for death.

She thinks about all the apologies. Part of her wants to laugh it off and accept that these things happen. A bigger part blames herself. Says that perhaps Wendy was right. She could’ve backed off. Perhaps the car wouldn’t have overheated and cut out. Second place is good. Second place is a podium. But seeing Irene with the champagne and the trophy and her beautiful smile had Seulgi thinking that second place is no place at all. It’s win or it’s lose, and she has lost again.

The knock at the door comes half an hour later, when she’s already dressed and expectant. Irene smiles at her. It’s the purest and most sincere smile Seulgi’s seen in a long time. She draws Seulgi in for a hug and tells her it’s okay and she’s sorry and Seulgi just stands there, warm in the embrace, not thinking anything. She’s silent all the way to the cafeteria downstairs. Silent when they get their food. Silent until Irene pushes her coffee to the side and puts her hand over Seulgi’s on the tabletop and says softly, ‘I’m here for you. Whatever you want to say, I’m here.’

‘It’s nothing.’

Irene smiles, eyes closed in understanding. ‘It wasn’t your fault,’ she says. ‘It was just one of those things.’

‘What if it wasn’t? What if it because I was too stupid to realise that following you for so long was bad for the car? What if—’

Irene runs a thumb over the back of her hand. ‘It’s okay,’ she says.

‘God, I just feel so…I don’t know. I can’t describe it.’

‘Numb?’

‘Yeah. I mean, I felt it last year as well. But this is different, because I felt so confident that I was doing well. And then that happens.’

‘Yeah.’

‘How do you do it? How do you get up and just go on?’

‘I’m used to it.’

‘But what about when you weren’t?’

Irene shrugs nonchalantly. Their food has already gone cold. ‘I just told myself it happens,’ she says. ‘It’s part of the sport, hate it or love it. Sometimes things happen out of your control. I think the most important part of being a driver is having clarity. You can’t tunnel vision yourself. Whether it’s driving, or after the driving, or making a mistake – you can’t tell yourself it’s going to last, or that it’s normal. Nothing is permanent in this sport. Nothing is permanent in anything.’

Seulgi sits a moment in silence.

‘Did that sound too pretentious?’

‘Not at all,’ Seulgi says. ‘You always know exactly what to say.’

‘How’s the food?’

‘Don’t know.’ Seulgi prods a limp piece of carrot with her fork. ‘Haven’t eaten any of it. Congrats, by the way. I’m proud of you.’

‘Thanks. I drove a decent race today. Even if you were faster.’

‘Hey,’ Seulgi says, grinning again. ‘ happens.’