Chapter Theme:

The Score - The Fear

Serendipity is strange.

It’s the feeling of equilibrium within which all things are balanced. Contrary to popular belief it is not the feeling that everything is as it should be. It’s the knowing that even when things are wrong, they can be right again. Nothing is ever permanent and everything has motion. The wheels keep turning.

On the glass table in the Samsung motorhome sits the stack of motoring magazines in four different languages, the ones she told Yeri she'd pick up, all freshly printed this week, all showing variations of the same thing – of her failures, myriad as they have become. One in English calls her the falling champion clinging to past glory and the second in Korean says pretty much the same thing. The third is in French. And the fourth, less compromising in its honesty, shows a still image of her and Seulgi at the very moment of disaster, sparks and colliding wheels and instant punctures two weeks ago in Brazil. In thick red text it reads FALLIMENTO A MONZA, ROVINA IN BRASILE.

The serendipity comes from the calmness she feels reading the articles when perhaps she should not. The Italian and French ones she can only parse the occasional word from here and there but the other two say pretty much the same thing verbatim. A handful of pictures of her spinning in Monza, losing in Belgium, crashing out of a potential podium place at Interlagos, accompanying text to inform the audience that this is not how a champion should perform or behave, that this is beneath her. Four world championship trophies, all back to back. The Korean article makes sure to mention she’s the only person to achieve such a task since Michael Schumacher, a Herculean effort, best car or otherwise. A perfect winning record against her teammates, Yeri included, unafraid of all challengers. And then it reiterates the failure of her year so far. Brazil and Monza are but two of a larger, more fragmented puzzle of misery. But sitting there in the quiet and skimming through them in the dim overhead light Irene only smiles, a certain calmness to her, a balancing of the senses.

It’s the first time she’s felt something like this since the start of the season. Since her performance in Baku, the last time she’d been able to keep up with Seulgi before catastrophe had struck. Part of her thinks it was watching Seulgi lose it at Castle and crash out that sent her on such a spiral but that is incredulous at best. The fact remains that her failures are hers alone, for reasons outside of Seulgi’s sphere of influence, and must be treated as such. She holds up the front cover of the Italian magazine and inspects it again in the low light. Failure in Monza, Ruin in Brazil. And she thinks: They’re right. They’re absolutely right.

But Monza was a month ago and Interlagos two weeks. The past cannot be altered, much as we may wish it so. Only the future can be prepared for, using bitter memories of that which has already occurred as motivation to prevent it from being repeated. She has half a mind to head into the simulator room at the other end of the motorhome and load up the sim and put in some good last-minute laps before practice for the Singapore Grand Prix starts tomorrow, but it’s late and sims have never done much for her. The talent comes naturally. Everything else is just unnecessary baggage.

Instead she presses a fresh bag of coffee beans and sets the pot to boil. Under the table is a cardboard box of similar magazines, all written in the past half year, each progressively worse. First it was ‘Uncharacteristic error,’ followed by ‘Poor results back-to-back for defending champion.’ Ruin, disaster, and failure are the latest ones. Worse yet to circulate. She stashes them with the others and nudges it back under the table and pours herself a cup of steaming coffee. It smells dark and rich and like home. It reminds her of a day just before winter testing had begun where Seulgi had planned to take her to the late-night arcade ten minutes from her apartment and instead they'd ended up at 1AM in a downtown jazz bar sipping coffee that smelt just like this. John Coltrane playing through the speakers. It was raining that night, and the rain fell softly in the streets and softer still down the dusty windowpanes in lucid patterns and they could hear something of the rain in the dripping of the taps behind the bar. That was seven months ago. All time becomes is memories. Sitting there in the claustral warmth, blinded by the lights. She sniffs the coffee and smiles at the recollection of it and is distracted from this pleasant past reverie only for a moment by a knock at the motorhome door.

She answers to her race engineer stood by the side of the door in a white Samsung jacket, dark hair bunched in a messy ponytail, looking her up and down. In the dark she can barely make out Jung Wheein’s face at all, small and pretty and slightly beady and smiling at her and wincing in the cold. ‘Do you not have your key?’ Irene says.

Wheein shrugs. ‘I left it somewhere. It’ll turn up sooner or later, I’m sure of it.’

‘You fancy a coffee?’

‘Sure. Whatever.’

She grabs a second cup and pours it for Wheein and hands it to her. ‘Thanks,’ she mutters. She sits at the table and grazes the cardboard box with her foot and leans down to pull it out from its neatly arranged hiding place. The first thing she notices is the bright red Italian font and the picture of Seulgi and Irene at the moment of crashing. ‘Why do you have these?’ she asks, a question she knows the answer to.

‘To remind me.’

‘It’s not healthy.’

‘I think it is. I think it’s the healthiest thing. It’s the only thing that’s going to help me get through this. Not the thought of losing my seat, or—’

‘You’re not going to lose your seat. Don’t be stupid.’

‘I might.’

‘You know better than that,’ Wheein says flatly. The coils of steam brush past her nose and vanish in the pale light. ‘You think for even one second that a four-time champion would be out of a job because of half a season of bad results? Every team on the grid would snatch you up before you could even say you were looking for a seat.’

‘No they wouldn’t. What about Apex? They’ve got Joy and Seulgi. They don’t need me.’

‘You know what the truth of that is.’

Irene motions for her to continue and she does.

‘They’d tear up Sooyoung’s contract in a heartbeat if you made any serious indications about wanting to join. They’d put you in that seat next to Seulgi without even so much as a second thought, just for the publicity alone.’

‘Would never work. They’d never take two number-one drivers. It’d be too much for them to handle.’

‘Because neither of you would back down.’

‘Yeah,’ Irene says. ‘That’s just how we are.’

‘Alright. Then, not Apex.’

‘Not Renault either, since I think they’ve already penciled in their contracts for next year. And even if either of them were leaving, the team wouldn’t be willing to meet my demands. Ferrari are the same. And if I can’t get a seat at Apex or Renault or Ferrari, I might as well not have a seat. How many teams have won a Grand Prix in the past five years? Us, Apex, Renault, and Ferrari. Hell, Ferrari's last win was two years ago. The other six might as well not even exist. If I’m not winning, I’m not competing.’

Wheein just looks at her. As if resisting the urge to remind her she hasn’t won a race since Bahrain, but the magazines seem to already be accomplishing that. ‘You’re being picky,’ she says. ‘And a bit dumb on purpose. You’ll have a job here as long as you want a job here. Anyway, let’s talk about something else.’

Irene leans over and takes the box of magazines and stuffs it under the table again. ‘What do you want to talk about?’ she says.

‘How’s Seulgi?’

‘We broke up.’

‘What?’

‘Well,’ Irene says, ‘sort of broke up. It’s complicated.’

‘And you didn’t tell me about this?’

Irene shakes her head. It isn’t something Wheein needs to know. They’re as close as they need to be – co-workers with a solid repertoire and the ability for the occasional dry joke at each other’s expense – but little more. And for that Irene is moderately thankful. Five years as driver and engineer, four world championships and countless wins, and having seen each other outside of work hours no more than two or three times. But it is what it is. Wheein is the only person she knows to exist as far outside the sphere of Formula 1 as she does, never at the late-night parties, or out with the Ferrari and Chamisul guys, never even with Yeri and Seulgi and Wendy. Without even the knowledge that Sooyoung is only Sooyoung to her parents and the Formula 1 leaderboards and Joy to everyone else. Only unlike Irene, Wheein's life has purpose away from the racing and away from relationships. Real friends and real hobbies. All the makings of a regular human being. And Irene is left the odd one out.

‘Well,’ Wheein says, sitting upright. ‘Are you gonna tell me, or am I gonna have to guess?’

‘We decided the best thing for us both was time apart. Time for her to prove that she doesn’t need me around to be confident and sure of herself, and time for me to show what I’m worth. And to deal with possibly losing.’

‘You’re not going to lose.’

‘There’s the possibility.’

‘You’re not going to lose,’ Wheein repeats.

‘I might. If I want any chance of winning, I need to come to terms with that. It’s looking more and more likely now, but I know what I need to do. It’s taken this long for me to realise that hiding away from it and burying my hand in the sand is only going to make it worse. I can’t keep running from my problems. And my problems are pretty ing significant.’

‘Like?’

‘Like the idea that I don’t really have a life outside of this and Seulgi. And God forbid either of them ever goes south, because then I have nothing. That’s what made me like this, the idea that I could lose either one of them. It’s a hard pill to swallow, knowing you might not be the best at what you do anymore.’

‘You’ve still got the talent.’

‘So does she, and it’s a tight rope to try and balance on, between the desire to keep winning and to see her win. It puts a strain on things, much as we both like to pretend it doesn’t. And I think, for me at least, Interlagos was the breaking point. Seeing her there on the grass, seeing what I’d done to both of us, and over what? I could’ve hurt her.’

‘But you didn’t. And now you’ve…what? Pushed her away?’

‘Only for a while.’

‘Did you talk—’

‘Yes, we talked. It was mutual.’

‘Huh,’ Wheein says. She sips her coffee and is quiet.

‘What? What are you thinking?’

‘That sounds very…how do I put it? Mature. Well handled.’

‘I like to think so. We’ve come a long way since last year. Back then I tried burying it. Tried forgetting about it. But it was something as stupid as falling in love, and now it’s not that at all. I’m already in love. It’s the fear of not being the best. She said it to me herself – second is a loss. Nobody remembers Buzz Aldrin.’

‘What?’

‘Buzz Aldrin. The second man on the moon.’

Wheein shakes her head.

‘See? That’s what I mean. History is remembered as a long line of winners. There’s no consolation prize. And what I have to do is learn to be okay with perhaps being a loser.’

‘Is that why you’ve been doing all this stuff?’ Wheein asks. She nods to a white box of sneakers on the plush couch beside Irene, the red and black Tommy Hilfiger logo printed on the lid.

‘Yeah. Well, partly so. Trying to branch out, create a brand for myself.’

‘Is it working?’

‘I enjoy it,’ Irene says, and it’s the truth. ‘One of the only things I can remember enjoying in a long time, which says a lot about me. I think, as simple and stupid as it sounds, I just needed to get out there more. Do more things, you know?’

‘Sure. Sounds good. And if it helps, do whatever. And no more of those magazines, you hear me?’

‘Yes boss.’

‘I mean it. They don’t do you any good.’

‘I disagree,’ Irene says. ‘But sure. You fancy a go in the sim?’

‘Not really. It’s getting late. Are you ready for tomorrow?’

‘As ready as I possibly can be.’

‘It won’t be easy,’ Wheein says, finishing the last of her coffee. ‘Singapore isn’t our track.’

‘I know.’

‘Too much power, not enough aero. We should’ve won in Monza.’

‘I know that too. Sorry.’

‘ happens. Everyone’s equal in the rain.’

‘Not Seulgi, apparently.’

Wheein smiles a tired and proud smile. ‘I hope it works between you,’ she says. ‘I know you’re going through the worst of it now, but I’ve never seen you so…clear-minded. So full of clarity. It takes a hell of a lot to realise you’ve got an issue, and even more to knuckle down and figure out how to solve it. I’m happy for you. I know how much you love her.’

‘I do,’ Irene says. ‘I really do.’

‘Make it work, Irene. Please. And I don’t just mean the championship.’

‘I think it will. I think I can do that.’

Wheein was right. Singapore isn’t their circuit.

The corners are too technical, the straight down Raffles Boulevard the only place on the track where the sheer power of the Samsung engine flexes its might. Everything else is tight bends and hairpins where both the Apexes and the Renaults have the advantage. She doesn’t see Seulgi for practice on Friday at all, nor does she text. The absence is more refreshing than she had expected it to be. Rounding the final corner and onto the straight for the last lap of the afternoon she’s only thinking about how early to brake for the quick one-two and heading into the tight left-hander at turn three. She’s thinking about how early to put the power down for Raffles Boulevard, how late she can leave the braking point to take a ton of kerb on the exit and smooth through the line. Not about Seulgi at all.

The crowd in Singapore is mainly for her and Yeri. It’s a Samsung circuit, and the sea of white and blue is a small boost of adrenaline in the afternoon heat. She takes her helmet off in the garage and sets it to the side and wipes her face free of sweat and checks the timing board for the day’s results. It’s Jennie in first, Seulgi second, herself third, Yeri right behind.

‘Damn,’ Yeri says. ‘You seeing this as well?’

‘Renault know what they’re doing.’

‘More like Jennie does. She's better than that car is letting her show. But hey, it’s only practice.’

‘We were right,’ Wheein says from behind them. She takes Irene’s towel and passes her a bottle of water. ‘It’s gonna be a tough day tomorrow. But we’ve still got the race pace for Sunday, or so we think. Just make it count. Put in the laps of your life.’

‘I’m feeling good,’ Yeri says with a smile. ‘Feeling like I can nail it. I always it up in the same place.’

‘Anderson Bridge?’ Irene says.

‘Yeah. Can never get it right. I’m just glad I don’t end up in the barriers.’

‘Don’t jinx it.’

‘I’m good. Had my fingers crossed when I said it. You fancy a drink tonight? We’re going to the bar down the street, since the hotel is pretty dry.’

‘No, I’m good.’

‘Seulgi’s gonna be there.’

She thinks about it for a minute. Then she says: ‘Only one or two.’

‘Sweet. How are you two anyway?’

‘Good.’

‘Still broken up?’

‘Technically speaking, yeah.’

‘Have you spoken to her since Brazil? Did you even thank her for that cake?’

Irene shakes her head. The truth of this occurs to suddenly and it’s both startling and quite comforting, in the sense that her life seems to no longer revolve purely around Seulgi. And the thought of that having ever been a reality in the first place is equally amusing if not more so. Her life since Monaco eleven months ago has been racing on the circuit and visions of Seulgi away from it. Sat in bed at night in intercontinental hotel rooms imagining Seulgi there beside her, tracing the shape of her cheeks and her hips and the rest of her with her eyes closed. Time together even when apart. Love has never come easily to Irene. The certainty of this only manages to make Seulgi’s less-than-hostile takeover of her life all the more impressive. She checks the timing boards one final time. The gap to the Apexes is less than three tenths of a second, the gap to Jennie at the front about double that.

‘Time to make up tomorrow,’ she mutters.

‘Right you are.’

‘We can do it. I know we can.’

‘You seem to have your game face on this weekend. Something to prove?’

She looks at Yeri again, determination burning in her heart. ‘I’ve had something to prove for a while now,’ she says. ‘And this is where I show them why I’m a winner.’

The bar is a cozy soul place three minutes down the road from their hotel. A couple of the patrons recognise them and ask for autographs and Irene obliges them with a smile and sits underneath the window with Yeri and Wheein. On the stools at the counter Seulgi and Joy are sat talking to each other and laughing over beers and occasionally Irene glances across at her and Seulgi shares that glance and waves with a shy smile and all Irene can do is smile back and wave and think, quite embarrassingly: I love I love I love.

She picks up her beer and eyes how much is left and drinks a good portion of it. Yeri and Wheein are sat pointing at the table and debating. ‘I should know this by now,’ Yeri mumbles. ‘It’s my job to know it.’

‘You’re much better at it than you think you are.’

‘Okay. So, thirty metres, once I hit the second green sign?’

‘Thirty-five metres, just to be sure.’

‘And then as soon as I’m halfway across the bridge, light on the brakes?’

‘As hard as you can without locking up.’

‘, I hate this circuit.’

‘I love it,’ Irene says nonchalantly.

‘Because you’re a driving goddess. Surely it comes naturally to you.’

‘Don’t know. Maybe. I just like the way it looks under the lights, I think.’

‘Now that I can’t disagree with.’

An hour later it’s Yeri to excuse herself to the bathroom and come back and tell them she’s ready to call it a night. Seulgi and Joy are still at the bar, Seulgi leaning on one hand and nodding and listening intently with a content smile on her perfect face. Irene takes a moment to just watch her across the room. In the low light she looks like something devised from a dream. Her hair loose and splayed across her shoulderblades like ink and her round face glowing in the barlight and how good she looks even so casually.

‘Are you coming?’ Yeri says. ‘We’re heading back.’

‘Yeah. Give me a minute.’

‘We’ll be outside.’

Seulgi sees her coming when she’s no more than fifteen feet from the bar and it must be obvious because Joy stops what she’s saying and pivots on her stool and sees her as well.

‘Oh,’ she says. ‘Should I leave you two alone?’

‘No,’ says Irene, motioning for her to stay seated. ‘I just wanted to say a couple things. Thanks for the birthday present.’

‘You're welcome,’ Seulgi says shyly.

‘The cake was nice.’

‘Sorry about the state of it.’

‘It's okay. I just wanted to say good luck for tomorrow as well. And for Sunday. I’m rooting for you both.’

‘Thanks,’ Seulgi says, eyes never leaving her. The glimmer there feels to Irene like home. ‘I’m rooting for you too.’

‘Should be a good race.’

‘Yeah,’ says Seulgi. ‘One of the best.’

The time she treasures most with Wheein is right before each session begins, when she’s fastening her gloves and checking her helmet and harness and strapping herself in ready to go. There’s no false optimism. Nothing to distract her. Just the information she needs and then a long silence. It’s telling of how intimately Wheein understands her racing spirit, despite their differences, that she knows this. Five years has not been for nothing.

‘Alright,’ she says. ‘Radio check. One two, one two.’

‘Copy.’

‘You ready to go?’

‘Yeah,’ Irene says, hands feeling out the wheel. It’s a sensation she’ll never quite get used to, new every time she steps foot in the car. The weight of it all. The immensity of how unique her situation is. This year’s car is a good one, and it’s the truth of this that leaves Irene feeling disappointed that she hasn’t been able to deliver what it’s truly capable of. Neither her nor Yeri. She’s thirty-five points shy of Seulgi at the top of the table, sixteen points clear of Yeri in third. Not good enough to rest on her laurels at all. And second is failure all the same. She eases slowly onto the gas and pulls out of the garage in a squeal of tiresmoke and down the end of the pitlane.

Two of the other cars come around the corner and overtake her as she slows ready for her outlap. She weaves down Raffles Boulevard under the low flickerlights and the red markings on the soft compound tires wobble like crimson paint. One of the other cars that overtakes her on their flying lap is a white and orange Apex, the number 13 bright and huge in the evening dark, the crowd mad in applause as it saws violently around the inside line at turn seven and disappears in a staccato burst of engine noise.

‘Alright,’ Wheein says. ‘Couple cars behind you, but we’ve got clear air if we speed up now. Time to get a move on.’

‘Are we pushing it yet?’

‘Negative. Engine mode ten for now. No need to turn it up until Q3.’

She crosses under the bridge at turns eighteen and nineteen in a flurry of lights pinned like sequins to the chainlink fences and the car catches the glare in such a way that it seems for a moment the brightest thing in all the world. At turn twenty-one she begins to speed up. The crowd rise to their feet in anticipation. She crosses the start line and begins her first lap. It’s solid but not spectacular and the car feels sluggish in the slow corners, but it doesn’t matter. She crosses the line again nearly two minutes later and Wheein says, ‘P4. Good lap.’

Irene doesn’t complain. It’s where she differs from Seulgi, for better or for worse, a direct mirror of their distinct personalities. She knows it’s only the first part of qualifying – the real challenge comes right at the end, in the final round – and her speed reflects that, calm and organised and patient. But the fire that burns in Seulgi is as competitive now as always. P4 anywhere isn’t quite good enough, even when it doesn’t count. ‘Where are the Apexes?’ she asks over the radio.

‘Joy’s P2, Seulgi P3.’

‘Yeri P5?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Alright,’ Irene says. Ten minutes later she’s back out for her second lap. It’s a slight better, just good enough to squeeze into the final round of qualifying ahead of the Racing Lines and the Cook-Hondas, and again Seulgi is P3. As she hits the turn-eighteen bridge three minutes before the end of the session the tension runs into her like a wall. Wheein’s static-filled voice follows not long after. ‘Right,’ she says. ‘Here we go again. Engine mode eleven, please, Irene. ERS to max. Give it everything you’ve got.’

No Good Luck or You Can Do It. Words of encouragement have never been Wheein’s forte because Irene discourages them. They only serve to further distract her. It’s another area she differs so heavily from Wendy and Seulgi, their team dynamics so misaligned. She soars across the start line to a wave of howling voices and slows smoothly along the perfect line at turns one and two and then through three and toward the Boulevard straight again. DRS has her pushed along at such a speed the world begins to dissolve, the air heavier, more immediate. From the grandstands it looks unreal, like something in a video game. The physics of it make no sense. The car changes lines faster than the spectators can blink. Blink again and she’s gone, accelerating in sixth gear down Nicoll Highway toward turn eight.

Sector one is good. She knows that before she’s even finished the lap. She slows at the perfect time for Anderson Bridge and powers out toward turn fourteen and takes everything just as she should. The car isn’t spectacular in the slow corners, but she is. She has the capacity to be. Points are won tomorrow, but one thing is for certain – the magazines won’t be writing about this.

She crosses the line and slows immediately and already they’re looking to the timing boards and cheering. ‘Well?’ she says.

A long pause. The tension you could cut with a knife. Wheein says flatly, ‘P2, Irene. That’s P2. Pretty much the best we could ask for, considering how this track is for us. Good .’

The relief that washes over her is almost nauseating. It’s a strange feeling, one she hasn’t felt in years – the mild and immediate elation at not quite winning. ‘And the rest?’ she asks, hands sweaty in her gloves.

‘Seulgi’s on pole. Yeri P3. Joy fourth, Jennie fifth in the Renault. The Ferraris locked out six and seven.’

‘What’s the time?’

‘You’re two tenths behind. She set a new lap record.’

She breaks into a small proud smile. In the garage five minutes later, she’s still smiling.

It’s a testament to how in the zone she is that even when she thinks about Seulgi on Saturday night it’s not with any sort of longing to see her. It’s a good-natured curiosity at how she’s doing, a swelling pride at her pole position in qualifying. She sits at the table in her room and sorts through her F1 memorabilia, trinkets she’s gathered from around the globe and over the years. Model cars, signed pictures and postcards, nuts and bolts, coffeecups. When she’s finished she lies in bed watching the dark of the ceiling and posing for herself in that same darkness a list of questions she has no answer to, sat conversing quietly in unlit solitude like a woman amid psychosis:

Suppose I didn’t win tomorrow?

Doesn’t matter. You’re on the right track.

Suppose I finished behind Seulgi?

Then at least you gave it your best. The championship isn’t over till it’s over.

And if I crash?

You won’t crash. Or spin. Or lose. You’ll win.

And if I don’t.

You will.

And Seulgi?

She’ll do well. She’s doing good. She’s fixed her problems. Her confidence is real now. No more pretending. No more appeasing you. Now it’s on you.

And after that? When the weekend is over. When I’m back on the flight and then when I’m stepping off the plane.

One step at a time. You’re almost there, Irene. Almost at the finish line.

Her gloves are the last item to go on. She fastens them after she’s already in the cockpit and ready to head out onto the track. Wheein is somewhere along the pitwall already, headset over her hair, saying, ‘Radio check.’

‘Copy.’

‘Alright. One-stopper. Soft, hard. Go out there and give them hell.’

‘Yes ma’am.’

By the time the formation lap is over and she’s waiting for the lights the sound is overwhelming. She can barely hear over the engines and the crowd arrayed out through the grandstands to her right. The soft white paint of the Apex glimmers beside her. It’s now or never. The lights come on and Irene’s focus becomes as it always has been, single-minded and laser-like. There’s only one task ahead. Five lights and a pause. The moment holds forever and a day.

The lights go out and she gets a flying start better than anyone close to her. She dives down the inside line at turn three and snatches the lead from Seulgi and she’s still leading as they barrel down Raffles Boulevard and the slipstream isn’t strong enough to allow Seulgi anywhere close to her. The Samsung still has that straight-line speed. Her heart is slow, hands not shaking at all. The serenity with which she goes about her task is almost alarming. The nerves have gone. The amateur worrying from Monza and Brazil has been replaced by the Irene of last year, of 2018 and 2017. Four championships. Let’s make it five, she says.

The laps tumble. Slowly she begins to pull out a small lead on Seulgi behind her. On lap seven she rounds the corner at turn nine and says through the radio, ‘What lap am I coming in on?’

‘Soon enough,’ says Wheein. ‘How are the tires? Okay on your end? We’re monitoring good enough life left.’

‘They’re good. I can keep going at this pace, I think. What was the time last lap?’

‘A one forty-four point four. Very good pace.’

‘I can keep it up.’

Silence on the other end. It’s a recurring habit of Wheein and the rest of the team to ask the impossible of her, and then for Irene to go and attempt it anyway. ‘Can you pick it up a slight?’ she asks. ‘We want to try and build the gap before the pit window opens.’

‘Pick it up how much?’

‘Can you do a one minute forty-four point zero?’

‘We’ll see,’ Irene says. She takes her lines a slight later, allowing herself to get on the throttle just that bit sooner, putting the power down in the turns she’s purposely left time out on. Seulgi is a thin blur of paint behind her, a distended shape in the bright lights. She hammers around the final turn and across the line to radio silence. Then on the next lap Wheein cuts her off to say, ‘That was a one forty-four dead. Good job, Irene. Really good job.’

‘I can keep going if I have to. Not for long, but I can. These tires have still got life in them.’

There’s hesitance in Wheein’s voice. Irene recognises it immediately. The silence dictates her discussing with the rest of the strategists on the pitwall. She says, ‘Okay. Keep going. Keep this pace.’

Five laps later and the crowd cheer her through turn four and the rear end slips a little coming onto the Boulevard once more. Seulgi is nowhere to be seen. She’s the only car on the straight. ‘What’s the gap?’ she says.

‘Seulgi pitted last lap. She’s out in fourth on new tires.’

‘Keep me updated on the times.’

‘Will do.’

She does another two laps in silence. It’s when she slows for the bridge at eighteen and locks up in a small puff of tiresmoke that she begins to notice the grip properly going. ‘Wheein,’ she says. ‘These tires don’t have much more to give.’

‘I know. We know. Just keep it going.’

‘I don’t understand. What’s the plan here?’

Quiet again. So much so it becomes intolerable. ‘Wheein,’ she says, slowing for turn one. ‘Talk to me, please.’

‘We think she’s two-stopping. So you’ve got a comfortable window, since we’re not.’

‘Think. You think.’

‘We don’t know for sure. They haven’t said anything to her.’

‘What tire is she on?’

‘They put her on the hards.’

‘What?’ Irene says. It’s an answer that has her almost losing control of the car at turn seven, braking a fraction too late and clipping the kerb harder than usual. ‘She’s on the hards and you still think she’s stopping again?’

‘She’s not great on tire management. You know that.’

‘She isn’t that bad, either. That’s amateur stuff.’

‘Irene.’

‘She can go to the end on those tires. Easily. I know she can.’

‘Just focus.’

‘I am focused. I am. But I don’t think this is the right call.’

‘Just keep going,’ Wheein says, and she does. Lap twenty-three she loses it in slowing for Anderson Bridge and has to fight at the wheel like Seulgi would to keep control of the rear end of the car. ‘The front right is dead,’ she says. ‘Completely dead. I can’t do anything like this. What was my last lap?’

‘A one forty-six.’

‘And what was hers?’

That same awful silence. Even the crowd seem to be waiting for an answer. Wheein says flatly, ‘She did a one forty-three point four.’

‘What? Are you kidding me? On the hards?’

‘Irene—’

‘She’s nearly three seconds a lap faster than me!’

‘Focus, please.’

‘What are we doing here? I need to pit now. What’s the gap behind?’

‘About fifteen seconds.’

‘And a pit stop is how long?’

‘Twenty-eight.’

The weight of it never properly hits her. Instead it’s the frustration. ‘So she’ll be thirteen seconds ahead after I pit,’ she says.

‘But we think she’s got another stop later in the race. So you’ll be okay for the lead.’

‘But she’s on the hards, Wheein. She’ll make them last easily. Jesus, what are we doing? What is this? Wheein. Wheein, talk to me, please.’

Before she can reply the little yellow bar flashes on Irene’s steeringwheel with the letters VSC in bold black digital font. ‘Okay,’ Wheein says. ‘Virtual Safety Car. Slow your pace, stick to the delta.’

‘What’s happened?’

‘One of the Chamisuls, retiring with gearbox issues.’

‘I’m boxing. I have to.’

‘Copy that, yeah. Box this lap. Come into the pits.’

She drives into the pits and is out in two seconds with a fresh set of hard compound tires. The crowd appear to understand the significance of what has just occurred at the same time Irene does. The virtual safety car has dropped their pace significantly. So that when she comes out of the pit lane and speeds up again Seulgi is still behind her, a thirteen-second advantage turned into a two-second disadvantage, still in second place.

‘Okay,’ Wheein says. Irene notices before anything the relief in her voice. ‘Maintain this lead.’

‘We’ve just been handed the race on a silver platter.’

‘I know. Just keep it together.’

It’s a direct repeat of Spain, only this time it’s Seulgi losing out and Irene taking the lead and she knows the obscene luck of it immediately. A lap later and the virtual safety car warning disappears and her foot is on the accelerator before she’s even on Raffles Boulevard. Seulgi is out of DRS range behind her. The matchstick people in the crowd melt away in the headwind. Her head throbs and the G-force has her tensing all the muscles in her neck to stop herself from vomiting.

‘Hey,’ she mutters. ‘Do me a favour and thank the Chamisuls for me. I feel we owe them this one.’

‘Just keep your eye on what you’re doing. Keep to this pace and we’re good.’

Twenty laps before the end Seulgi mounts a charge but it’s short lived. The pace isn’t there anymore. Her tires aren’t as fresh as Irene’s and the Apex is poor with its cooling and Irene’s car placement is good enough that Seulgi can’t even attempt to get past in the tight corners and the Samsung still has the pace on the straights to pull away. The Samsung fans are rabid at every turn. Wheein is silent. She passes the start line for lap fifty-five and with six laps remaining Seulgi is back to a small and insignificant item of orange in her mirror.

‘Gap is eight seconds,’ says Wheein. ‘You’ve got this in the bag.’

As she crosses the line to a blinding array of celebratory fireworks she gives a wave to the crowd and slows enough so that Seulgi can pull alongside her for the cooldown laps. Seulgi gives her a little thumbs up and she gives a thumbs up back and smiles. In the garage after the podium, and wet with stale champagne, she dries herself off and rehydrates and checks the leaderboards with a grimace. The gap to Seulgi is down to twenty-eight points, with three races remaining. All to play for still.

‘Good work today,’ Wheein says, as professional as ever. The garage and the circuit is her sacred place, where nothing else can intersect. Irene shakes her head and shrugs. ‘We got lucky,’ she says. ‘Without the safety car we would’ve been nowhere. I still don’t know what you were thinking.’

‘The strategists made a bad call. Sorry about that.’

‘We could've lost.’

‘Yeah, but we didn't.’

‘No. I guess it worked out in the end.’

‘And that’s all that counts, right? Points are points. We've spent five years drilling this into you. How are you feeling, by the way?’

Irene shrugs again, and it’s the truth – she doesn’t quite know. Stood on this fine ledge between disappointment at not being able to earn the win on her own and pride at having won anyway. A win is a win. The points are tallied all the same. Seulgi is now only twenty-eight ahead. And there exists also this third and separate entity in her heart, manifest as the simmering desire to jump in the first cab back to the hotel and find Seulgi on the third floor and kiss her and hold her close and treasure the night with her. But nothing is set in stone. The idea that her fear of losing has been overcome fully in one weekend is a foolish notion even to her, even basking in the afterglow of victory. Time heals all, and time must decide for itself.

‘You got anything planned for this weekend?’ Wheein asks.

She smiles briefly. It’s a moment of inner peace, a pocket of tranquility. ‘I don't know,’ she says wistfully. ‘I think maybe I'm just going to relax for once. Or go exploring. Or do something new, at least.’

‘Cool.’

‘Hey, you want to go watch the fireworks later?’

‘Sure.’

Irene smiles softly, contented. Very briefly do visions of a similar display at Interlagos last year come back to her, hand in hand with Seulgi, but this is different and special for an entirely different host of reasons. ‘Sweet,’ she says with a grin. ‘It's a date.’