Chapter Theme:

The White Stripes - Seven Nation Army

It comes back to her. Slowly, it comes back to her.

A second-place finish in France behind Joy isn’t a win, but when she sits and is honest with herself it isn’t anywhere near as terrible as a crash either. It’s still eighteen points on the board. And with Irene only managing fourth again, the gap is down to nothing at all. So little separates them that even one race could be the difference. Just like last year, she thinks, playing with the pearl bracelet and smiling at nothing in particular, merely the memory of their time together back in Korea. She likes to think it’ll be one of those lasting influences on her life, forty-eight hours she will never forget. Something they can both look back on remember as one of the turning points in their relationship. But at no point in those two days did they ever talk about the racing, or the championship, and perhaps there was a reason for that, but Seulgi chooses to willingly ignore it. Ignorance is sometimes better than facing the truth, because ignorance by its nature is an avoiding of anything serious or severe. There’s no awkward confrontation to be had.

On Thursday the day is bright and the breeze cool as it riffles in her clothes on the track walk. Belgium is the longest circuit on the calendar, so long it takes her and Wendy more than an hour on foot to traverse every curve and straight from start to end. She soaks in the tranquility of it all. Tomorrow the stands will be packed, people shifting about on the grass and by the barriers with phones and cameras all ready to capture something magnificent. But for now it’s just the wind and their footsteps and the seablue day.

‘I love this place,’ she says, sighing in content.

‘You’re not the only one,’ says Wendy. ‘Most of us feel the same.’

‘It’s just the best circuit in the world. I’ve always said that. I’m so in love with it.’

‘Is that all you’re in love with?’

‘What?’

‘Nothing.’

‘What do you mean?’

Wendy shrugs with a hint of mischief. ‘Ever since Austria you seem different somehow.’

‘Different how?’

‘I don’t know. It was the same last week. Happier, maybe? More sure of yourself? Maybe not that. But there’s something. Maybe I’m overthinking things. Tell me if I am.’

Seulgi moves a hand to fiddle with her bracelet idly. It’s something she’s taken to doing without realising it in the past two weeks, whenever she feels a bout of nerves or self-doubt begin to take over. It reminds her she’s not alone, even when there’s nobody to talk to. A second place in France will become a first here. She’s told herself that every day in the mirror for the past week. They make their way slowly back to the garages. A couple of others are on their way out to start their own track walks, Yeri and Irene among them. They catch them at the end of the pitlane and Wendy waves them over.

‘Morning,’ Yeri says.

‘It’s afternoon.’

‘Is it? I didn’t know. Nice day, though.’

Wendy nods at nothing in particular.

‘I like your hair.’

‘Thanks.’

‘Is it new?’

‘Sure. If by new, you mean three months old.’

‘Sorry,’ Yeri says. ‘I don’t see you much anymore. Not that I saw you much to begin with. We should grab a drink sometime.’

‘Sure. What about you two? You fancy a drink?’

‘Whenever,’ Irene says, eyes still on Seulgi with a smile playing on her face. Seulgi glances around. They’re not alone, but the chance of being caught doing something inappropriate in the pitlane is lower because the stakes are, too. Everybody is part of one great motorsport family. None of them seem to care. ‘Maybe after the race,’ she says. ‘On Sunday night. I’m down for something like that. We could celebrate. Unless none of us win, of course.’

‘Why don’t you invite Joy?’ Yeri says. ‘In case she wins as well.’

‘Good idea. I think I know who it’s going to be, though.’

‘You?’

‘Maybe,’ Seulgi says, but her eyes are on Irene, as if to say: Probably you.

‘Don’t you just love Spa?’

‘We were just talking about this.’

‘Best—’

‘Circuit in the world. Uh huh.’

Yeri looks at them both for a moment. She narrows her eyes and squints against the sun, hand to her forehead. ‘Man,’ she says, ‘maybe what they say about racing drivers is true. Maybe we don’t have any personality.’

‘What?’

‘Well, we all just say the same thing. Just time and time again. Gets a bit boring, you know? Where’s the party at?’

‘Probably with Ferrari.’

‘You’re right. They know how to get down with it. Maybe we should invite them.’

‘Sure.’

Yeri thinks about it. Then she says, ‘No, probably best not to.’

‘Why not?’

‘I just don’t want to.’

‘Fair play. Are you going for your track walk?’

‘No. Figured I’d just walk it for fun, you know?’

‘Funny.’

She grins at the pair of them. Seulgi turns to Irene, hands in the pocket of her white Samsung hoodie. ‘Will I see you before Sunday?’ she asks, expectant. Irene only manages to shake her head in apology. ‘Really busy,’ she says. ‘Maybe for a couple hours tomorrow night, but I don’t think so. Sorry.’

‘Listen to you two lovebirds,’ Yeri says.

‘What? You jealous or something? You want to join us?’

‘If you’re going drinking, sure.’

‘What about if we’re not? If we’re just planning on sitting there?’

‘And being boring? Count me out. Are you coming? I wanna get this over with before lunch. Works up an appetite, does walking around here. I learnt that the hard way last year.’

‘Sure,’ Irene says. When Yeri’s ditched her and is already out onto the track she smiles softly at Seulgi and adds, ‘Good luck. I’ll be rooting for you. After, you know…rooting for myself.’

‘You too. Don’t take it too hard when you lose.’

Irene laughs. It’s a laugh Seulgi hasn’t really heard before and it’s a little disconcerting upon closer listen. There’s no humour in it and it’s awkward, as if she’s hiding something, or as if perhaps Seulgi’s joke was not a joke at all. It isn't even a fake laugh. It's just an obligatory filling of the otherwise vacant space. Before she has chance to think it over Irene kicks the heels of her sneakers together and says, ‘See you soon.’

‘Uh huh. Hope you don’t get lost.’

‘We’ll try not to.’

A minute later, when they’re alone, Wendy pulls her to the side in the garage and says, ‘That was cute.’

‘What was?’

‘You two.’

‘We didn’t do anything.’

‘Yeah, but…you know. It’s cute.’

‘What part of it is cute?’

‘I don’t know,’ Wendy replies with a shrug. ‘Just all of it. Must be nice having someone you love so close to you all the time. It’s hard with a job like this. Always travelling. Always on the move.’

‘It’s not all sunshine and rainbows.’

‘Didn’t say it was. But it’s good to have something like that, I think. I think you should treasure it.’

‘Believe me, I do.’

‘Good. That’s good.’ Wendy grabs the tablet from the table behind her and taps a couple times on the screen. When she looks at Seulgi again she says, ‘What?’

‘I thought were going to say something else.’

‘Like what?’

‘Don’t know. You just looked like you wanted to say something, is all. Did you?’

‘Don’t think so. Only to enjoy yourself tomorrow. You seem to be more yourself these past couple weeks. More confident. It’s good. Maybe it’s being around Irene.’

Seulgi is quiet, trying to formulate a proper reply. The truth is she isn’t sure. There’s still the doubt there, buried away at the back of her head, both at racing and at being with Irene. Mainly the former. Fragmented memories of Bahrain and Baku and of China last year. Of Brazil. And more important and immediate, visions of her losing it in the rain at Belgium a year ago. How she’d felt like a failure then, showed the world how incompetent she was. But a lot has changed since then. A whole lot. ‘I’ll be good tomorrow,’ she says at last. ‘I feel like I will. I feel like I have to be.’

‘Yeah,’ Wendy says. ‘I don’t want to worry you or anything, but it’s crunch time soon. Probably next week in Italy. And I know you’re ahead of Joy at the moment, but all that could change today. If you want the team to get behind you, you’ve got to do well on Sunday.’

‘I know. I haven’t forgotten.’

Wendy looks about. As if there might be some third party privy to their conversation. She leans forward and says in a quiet voice, ‘Between you and me, most of the team know you’re the better driver. But some still think you’re a bit reckless, or even if you’re more talented you don’t have the experience yet.’

‘You’d think I’d have proved them wrong at the end of last season.’

‘Yeah, you’d think, but it is what it is. I can’t change that. You’ve just got to go out there and show them how good you really are. I know you can.’

‘It’ll be hard,’ Seulgi says. ‘Probably the hardest yet. This is Irene's favourite track, Wendy. She said as much last year. She’s won it, what? How many years in a row? Four?’

‘Five, actually.’

‘See? That’s what I mean. How do I beat that?’

‘You drive a great race, as I know you can. This track should treat you better than Austria and France. It’s more about talent here, you know that. And if there’s one thing you’ve got, it’s talent.’

‘Yeah, so does she. And everyone else. They wouldn’t be here if they didn’t.’ Before Wendy can reply she adds, ‘I know what you mean. You don’t have to explain. I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah?’

‘Yeah. Are you sure you don’t want to check out the upgrades today?’

‘Upgrades? You mean the new bargeboards?’

Wendy nods.

‘I’ll find out for myself tomorrow, I guess.’

‘Whatever you say.’

She takes one more look at the car sat there in the middle of the room and nods to nothing in particular. It looks so very menacing in the low light of the garage. Like a weapon all of its own. The new bargeboards they’ve fitted are slightly wider and longer and allow more space toward the rear of the car, all in the pursuit of the smallest possible improvements. She thinks back to the start of the season. The first thing that had come to her mind when she’d climbed into the cockpit in Bahrain and felt the steeringwheel and the seat underneath her was: This is my home. And this car is a good one. It’s a championship winning car.

Then, moments before she leaves, she thinks: Maybe now is the time to put that theory to the test.

Friday morning rolls around for practice and it’s a cooler day than it was in France and a lot cooler than Austria and for that Seulgi is thankful. The car fares much better in these conditions. For the first time in a year she thinks consciously about how she’s taking each corner, remembering what Wendy had said to her when showing her the video comparison of her and Irene side by side. The smoothness of Irene and the torrid anger of her own driving. She brakes late for La Source and turns in late and allows the understeer to carry her through the corner and barreling down the straight toward Eau Rouge. Every lap in the exact same spot she holds her breath. The quick left-right from Eau Rouge to Raidillon is perhaps the most iconic stretch of circuit in Formula 1 history. A long and steep uphill section at full throttle, heart in , throat constricting as she rides up over the crest at nearly three hundred kilometres per hour and the crowd appear once more like tiny ghosts behind the barricades and all down the Kemmel Straight toward Les Combes.

She remembers playing it in her video games as a child. Hours spent watching Hakkinen and Schumacher and the rest in the late nineties going through that exact section. Remembers the first time she saw Mika Hakkinen taking it flat out as fast as he could, how much she had idolised him for that. And as she flies past and up Eau Rouge again on the next lap all she do is smile through her helmet and grip the wheel tighter on the straight and allow all the world’s worries to fall away. Thinking: I love this circuit. I love it so much.

In second practice she almost loses it at Pouhon and is forced wide and off the circuit. There’s a moment where the crowd hold their breath. Seulgi does the same, sawing the wheel wildly to the left to keep it as close as she can to the track, praying she misses the gravel and the barrier at such a nauseating speed. She pulls it around and slows for turns thirteen and fourteen and powers out of Stavelot in fourth gear and her heart is still thumping like caged electric.

‘Careful,’ Wendy says in static.

‘I’m okay. Just went a bit wide. It’s all good.’

‘Tires okay?’

‘I think so. I’ll keep an eye on them, though.’

Three laps later hammering down Blanchimont towards the Bus Stop chicane she tells Wendy, ‘I think I’ve flatspotted the front right. I can feel it slipping a bit. I might need to stop for now.’

‘Okay,’ Wendy replies. ‘Whenever you’re ready. It’s only practice.’

When she checks the timing sheets in the garage while they’re changing her tires what she sees at first is moderately alarming. She points at the names, herself in first, Irene down in seventh. ‘What’s all this about?’ she says.

Wendy glances at it and shrugs. ‘It’s just practice,’ she says. ‘Doesn’t mean anything.’

‘But seventh? Behind one of the Ferraris?’

‘Just practice, Seulgi.’

Seulgi tries to tell herself the same. She goes out and signs a handful of autographs for the VIP fans and then it’s back to the hotel for the night. As she sits across from Irene and Yeri in the bar her mind still wanders to that timing sheet. It seems to have almost become a recurring theme. The last time Irene won was in Bahrain almost five months ago. She’s ahead of Seulgi – ahead of everyone – and it’s both her consistency and the strength of the Samsung car that’s allowed that to happen, but it does almost nothing to ease Seulgi’s mind. She stirs her coffee idly, slumped half over the table. ‘You’re looking glum, chum,’ Yeri says.

‘Just thinking about some things.’

‘Anything interesting?’

She wants to say yes. Instead she smiles at Irene and shakes her head and sips her coffee, much too hot and much too bitter without any sugar. Slowly she works up the courage to ask, ‘What happened out there today? I saw you were seventh.’

The shrug Irene responds with isn’t quite as nonchalant as she wants it to be. ‘Just some setup issues,’ she says. ‘I couldn’t get any decent laps in today. It’ll all come together tomorrow, don’t worry.’

‘I’m not worrying. Well, maybe for me, if you do actually get it together. But I’m not worrying.’ She looks down at her coffee again. It’s silent save for the clang of porcelain in the back of the kitchen. ‘Did I tell you about that video Wendy showed me?’ she says.

‘Which video?’

‘Of our driving styles. The comparison one.’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘What comparison vid?’ Yeri says, sitting up again.

‘It was just comparing our different driving styles,’ says Seulgi. ‘Was pretty cool to see. I guess when you’re in there driving you never really take notice of how you’re doing it, or how anyone around you is doing it.’

‘I always leave that stuff for the analysts.’

‘That’s exactly what I said. Word for word.’

‘Great minds think alike,’ Yeri says, grinning. ‘Well, what was the video about?’

‘Just showing how we differ. I’m much more aggressive in the corners, much more understeer, much more fighting with the rear of the car. And Irene’s smooth as silk. Takes every line perfectly. Never misses anything.’

Irene smiles a soft and tired smile. Her hand plays absently with the handle of her coffeecup. ‘It’s just how I drive,’ she says, a repeat of what Seulgi had told Wendy. ‘It doesn’t mean anything. It’s whatever you feel comfortable with.’

‘I know. I just thought it was interesting. She said it was like Prost and Senna.’

‘You’re Senna, I guess?’

Seulgi shrugs. ‘Feels disrespectful to even suggest that.’

‘Give it a few years,’ Irene says, smiling again, warm enough to make Seulgi’s heart jump. ‘You’ll get there.’

Before Seulgi can reply she catches sight of Joy on her way over the from the stairs at the back and waves to her. They turn in time to catch her nudging Yeri to the side and cramming three into the bench. ‘Didn’t think anyone would be here,’ she says. ‘Thought everyone would be busy. You seen anyone else today?’

‘I saw Jennie earlier,’ Yeri says. ‘Said she was going for a run, I think.’

‘Maybe I should do the same. But I can’t be bothered, so whatever. How are we all on this fine night?’

Seulgi sips her coffee. Part of her wants to talk about the impending race and part of her wants to push it out of her mind completely, because there’s something in the way Irene sits there and plays with her cup with a sort of distant absence that has her a slight worried. It’s not Irene’s usual calm and relaxed demeanor, nor is there anything demure and reserved about it. Just a sort of simmering nervousness right under the surface, so subtle that only in their intimacy and their time together does she notice, even as it goes right over Yeri and Joy’s heads. They sit talking and Seulgi sits watching Irene. No longer does the race even matter. Only Irene’s happiness. Whatever has her distracted is important enough to have her losing her train of thought entirely. Seulgi coughs. It’s loud enough to have Irene’s eyes back on her again. She smiles an exhausted smile. ‘Seulgi,’ says Joy.

‘Yeah.’

‘What about you?’

‘What about me?’ Seulgi says. ‘What did I miss?’

‘Oh, nothing. Just the whole thing.’

‘Sorry. I was away. What did you say?’

‘No, forget it. Moment’s passed, you know? The magic’s ruined.’

‘Uh huh. Sure. Sorry.’

Joy breaks into genuine laughter. There’s no sign of tension there, no dislike or distaste of Seulgi despite what’s riding on the race, and on Italy in two weeks. Everything points to Seulgi outscoring her, and they both know what that means – one of them is about to become the secondary driver. And secondary drivers don’t get to win championships. ‘Hey,’ she says, shaking Seulgi into the real world for a second time.

‘Sorry.’

‘Are you good? You look a bit under the weather.’

‘Just thinking about tomorrow. There’s a lot resting on the next two races.’

‘Buddy, don’t I know it. But I’m not stressing. I’m going to win. I know I am.’

‘I admire your optimism.’

‘Thanks. I think you need to be a bit more optimistic yourself sometimes.’

Seulgi just hums in response. She takes another look at Irene. When they part an hour later with a sweet kiss she thinks briefly about asking what’s wrong, but whatever it is will take more than a few minutes to explain and so she leaves it for a better time. And as she lies down and gazes up at the dim of the unlit ceiling all she can think about – far from the first time ever – is Irene again.

With each passing session, the confidence returns.

It’s been that way since Austria at least. Even with the heat and the loss and the disappointment of it all, the confidence was there even if Seulgi never realised it. France was an extension of that. As she slows for the final chicane and saws the steeringwheel around for the straight and then crosses the line to the cheers of the crowd at the end of final practice she’s almost drunk on adrenaline. It’s a feeling deep in her stomach that says: I can do this. I think I can do this.

The final hurdle arrives in qualifying. The first session is easy enough. The second is much the same. As always it’s the last round of qualifying where the weight of it all drops onto her shoulders like her own personal prison. This week it isn’t just Irene. It’s Joy and the team. It’s her hopes of holding that trophy high in Korea and smiling out to the crowd and being able to say: I’ve done it. I’m the champion.

She slows almost to a crawl at the chicane, the last car to start her flying lap. The exit onto the straight and down to La Source is good and Wendy’s in her ear only for a moment, not long enough to crack her concentration, to say, ‘Good luck, champ. I believe in you.’

They watch her go. Down the straight and up the hill at Eau Rouge and powering down Kemmel Straight toward Les Combes. She’s down into third gear for the left-hander and back up to fourth and taking a ton of inside kerb and fighting with the car as she always does. The crowd gasp at the timeboards but Seulgi doesn’t see them. At Pouhon she goes wide, but practice has taught her well. Her greatest asset is her adaptability. She wrestles the car under control and floors the gas toward turns thirteen and fourteen and into Stavelot where the crowd are at their hottest. Just up ahead is one of the slow Racing Line cars on their flying lap, not quite slow enough for Seulgi to catch but slow enough to not be a problem in qualifying.

Her hands are shaking all down Blanchimont at three hundred kilometres per hour. The car rattles and judders and the engine sounds fit to explode and she slows for the chicane fast enough to have her eyes rattling in her skull and her breath catching in and throws the car brutally into the apex and toward the line. The crowd are as nervous as she is. Over the line and down to La Source and slowing, waiting. Ten seconds becomes ten years, her hands sticky with cold sweat.

Wendy says, ‘That was a great lap. Really great lap, well done.’

‘Well?’

‘That puts us P2 for the race.’

She freezes. Her feet do the work for her but she hears and feels none of it. Just the weight of another failure. Wendy is right in that the points are scored tomorrow but pole position was right there, hers for the taking. ‘How?’ she says. ‘I thought I had it. My first sector was practically perfect.’

‘Yeah. You were a tenth up going into sector two but you lost some time around Pouhon.’

‘Who’s on pole?’

Wendy pauses. Seulgi gives a little wave to the crowd and slows again and waits. Then: ‘Yeri’s got pole. Less than a tenth better than you.’

‘What? Where’s Irene?’

‘In sixth.’

The first thing she says in response to Wendy’s congratulations in the garage is merely, ‘I don’t understand.’

‘Understand what?’

‘Did she have car troubles? Was she in dirty air or something? Did she even go out for a second lap at the end there? I didn’t see her.’

‘She’s fine,’ Wendy says. ‘At least, her car is. You’ll have to ask her yourself.’

‘This is her best circuit.’

‘We all have off days.’

‘Not like this. I don’t understand.’

Wendy shrugs. There is nothing else for her to say other than, ‘Congrats on P2. Really good work. We’ve still got this in the bag for the race tomorrow.’

All she can manage in response is an incredulous, ‘P6.’

She doesn’t have time to see Irene in the evening. It isn’t until she’s in the garage on race day that she glimpses her down the pitlane and waves and Irene waves back, but there’s no smile on her face, nothing to glean from her at all. ‘Focus on your own race,’ Wendy says over her shoulder. ‘Don’t worry about Irene. She’ll be fine.’

‘I’m not worrying.’

‘You are. I know you too well. You’re concerned about her.’

‘I should be. Something’s up.’

‘That comes later. The race is now.’

‘Yeah,’ Seulgi says with a sigh. She takes her helmet and fits it over her head and takes a deep breath. ‘Showtime.’

On the starting grid she waits until the first light is on to glimpse Irene in her mirror. It’s Jennie and Joy behind her, the second Renault in fifth, Irene in sixth, just ahead of the Ferraris. The engines hum and rev over and her hand is ready with the clutch for the start. Three lights, four. The lights go out and she’s quick off the line. She gets a great start going into La Source and understeers wide on purpose and gets a strong exit and into the lead. The crowd erupt immediately. It isn’t until she’s already halfway up through Eau Rouge that she realises her mistake. She soars down the Kemmel Straight but Yeri is right behind her and the Samsungs still have that outrageous straight-line speed and she uses the slipstream to coast right up to Seulgi and slide effortlessly down the inside. Going into Les Combes she places her car perfectly in the middle of the road and Seulgi has nowhere to go but back off and admit she’s been bested.

‘Okay,’ Wendy says when she’s at turn ten and slowing. ‘That was good, but she was better. But you’ve still got this. Come on.’

Belgium is forty-four laps of pure racing pleasure. So much so that when she pits for the medium tires on lap fourteen and comes out in fifth place she’s not thinking about the undercut or the strategy at all. Only about how fun it feels to fly through Eau Rouge and along the back straight with the wind heavy against her face and the car so aligned to her every movement. The crowd are out in full force as she evaporates in a burst of speed. DYNAMITE, KANG SEULGI, CHAMPION, APEX. Every grandstand and every grassbank.

‘What’s the gap?’ she says with laser-like focus. ‘Talk to me.’

Wendy cuts in on the radio to say, ‘Five seconds to Joy ahead of you. Eight seconds to Jennie. No need to worry about them as neither of them have pitted yet, so you’re safe for second.’

‘And the gap to Yeri?’

‘Twenty-four seconds. You’ve got about four seconds to make up.’

The reality of it hits her three turns later when she catches sight of Joy slow for the Bus Stop up ahead, the white paint flickering in the sunlight. By the next lap she’s only three and a half seconds from Joy, her new tires working wonders. She watches as Joy slows for Les Combes turns seven and eight and the rear end slips and she almost loses control. ‘Wendy,’ she says. ‘When’s Joy pitting?’

‘Soon. Why?’

‘She’s got no grip. I’ve just watched her almost lose it twice. She needs to box.’

‘We’re planning on going long so she can overcut the Renaults.’

‘I need to get past her, Wendy. For my own race. I need to make up that gap to Yeri.’

Silence on the other end. The immensity of the situation – of the decision that needs to be made by the entire team – apparent to Seulgi even there on the track. It’s almost a full lap before Wendy replies. She watches Joy slip twice more and drop another second. ‘Okay,’ Wendy says. ‘Okay, here’s what’s going to happen. Joy’s going to let you pass before Pouhon. Repeat – she’ll let you pass.’

‘Thank you,’ Seulgi says. She knows what it means. The fight at Apex is over and she has won. But Apex is not the championship and there’s still a long way to go. At Bruxelles on the following lap Joy slows right down and slips out of the racing line and lets Seulgi pass her with no fuss at all. ‘Right,’ Wendy mutters. ‘Gap to Yeri is twenty-one seconds. Let’s go get that Samsung.’

It’s on the next lap that Yeri pits for her new tires. The margin is so tight that coming out of the pitlane after La Source Seulgi is only a second behind her. ‘Let’s go,’ Wendy says. ‘You can do this.’

She pushes it for the next ten laps in vain. The crowd ebb and flow, the elation as she gains in each slow corner and the opposite when the Samsung begins to pull away on the straights. By lap thirty-eight she’s two seconds shy of Yeri and twelve adrift of the rest of the field. ‘This is impossible,’ she says. ‘I can’t catch them on the straights.’

‘Yes you can.’

‘It’s impossible,’ Seulgi repeats. She waits for the slipup but it never comes. Yeri drives a perfect race under pressure. She slows for the chicane and sails across the line to a rapturous applause and Seulgi follows in second. Fifteen seconds later it’s Jennie’s Renault that brings home the final podium position. The first question Seulgi asks is, ‘Where’s Irene?’

‘In sixth. Right where she started.’

‘Did she have car issues?’

‘No,’ Wendy says flatly. ‘The car was fine.’

Before she leaves for the evening she goes on down to the Samsung garage. A couple of the mechanics eye her as she walks in. Yeri’s there by the back, hair still sweaty and messy, trophy in one hand and a bottle of water in the other. ‘Hey,’ she says, squinting in the narrow light. ‘Congrats on the race.’

‘Thanks. You too. You drove well.’

‘You looking for Irene?’

‘Yeah. She about?’

‘She left a while back,’ Yeri says. ‘Told me she had something to do at the hotel. Why?’

‘No reason,’ Seulgi lies. ‘Thanks anyway.’

‘Are you coming to the bar tonight?’

‘Maybe. We’ll see. Congrats again.’

Yeri waves her off. On the long drive back to the hotel she worries a bit more than she thinks is necessary. Everybody has bad days. Bahrain was hers. Baku, too. But the cold truth is Irene hasn’t won a race since Bahrain and even that was a fluke victory, a stray case of engine breakdown. Otherwise she’d have no wins at all. And it occurs to Seulgi only in the back of the cab and ten minutes south of her hotel that for the first time this season, she’s in first in the championship standings. Four points clear of Irene. It’s not a fact she opts to bring up when they’re sat in Irene’s room by the window. A cold sun greets them to the west in discshaped light that has them wincing. It smells of beef. Someone somewhere is having a barbecue. Irene crosses her legs one over the other and leans back in her chair and drinks half of her beer in one mouthful.

Seulgi waits. The silence remains. Eventually she forces herself to say, ‘Are you okay? Properly okay, I mean. Not just on the surface.’

‘Why do you ask that?’ Irene replies. Her smile is hollow and vacant.

‘You don’t seem like yourself lately.’

‘I’m fine.’

‘Are you sure? You know you can talk to me, right? Whatever it is.’

‘I’m just in a bit of a rut, is all. I need to pick myself up and get over it. Just having a couple bad weekends.’

A couple extends all the way back to the start of the season. Her last good race was Korea 2019, only Seulgi doesn’t say as much. She drinks her beer and plays with the stem of the glass and debates prodding at it, pushing it a slight further, asking her to open up again. ‘Irene,’ she says softly.

‘What?’

‘Is it about us?’

‘What? What do you mean?’

‘Have I done something? Is it something to do with me and you?’

‘No,’ Irene says, blunt and confident, but it’s a momentary lapse of judgement that Seulgi picks up on and Irene does not. By saying no she has admitted unwittingly to something being off in the first place. She has exposed herself, laid bare her vulnerabilities.. ‘I don’t like seeing you like this,’ Seulgi says. ‘It’s not like you to not win. And I’m not just saying that to cheer you up. I really mean it.’

‘I’ll win again. I know I will.’

Seulgi nods more to herself than to Irene. ‘Are you free next week?’ she says. ‘I forgot to ask you.’

‘Not really. Maybe on Wednesday, but I’ve got a few appointments I have to go to. Sorry.’

‘Appointments? For what?’

Irene shifts a slight. The last of the sun catches her face in a way that has Seulgi marveling for a moment. ‘Just a few different things,’ she says. ‘I’m seeing my agent about a booking for a photoshoot campaign I’m doing with Vogue. And then another about a clothing line with Tommy Hilfiger.’

‘The fashion brand?’

‘Yeah,’ Irene says. ‘They want me to curate a new sneaker with them. I think it’s going to be pretty cool. And then I’m seeing a couple old friends on Thursday and Friday.’

For a moment Seulgi hesitates to ask. The question seems a little invasive as first, even as intimate as they are. But after a moment she says, ‘Friends? What friends?’

‘Just a few friends from school that I’m reconnecting with. I haven’t spoken to them in about a decade. Will be good to see them again, I think.’

‘That’s cool,’ Seulgi says with a nod. She drinks her beer quietly. It’s times like this – with the sun on Irene’s beautiful face and her hair so neat and her eyes so perfect – that Seulgi looks at her and thinks rather foolishly that perhaps she’s not good enough. That perhaps Irene is way out of her league. It’s the horror that’s had her awake a few times, a compounding of the stress of believing she’s not good enough to be driving for Apex either, this coagulation of external factors that has her occasionally doubting whether she’s worth anything at all. There are better drivers out there for Apex and better women for Irene. But it’s only fleeting moments, usually when she’s drunk or unsure of what to say next, and then it’s gone. She says uneasily: ‘Italy next.’

‘Yeah.’

‘How are you feeling for it?’

‘Not great,’ Irene admits. ‘I think I need to take my own advice and pull myself up by the bootstraps and get to work. Otherwise it’s going to be you lifting that trophy in a few months’ time.’

‘Would that be so bad?’

‘For you? No. But for me?’

‘I thought you said last year that you were okay with losing.’

‘Nobody’s okay with losing,’ Irene says.

‘I was.’

‘Were you, though?’

‘Yeah,’ Seulgi replies, and for a second she isn’t sure if it’s the truth or not. Was the elation of seeing Irene so happy greater than the awful misery of having failed at the last possible hurdle? The answer to that is mired in a sea of more recent turmoil, the recollection of it spotty at best.

‘Maybe we’re different in that aspect, then. I don’t know if I’m okay with it, if I’m being honest. I really don’t. That’s what I’m trying to fix.’

‘What do you mean?’

Irene shrugs and finishes her beer. She sets the empty bottle on the floor with the other two under her chair and wipes her eyes and smiles at Seulgi. ‘I’m sorry I won’t be able to see you this week,’ she says.

‘It’s okay. I’ve gotten used to it. I don’t mean that negatively either. I’ve learnt to adapt. Everything you said made a lot of sense to me, about us having to compromise if we’re going to make it work. I still don’t like it, but I think I can accept it.’

‘I wish it could be different.’

‘Me too.’

‘But for now,’ Irene says, leaning across the table, ‘let’s make our time together count.’

She kisses Seulgi and leads her into the room. ‘I love you,’ she says. ‘I want you to know that. Win or lose.’

‘Or crash.’

‘What?’

‘Nothing,’ Seulgi says. ‘Just something stupid Joy said.’

‘She’s good at that, is Joy. Saying something stupid.’

‘Oh, she’s the best.’