Chapter Theme:

Duffy - Rain On Your Parade

Monza.

The atmosphere is different in Monza.

By numbers, there are more fans in Britain and Mexico. By extravagance, Monaco and Abu Dhabi are more lavish. By sheer driving glory, Belgium and Brazil are better tracks. But Monza is indescribable. Monza has its own certain part of Formula 1 history that neither Seulgi nor Irene nor any of the others can accurately describe or even attempt to. The atmosphere feels otherworldly. Even on Thursday when the stands are closed and the track quiet save for a number of VIP visitors and TV crews can they feel it, the calm before the inevitable storm, a tempest already bubbling. It’s a world within a world, where for three days of the year all of Italy comes alive with a sea of red banners and prancing horses, facepaint in the colours of the Italian flag and crimson fireworks and vibrant dance music from Monza to Maranello. The hills are swarming with people. There are those that dare to wear something other than red but they’re few and far between. Apex slogans are hidden out of sight. Samsung and Renault logos are stuffed into bags away from prying eyes. The chants rain out. Standing out in the middle of the main straight Seulgi looks about the empty and silent grandstands on Thursday afternoon and imagines them there, the red smoke pluming across the sky, the shudder of feet, the howl of voices. Cheers and boos. Boos for Apex and boos for Samsung. Boos for nine of the ten teams on the grid. Come rain or shine Monza is a sold-out show. The spectacle, the experience. In Maranello a single flag flutters in the wind. The cars in the streets of Monza navigate with a certain caution that may as well be not moving at all, gridlocked amid an ocean of people. Everybody is singing. Everybody is arm in arm and taking photos and making friends and coming together on Friday, on Saturday, on race day, strangers from a hundred countries across the globe on a holy racing pilgrimage, all for for one singular, unified purpose.

For Ferrari.

She feels it once more on Friday morning, standing at the foot of the garage in her windbreaker and holding a hand out into the dismal grey day and waiting for the first raindrops to fall. But they never do. The crowd already have their umbrellas and parkas ready. An ocean of small vinyl rooves along the far stands and far behind the barriers. Red as far as Seulgi can hope to see. The tifosi are already moving about. Practice doesn’t start for more than an hour but the chanting has begun and it won’t stop for three whole days. It’s only Wendy tapping her on the shoulder that jolts Seulgi back to reality. ‘Sorry,’ she says. ‘Didn’t mean to startle you.’

‘Look at it.’

‘I know. You wanna know the weather forecast?’

‘I didn’t mean the weather.’

‘I know you didn’t. Do you wanna know it, though?’

‘Sure,’ Seulgi says.

‘Light rain today. Heavy rain tomorrow.’

‘All day tomorrow?’

‘Until the evening, yeah. So for qualifying.’

‘And what about Sunday? For the race.’

‘Even heavier rain,’ Wendy says.

‘What’s the chance of it?’

‘More than ninety-five percent. So, yeah. Expect it to get a bit wet out there.’

Seulgi holds out her palm again. Nothing yet. The sky is rife with dark cloud the colour of oil and to the far south the thunderheads crack over darker Italy in dim applause. Memories of Belgium come back to her very quickly and without ceremony or invite. Then memories of her laps in winter testing. The duality of the two. ‘Rain,’ she mutters. ‘Heavy rain.’

‘You can do it.’

‘I know I can do it. I’m not worried about the rain. I’m worried about Irene.’

‘Why?’

Seulgi neglects to tell her. It’s something Wendy doesn’t need to know and something she’s not entirely sure of herself yet. Instead she says, ‘She’s got a lot on her mind,’ and it’s closer to the truth than she first realises. ‘She’s busy with a lot of stuff outside of racing at the moment. Photoshoots, clothing lines.’

‘Irene? Really?’

‘Yeah. Why?’

‘No reason,’ Wendy says. ‘It’s just…you know. I’ve never known Irene to be the sort of person to do fashion or modelling or clothing. Or whatever. Or anything, actually, other than racing and winning. But you know her better than me.’

‘I didn’t know her to do anything like it either,’ Seulgi admits.

‘Well then. Maybe she’s had a change of heart.’

‘Something like that. I don’t know. God. Look at them.’

‘I know.’

‘Have you ever seen anything like it?’

‘No,’ Wendy says. ‘Never.’

‘What’s going to happen if I win, Wendy?’

‘Are you planning on winning?’

‘Yeah, kind of.’

‘Even in the rain?’

‘Especially in the rain.’

‘Well then.’ Wendy puts her hands in the pocket of her jacket and squints against the overcast day. ‘You better hope you give a good speech on the podium. Maybe butter up to them, you know? How’s your Italian?’

‘Il mio cibo preferito è torta Red Velvet.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘My favourite food is Red Velvet cake.’

‘No it isn't. It's chocolate gateau. Or Pringles. And why do you know that anyway?’

‘Don’t know,’ Seulgi says. ‘Think I picked it up on a TV show somewhere. I don’t even know if it’s grammatically correct. Or if I’m saying it right. I expect I’m butchering the pronunciation. I tend to do that in every other language except English and Korean. And even that’s a bit touch and go.’

‘I’m sure that’ll win them over.’

‘Maybe the cake lovers.’

‘Do you know anything else?’

‘No. A couple numbers, I guess. And I think Grazie Ragazzi means thank you.’

‘Well,’ Wendy says. ‘Let’s hope it rains very heavy, then. Heavy enough that they won’t be able to find you after the race. And pray you don’t crash into a red car out there on track. Because if you do, good luck getting out of this city in one piece. I’m joking. Well…half joking.’

Seulgi puts another hand out to feel for anything. A lone and cold drop of rain falls right in the middle of her palm. Then two more in exactly the same spot. The digital board across the pitwall reads forty-six minutes until practice officially begins. ‘I didn’t see any banners earlier,’ she says. ‘None of those big Dynamite ones they usually bring with them. Or even the Apex ones. Didn’t see anything. None of the Samsung ones either.’

‘They’re out there. Hidden, I expect. But don’t get this idea in your head that your support’s dwindling or anything. Quite the opposite.’

‘I wasn’t going to, don’t worry.’

‘No,’ Wendy says, shaking her head, eyes across the circuit. ‘Anywhere else and you’d be worshipped. They love you, Seulgi. You’re the most popular driver since Senna. You won’t believe how loud the cheers are. I can hear them from up there on the pitwall on Sundays.’

‘I know. I’ve heard them, too. Still feels a bit surreal.’

‘Yeah. Must be cool to be cheered in twenty countries.’

‘Twenty,’ says Seulgi. ‘Not twenty-one.’

‘Not here,’ Wendy says. ‘Not in Monza. This is Ferrari territory, Seulgi. This is the land of the red.’

Perhaps it’s telling of the way Seulgi is as a racer – as a person – that it only drives her on. The atmosphere is unlike anything else in the world. Wendy was right. As she rounds Parabolica during the second practice of the day and comes out onto the straight the crowd are on their feet and the ground is shaking and they cheer her past the line and all she sees behind her is a streak of red smoke feathering up through the stands and the palest glimmer of a sun through clouds. The rain is light enough and infrequent enough that the soft tires still have enough to grip to get her through her laps at a decent pace. It isn’t until halfway through the session that Wendy cuts in to say, ‘You feel it out there?’

‘Yeah. It’s getting heavier.’

‘And it’s not gonna stop. Forecast says there’s a storm on the way. You fancy coming in yet?’

‘And going back out on intermediates?’ Seulgi asks. She brakes a moment too late for the second Lesmo and takes too much kerb on the exit apex and runs on the grass and has to correct herself with startling accuracy.

‘Whatever you feel like doing,’ Wendy says.

‘Yeah, I’m thinking I need to come in. It’s getting slippy out here.’

She realises as she head back out ten minutes later on the new green-marked intermediate tires that the crowd have never stopped. They cheer every car that passes the start line, every lap, every apex. As Seulgi barrels down the main straight toward the tight chicane and they hold up their Ferrari banners and their prancing horse flags she thinks, moderately amused: I wonder what’s going to happen when I beat those Ferraris on Sunday. Wonder what it’ll be like. Will they cheer me? Will they turn away when I’m on the podium? Who knows.

It isn’t until she’s in the garage again and drying herself off and shaking out the cold from her suit that she begins to think about Irene again. Practice is just that, but Irene’s down in fourth and that’s just as concerning as sixth place in Belgium because Monza is a power track, and the Samsung engine is good enough that she should be on the front row alongside Yeri. But instead it’s Seulgi in first, Yeri second, Jennie third. ‘How was it out there?’ Wendy asks. She hands Seulgi a bottle of water and Seulgi drinks half of it and winces at how cold it is. Outside the rain has begun to properly fall. Small puddles formed along the pitlane look like crystal lakes in the heatless sun.

‘It was okay,’ she says. ‘Can’t really know from practice. Not before I see what it’s like tomorrow.’

‘Well, I can tell you what’s predicted.’

‘Rain?’

‘Rain,’ Wendy says. ‘Quite a lot of rain, really. So, yeah.’

‘I can do it. I think I can do it. I know I can do it.’

‘That’s the spirit. Just remember winter testing. That was one of the most impressive things I’ve ever seen in my life.’

‘Now you’re just inflating my ego,’ Seulgi says. She passes the water back and wipes her face again on a towel and adds, ‘I’ll see you in the morning, unless you’re planning on anything tonight.’

‘Don’t think so. I need some rest.’

‘Alright then. See you.’

On the way out she waves goodbye to Joy and catches Yeri waiting for a cab out on the street nearby and calls her over. ‘Jesus,’ she mutters, face half obscured in a black bacterial mask, black cap on her head.

‘What?’ says Seulgi. She flags down the first cab and climbs in and Yeri climbs in beside her.

‘I thought I’d never get out, you know?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘The fans. It’s crazy.’

‘Oh, right. Is that why you’re wearing that?’

Yeri nods and peels away the mask. ‘Thanks,’ she says.

Seulgi only nods. The question dances on the tip of her tongue. Then she says, ‘Where’s Irene?’

‘You don’t know?’

‘Know what?’

‘She’s back at the hotel already. Yeah, she left before practice even ended. Said she wasn’t feeling well.’

‘Wasn’t feeling well? How? What do you mean?’

Yeri shrugs nonchalantly. ‘Said she had a stomach ache,’ she says. ‘Nothing serious. Told me she just needed some rest before tomorrow. God, I love Monza. It’s the only track on the calendar that feels like this, you know? No tricky corners, no stupid hairpins, just those straights. Like a drag strip. No faffing about with downforce setups and whatever. Just point your car in a straight line and squirt the throttle and just go for it. You know what I mean?’

Seulgi nods absently. In truth she hasn’t been listening since Yeri started talking again. Thinking instead: I hope she’s alright. I hope she’ll be fine for tomorrow.

‘What happens?’ she says.

‘Well, normally the fastest car wins.’

‘What? No, I meant— never mind.’

‘You mean, what happens if Irene isn’t well enough to make qualifying tomorrow? Or the race?’

‘Yeah.’

‘We bring in the reserve driver.’

‘And does she get the points? If the reserve driver wins, I mean, does Irene get the twenty-five points?’

‘Of course not. Why would she?’ Yeri looks at her and laughs dryly. ‘How do you not know this?’ she says. ‘Isn’t it, like, part of your job to know this?’

‘I’ve never been sick. Never missed a race, I mean.’

‘I know. Neither have I. But still. Anyway, thanks for sharing the ride.’

Seulgi waves her off, still deep in thought. She steps out a minute later and sidles on through the lobby and up to her room and drops her coat off and changes out of her old clothes into something fresher. The rain beats a heavy metronome on the windows and the day has turned swollen and painfullooking and out there the rain falls in steady quiet arcs and it looks from the complexion of the sky that it might never stop. Seulgi stands there and watches it for a long time, nothing to do or say. Every so often her hand moves to her wrist to feel the bracelet there, and on the fifth time of asking she grabs her phone and goes on out and up to Irene’s room two floors above and knocks and waits. At first there’s no reply. A minute and three knocks later and Irene opens the door. She’s in a white dressing gown and she looks a good sight paler than usual and this is not lost on Seulgi. ‘Are you okay?’ she says, voice laced with concern.

‘I’m fine,’ Irene replies with a gentle and tired smile. ‘Just ill, is all. I just need some soup.’

‘Do you want me to get you anything?’

‘No, I’m okay.’ A moment of quiet. Irene glances about the corridor. ‘Do you want to come in?’ she says.

Seulgi merely nods. They sit at the table, Irene perhaps not as ill as Seulgi first thought, legs folded and hot cocoa steaming in her Vettel mug, face contorted in either pain or concentration. The conversation has dried up. For the first time since Monaco last year the awkwardness has set in. Irene content to wallow in her own problems and Seulgi unsure of how to proceed – is it truly sickness? Is it something else? And how to approach it? Eventually she forces a laugh and says, ‘Samsung dressing gown.’

‘Yeah.’

‘Is there anything they don’t make?’

‘Maybe,’ Irene says. ‘But I haven’t found it yet.’

‘Are you going to be okay for tomorrow?’

‘Why? Are you worried?’

‘Of course I am.’

‘Why? If I don’t make it you’ll be closer to the championship.’

‘Don’t say that. You know I don’t like it when you say that.’

‘It’s true.’

‘Yeah,’ Seulgi says, ‘it is. But you know I don’t want that. I want competition. I want us both to succeed.’

‘That’s impossible.’

‘What?’

‘By nature of the sport, we can’t both succeed.’

‘I didn’t—’

‘There’s no draw, Seulgi. One of us wins, one of us loses. That’s how it is. Last year, I won. This year, who knows? The way it’s going it’ll probably be you, and it’ll probably be wrapped up before we even get to Korea. What a shocker that would be.’

‘Are you okay?’ Seulgi asks, the only thing she can think to repeat.

‘We’ll see. Maybe it’s all the meetings and stuff I’ve been doing. Think it might’ve taken a toll on me. I’m not used to it.’

She wants to ask it, as rude and pointed as it is, almost an accusation of lying in and of itself. Are you really sick? Or are you just pretending? Hiding the truth behind it? Instead she smiles and says, ‘I should probably go. Let you get some rest.’

‘Yeah.’

‘I’ll see you tomorrow maybe? After qualifying?’

‘Probably Sunday,’ Irene says. ‘After the race is done. Assuming we can get back to the hotel without the fans swarming us.’

‘Does that usually happen?’

‘Happened to me a couple times.’

‘Even when you win? Don’t they boo you?’

‘Yeah, they do. But then they cheer you.’

‘Isn’t that a bit…I don’t know. Ridiculous?’

Irene shakes her head in amusement. Sitting there for a moment she looks so very fed up with it all. ‘They love racing,’ she says. ‘They wouldn’t be here if they didn’t. But they just love Ferrari more. And who can blame them?’

‘Suppose so.’

‘You should go.’

‘Are you sure I can’t get you anything? There’s a little shop around the corner. I could get you some noodles or something. Or some coffee.’

‘I’m fine,’ Irene says, laughing. ‘Honestly. Thanks, though.’

‘I love you.’

‘Love you too.’

The last thing she sees is the fatigue in Irene’s face, so slight and so momentary that Seulgi has no time to discern whether it truly is some minor illness or that imperceptible thing that is below the surface, the hidden truth. And the reality of that, to Seulgi, is almost scary.

It has her less worried than she thought is would and the comfort that brings is like a warm blanket. Irene is her own woman, win lose or crash. Seulgi’s race is Seulgi’s alone. Wendy was correct. And when Irene shows up at the end of the pitlane for final practice on Saturday morning the rest of the weight is lifted from Seulgi’s shoulders as well.

‘See,’ Wendy says, handing her the gloves and steeringwheel. ‘Told you she’d be fine.’

‘Did you?’

‘Don’t know. But I was thinking it. You good to go?’

‘Just about,’ Seulgi says. She has to strain to be heard over the rain outside at all. It runs in long slats from the slanted rooves of the garages and bounces across the sea of black and red umbrellas and raincoats and squinting Seulgi has to really struggle to make out anything at all. ‘Is it time for the full wet tires yet?’ she asks.

‘We don’t think so. But give it half an hour. That’s why we’re sending you out on the inters. To see just how bad it is.’

‘Looks pretty bad to me.’

‘Like I said, it’s only gonna get worse. That storm is still coming.’

‘Well,’ Seulgi says, fastening the straps on her gloves. ‘There’s nothing we can do about it. Best to get on with it, no?’

‘That’s the spirit.’

Something is different this weekend. Something has changed within Seulgi and she feels it properly when she smooths the inside line at Ascari and powers out of turn ten and onto the back straight with such rugged and coordinated pace – even in the rain – that for a brief moment it has her stunned. Everything has been leading up to this. Going into the weekend there was still the slightest possibility that Joy could usurp her in the rankings but as she pulls into the garage and attempts to dry herself off she knows there’s no chance of it at all. It may be practice but the timing sheets tell the whole story. She’s three tenths of a second clear of Joy at the top of the board. She takes a moment to soak it all in. Trying in vain to ignore the fact that Irene is only in fifth. Instead she says, ‘Ferrari in second and third.’

‘It’s only—’

‘Practice. I know. But still.’

‘Are you surprised? This is their home race.’

‘What have they done?’

‘Practically stripped the wings off the car. Basically removed every bit of aero they could within the rules to make it go faster. And it looks like it’s working.’

‘It’ll only work here at Monza.’

‘I know,’ Wendy says. ‘That’s the point.’

‘What?’

‘Ferrari need to win at Monza. That’s just how it works.’

‘Well.’ Seulgi tosses her helmet onto the table and runs a hand through her hair. ‘Looks like they’re going to have quite the battle,’ she says.

But in qualifying three hours later, she needn’t have worried. They’re still cheering but the flags are away now, the rain so heavy it’s waterlogged the grass into a fine mulch and even the umbrellas are soaked and hanging loose. She practically skates the car through Parabolica, sawing at the wheel and throwing it from left to right to generate even the smallest amount of friction, the only driver out of all twenty to dare to take the inside line and find the grip herself. The first two qualifying runs pass easily. She tops both, and the Ferraris are there behind her, her only competition. It isn’t until Wendy cuts in through the radio and says, ‘You’re like Senna out there,’ that she realises just how confident she feels again. As if the past five months have not happened. Testing has been restored. She brakes at the perfect possible moment for the chicane on her final flying lap and grips the steeringwheel tighter and holds her breath.

Through Curva Grande she runs into the rain again. There’s nothing gradual about it. One minute it’s a cold shower and the next the spray her car generates as she speeds up has her driving through a wall of water, skidding and sliding and fighting desperately to keep control. The fans watch her fly by through the Lesmos and onto Serraglio. Her hands are numb and raw and even the heat of the cockpit is no consolation but it doesn’t matter. Thirty seconds to go. She doesn’t think about Irene or Jennie or even the Ferraris. Only: This is it. This is the best lap I’ve ever done in my life.

She sails through Ascari with ease and onto the back straight. The rain clouds her car almost entirely. She drives up out of the fog like a jet fighter, long and sleek and ominous in white, a monument to the rain itself, singular in focus and determination. Wendy told her in the garage that a gap of two tenths would be great. That in the rain everybody is equal, and talent reigns supreme. But when she crosses the line and slows and moves to the side the crowd are almost dead silent, and it’s only when Wendy says, ‘Holy ,’ that she realises something is amiss.

‘What?’ she says. ‘What is it? Has someone gone off? Who?’

‘No. It’s not that.’

‘What happened?’

‘You,’ Wendy says. ‘Holy .’

‘What?’

A long pause. Perhaps in disbelief. Then she says, ‘You’re on pole, Seulgi. By more than a second.’

As has become standard she doesn’t see Irene on Saturday night before the race. And for the first time in months, she isn’t thinking about her either. She sits there in bar alone and tries to stop smiling but she can’t. Her hands are still shaking. Outside the rain beats on. The puddles have formed into small siltridden streams that slalom endlessly down the empty streets. Seulgi stirs her coffee. The feeling is like nothing that’s come before it. It isn’t the pole. It’s the domination. Nobody was even close. Two tenths of a second, Wendy had said, and then Seulgi had pulled out a gap six times larger than that.

When she looks up again she catches Jennie coming toward her, dressed in a casual black-and-gold Renault hoodie. She smiles a polite and reserved smile, one Seulgi hasn’t seen many times before. ‘Mind if I sit?’ she says, voice equally subdued.

‘Sure,’ says Seulgi. She sits across the table and pulls her hood down and smiles at Seulgi again. ‘Figured I’d come and look about before the race tomorrow,’ she says. ‘Distract myself a bit.’

‘Where are you starting?’

‘Well, I qualified fifth, but I’m taking a new engine. So, fifteenth.’

‘. Tough luck.’

‘Yeah, you can say that again. Congrats on pole.’

‘Thanks,’ Seulgi says, beaming.

‘They’re calling that the best lap in modern Formula 1 history, you know?’

‘I heard.’

‘Might have to agree with them there.’

To this Seulgi has no reply. It occurs to her rather strangely that she hasn’t spoken to Jennie more than a couple times in the cooldown room when they’ve shared podiums, or a brief hello here and there. That this the first time they’ve sat down and talked properly. She stirs her coffee and drinks and Jennie watches her, patient, about to say something. Then she does.

‘Can I ask you something?’

‘Sure,’ Seulgi says.

‘It might sound a bit rude. Like I’m prying.’

Seulgi motions for her to continue.

‘I couldn’t help but notice Irene’s results lately,’ she says. ‘I know it’s not my place or anything, but…yeah. And I know you two are, well…closer than anyone else.’

‘Yeah.’

‘I was just wondering if something was wrong with her, is all. Just a bit concerned. But maybe it’s just me being overly wary of something I have no business worrying about at all.’

Seulgi sits a while, hand on her coffeecup. The truth, rather embarrassingly, is that she doesn’t know. Is it sickness? Something more? Still it plays in her head. So she says, ‘I don’t know. I haven’t had much time with her recently.’

‘I was just wondering, is all. Sorry if it came across as rude or anything.’

‘It’s okay. I think maybe she’s feeling what she felt last year.’

‘What do you mean?’

A pause. Seulgi debates whether it’s appropriate or not and says, ‘She told me she was having a lot of trouble coming to grips with life outside of F1. Said it’s all she’s ever known. You’d probably understand that better than I did.’

Jennie nods. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen her out with the rest of us, or away from the garage. Until you came along, that is.’

‘Yeah, she said the same. Maybe it’s that again. I don’t know. I’ve been meaning to ask her.’

‘She’ll be alright, I think. I don’t know her as well as you do, but I think she’ll be fine. She seems like that sort of person, to weather the storm, you know?’

‘Yeah,’ Seulgi says with a wayward smile. ‘I know.’

It’s so wet on race day that her team have to bring her umbrellas to canopy the car when she’s on the starting grid and the tires are being warmed in their blankets and the engine already humming feels alive just behind her head. The crowd stir restlessly in the stands, the water running off the chairs and the stadium columns and dripping through the chainlink in the fencing. It looks set to rain forever. The sky lies gunmetal and washed out with cloud and even covered by the umbrella the cold gets to Seulgi. It’s the sort of cold that permeates in her bones. Behind her are the Ferraris in second and third and Joy in fourth. Then it’s Yeri in fifth, Irene in sixth, Jennie all the way back in fifteenth with a grid penalty. She looks around one final time as the tire blankets are taken away and the safety car lines up to lead them away on the formation lap.

‘Okay,’ Wendy says. ‘Let’s get some heat into those tires. Just be careful out there. It’s dangerous today.’

‘I know.’ She swerves almost too much through Curva Grande and nearly loses it into the back of the safety car and is reminded again that a wet race is nothing like it is in the dry. Her bluestriped tires are thicker and grippier and the grooves much deeper to hold the water. It’s so wet that even when braking the rear wheels kick up a plume of spray that seems to hide the track entirely, like a platoon of ghost cars moving in formation through some sort of dream fog. A dark and dreary mural. Pole by over a second but that could all change. There are no points for pole position, and in the fifty-three laps ahead a great many things could happen. A win. A loss. A crash.

The safety car pulls into the pits and she lines up on the grid and revs to keep her tires stable and grips the wheel tight as she can. Already there’s no feeling there, no tactile sensation, just a raw numbness. Her heart thumping. Irene is later. For now it’s one problem at a time. Should’ve won in Bahrain, she tells herself. Could’ve won in Baku. Second in Belgium and France.

‘Good luck,’ Wendy says, barely audible over the rain and the engines and the excitement of the tens of thousands. The Ferrari banners are out again, soaked and ruined and useless but it doesn’t matter. Two lights are on. The engines begin to rev. Seulgi holds her breath and plays it over in her head. It’s a long run to the chicane at turn one and she’ll need the inside line because the Ferraris have the pace, even in the downpour.

Four lights. Five.

‘Here goes,’ she says to nobody. The lights go out and her foot is to the floor and the standing water on track explodes in a flurry in her wake and everything begins again. She takes the short inside line through the chicane and powers out through Curva Grande and to the second chicane at turns four and five and then through the Lesmos, still in first. The rain seems to be getting heavier. Somewhere much too close the thunder cracks sourceless and vast in the sky. Wendy is silent in her ear. Her hands hurt and her breath catches in and it’s so cold she can barely feel her legs and it’s all by instinct and she thinks of Belgium 2019 and winter testing but it’s all in the past and her worry is for nothing. When she glances in her mirror three laps later the Ferraris are barely a crimson blur somewhere just out of Parabolica.

‘Wendy,’ she says. ‘Is this pace good?’

‘Are you serious?’

‘Just tell me.’

‘You’ve pulled out seven seconds in three laps,’ Wendy says. ‘This isn’t good pace. This is inhuman.’

On the next lap she crosses the line even faster and Wendy’s there again in her ear to say, ‘That last lap was a one minute forty-two point eight. Our data says the best possible lap time in these conditions is a one forty-three.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You’ve just beaten our best predictions. The computers can't keep up with you. You’re literally outdriving the car.’

This is it, she thinks. The elation hits her far too early. On lap ten she’s twenty-three seconds clear of the Ferraris behind her. When she slows at the chicane she catches sight of the fans watching the big screens and gasping and almost overshoots it and loses half a second. ‘Wendy,’ she says. ‘What are they looking at? What’s happened?’

‘Focus on yourself.’

‘Tell me. I need to know.’

Silence. Then, quietly, ‘It’s Irene. She’s just spun off.’

‘. Is she okay?’

‘She’s fine. Kept the car out of the barriers. But she’s in last place.’

‘She’s still going?’

‘Yeah,’ Wendy says, and says no more. Three laps later her worst fears manifest themselves again. Already she’s about to lap the backmarker cars, but the last among them is Irene’s bluewhite Samsung, slowest of the pack, straining to overtake even the lower cars. The blue flags wave. The boards light up warning her to move out of the way and let Seulgi past without fuss and she does. Seulgi brakes for the chicane and checks her mirrors and sees Irene there, an entire lap down, fighting for nothing at all. ‘Wendy,’ she says, but Wendy isn’t listening.

The crowd cheer her on. The Ferraris have vanished far back along the track. Even in the downpour and with such little grip the speed on the straights hurts her head and the rain is in her overalls and runs down her spine and pools in her seat and her lips are numb, but this isn’t Belgium, and this isn’t that Seulgi. For most of the race she is silent. By lap forty-four she has lapped all but three of the cars. Even Yeri and Jennie are four seconds a lap slower than she is. And perhaps more importantly so is Joy, in an identical car. By the time she crosses the line in victory she’s almost ready to lap the Ferraris as well.

‘Jesus,’ Wendy mutters.

‘What?’

‘That was impossible. An impossible drive.’

‘Was that good enough for you?’

‘That was ing unbelievable.’

She expects Wendy to say more but she doesn’t. The crowd wave her by. The Ferrari flags are out again and the red smoke signals in the rain look like distant pale semaphores. She pulls the car into the podium spot and climbs onto the nose and throws her arms up in celebration and the crowd roar back at her, so titanic it looks as if the entire world has gathered there in Italy to watch her win so effortlessly.

Ferrari territory, Wendy had told her. But Monza is racing country, and win lose or crash, it’s the best place in the world.

It takes her five hours to get back to the hotel and there is no sun and still the rain falls. Even her raincoat is soaked utterly and she’s shivering in the lobby at she steps in and peels out of her coat and balls it up. The fans are still outside, vying for autographs and photos, speaking to her in broken Korean and telling her how much they love her. Wendy is long gone. Yeri and Joy too. She looks for Irene but her room is empty and in the end she sits on the edge of her bed in the dark and the cold and stares for a long time at the lone trophy on her desk. Is it the greatest victory in Formula 1 history? They’re arguing that already. Surely the most impressive. She checks her phone. Three missed texts from Wendy congratulating her again, one from her cousin, one from Jennie, none from Irene.

The first thing she does is load up the replay videos from the race earlier. Most of them are battles in the midfield and footage of the Ferraris. The only time the cameras are on her are when she crosses the finish line to win the race, she’s that far ahead of everyone else. But it’s the moment Irene spins that catches her attention. Going wheel to wheel with Yeri as they pass through Ascari and almost pushing her wide and onto the grass, forcing herself up into fifth place. Except it doesn’t work, and in the rain there’s nothing she can do but bump wheels and lose grip over the car and watch helplessly as she spins off onto into the mud in a haze of standing water and wait until every last car has passed before rejoining.

Seulgi watches it back. She plays it a third time and a fourth, observing each part of the short clip in sequence – the way she loses control so uncharacteristically, the way her wheel-to-wheel racing looks so utterly lost even compared to Yeri, the audible shock of the crowd, the commentators. Even they mention it – uncharacteristic, sloppy. Desperate. She’s getting desperate. Seulgi shuts the video off and tosses her phone aside with a sigh. Debating whether to go up and check on Irene again, to see if she’s back from wherever she’s been. But it’s no need. Thirty minutes later there’s a knock at the door and she opens it to Irene, swaying a slight, smiling at her, hand balanced precariously on the doorframe. ‘Hey,’ she says, almost a whisper. ‘Can I come in?’

‘Have you been drinking?’

‘A little. Maybe.’

‘How much?’

Irene shrugs. She smells of soap and perfume and vodka. ‘A couple drinks,’ she says.

‘I tried knocking for you earlier but you weren’t in. I thought you’d text.’

‘I was out.’

‘Getting drunk?’

Irene doesn’t reply. She grabs Seulgi by the wrist and pulls her in for a long and languid kiss and giggles against Seulgi’s lips but it’s wrong, something is off. The dynamic has shifted. Her lips taste of vodka and cranberry juice. ‘Are you okay?’ Seulgi says, holding her hands as they stand in the doorway. She pulls her slowly into the room and checks that they’re alone and closes the door behind them. She turns around and Irene’s sat on the end of the bed, still smiling wide enough to almost be unnerving. She closes her eyes and hums to herself in odd content.

‘Irene.’

‘What?’ Irene says.

‘Are you okay?’

‘Fine. Why?’

‘Just asking. You just…nothing.’

Irene looks at her. For a moment however brief there’s a glimpse of something approaching recognition there. She shifts and stands slowly and says, ‘I’m so proud of you. Of what you’ve become. As a racer, as a person. So proud.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Today was amazing for you. I knew you could do it.’

Seulgi forces a smile. As much as she wants to confront the truth, the situation remains in flux, the outcome unknown. Before she can formulate a reply at all Irene says, ‘Let’s go for a walk.’

‘What? Where?’

‘Anywhere. Through the woods down near the track. Or through the streets. I don’t mind.’

‘It’s raining.’

‘So?’ She takes Seulgi by the hand and she’s still smiling. ‘Come on,’ she says. ‘Let’s go.’

They’re in the lobby and then the vestibule and out into the streets before Seulgi can say anything, hand in hand, Irene leading her into the darkness. The rain has lessened to a drizzle. It falls slantwise and tumbling through the slats of pale streetlight and is gone like rain from a dream. There are no cars. Along the main street beyond their hotel the late-night shops glow like low neon in the mist. Irene leads her all the way down the avenue and to the end and then left beyond a row of dim bars and a small closed café. She stops by a park bench and sits and motions for Seulgi to sit next to her. The rain falls and falls. Already they’re wet and Seulgi brushes her hair out of her eyes and shivers and begins to think perhaps she should’ve grabbed her jacket on the way out. She wants to say: What are we doing here? It’s too cold.

Instead she says, ‘I love you, Irene. I want you to know you can talk to me.’

‘I don’t want to talk right now. About anything. I just want to sit here, just the two of us.’

‘Irene—’

‘Please.’

The look in her eyes is so sincere that Seulgi can do nothing but relent. ‘Okay,’ she whispers, and Irene takes her hand and sets it in her lap and smiles softly. For a long time she just sits there with her eyes closed, smiling at nothing, not even at Seulgi. The steady rainbeat keeps them from total silence. Somewhere far out across the night the drunks murmur. Eventually she opens her eyes and looks at Seulgi and says, ‘Remember Brazil last year? The fireworks. The river.’

‘Yeah. Of course.’

‘We should do that again. If they have another display, I mean.’

‘We should,’ Seulgi says. She watches Irene. The secrecy however small or insignificant is insidious and they both know it. Maybe they’re alone now. Maybe not. Irene doesn’t seem to care. She leans forward and cups Seulgi’s cheek and kisses her for a long time, cold and raw and rained on. She pulls away and smiles a tired smile and whispers, ‘I love you.’

‘I love you too. You know I do.’

Now is the time. There can only be one moment like it. But the rain falls and they are both silent, one absent the courage to speak and one absent the courage to ask. Midnight becomes half past midnight. Their flights leave separately in seven hours. ‘I’ll be really busy again this week,’ Irene tells her on the way back, hand in hand in the dark, careful not to move too close to the streetlights.

‘Okay.’

‘Got some more meetings. A couple more people I need to see.’

Seulgi merely nods. Locked in this hurricane of emotion wherein nothing can be adequately reasoned or explained away. So that six hours later when Irene throws off the covers and leaves Seulgi’s bed all Seulgi can do is lie there and think about all the things she hasn’t said, all the moments she could’ve taken, moments squandered, sequestered away. And who knows what comes next? The wind blows where it wants to blow. Even the rain cannot stop it.