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Chase & Status - Let You Go

Interlagos is special to Seulgi.

It isn’t just because it’s one of her favourite tracks – the long sweeping uphill straight, the flow of the corners in sector three, the thrill of such a rapid and constant pace. It’s because there are good memories in Brazil. When she sat hand in hand with Irene watching fireworks break over the Pinheiros river, the first time she knew without any doubt or uncertainty that she was utterly and fully in love with her. What a night that had been. And yet as she hauls her bags up to her hotel room and sets them down and stands by the window eyeing the circuit not even two miles away in the low fog, all she can think about is Irene now. Some pale reflection of her former self. Whatever is wrong is wrong all the way through her.

The worst part is the helplessness. It’s the knowing that whatever Seulgi says won’t be enough. Irene’s problems are her own and nobody else can fix them and the truth of this hits Seulgi with such force it has her fighting to hold back tears. The video of her spinning out in Italy plays again and again in her head. It’s the words of the commentators that keep coming back to her. Sloppy. Desperate. She’s getting desperate.

A knock on the door ten minutes later shakes her from her reverie. A small part of her thinks it’s Wendy or Joy but she knows it isn’t Irene because she has become so comfortable with Irene that she recognises even her knocks at the door, and this isn’t that. She answers to Jennie, slumped against the doorframe in her Renault hoodie, hair loose about her shoulders, saying, ‘Sorry for disturbing you. I didn’t know if I’d got the right room or not. I just wanted to ask if you were coming to the bar tonight with the rest of us.’

‘Who’s going to be there?’

‘Joy, Yeri. I think your engineer, too.’

‘Wendy?’

‘Yeah,’ Jennie says. ‘Saw her talking to Joy earlier. The guys from Ferrari as well.’

Seulgi thinks about it. No mention of Irene at any point in the conversation. ‘I’ll see how I feel,’ she says. ‘Feeling a bit under the weather.’

‘Must be something going around. How’s Irene?’

‘She’s good. She’s doing good. Just needs a bit of time to herself.’

‘How are you feeling for this weekend?’

‘Okay,’ Seulgi says, and it isn’t quite a lie. The race is something she’s looking forward to an awful lot, and redemption for last year’s mechanical failure even more so, but Irene is there, always weighing on her conscience. Irene Irene Irene. The nature of their bond is such that one without the other can succeed only if both are aware of their problems, fixable or not. And Seulgi is very much in the dark. Her hand shifts to the pearl bracelet without ever realising it. ‘I feel like I need to make up for last year,’ she says.

‘Yeah. Sounds about right. Sorry about that, by the way.’

‘It’s in the past.’

‘And congrats again for Monza. Still can’t believe you pulled that out. They’re still talking about it, you know?’

Seulgi merely shrugs in response. Jennie shifts awkwardly and looks about the empty corridor. There’s an air of strangers still between them, as polite as Jennie has been. ‘Well,’ she says, ‘we’ll be downstairs in an hour if you want to join us. Your call.’

‘Yeah. Thanks.’

When Jennie is gone she just stands there for a while, not knowing how to proceed. Is the correct approach to ask Irene to come as well? Or to even inform her? Or is it best to give her the space she needs to get her head in the right frame of mind? Race weekends are nothing if not stressful, but has it not been Irene thriving most of all when it comes down to the wire? She’s reminded suddenly of what Wendy had told her last year, that if you can’t beat Irene before halfway, you can’t beat her at all. But halfway has come and gone and Seulgi is leading by thirty points and there seems to be no way back from this. No redemption.

At the bar downstairs an hour and a half later she finds everyone Jennie had mentioned and a couple others as well. They’re sat on the stools in the low red light, drinking and laughing over something. She sits by Wendy and orders a beer and leans half over the counter in silence. ‘You’re looking worse for wear,’ Wendy says.

‘Seems to be a recurring theme these days.’

‘Is it Irene?’

‘Yeah.’

‘What’s up?’

‘I don’t know,’ Seulgi says. ‘That’s the problem. I have no idea what’s wrong with her. Whether it’s family troubles, or racing troubles, or me troubles. Or something else. She won’t open up to me. Won’t even tell me what’s wrong. I mean, I’ve got some ideas, but nothing concrete, and I feel like it’s rude to keep prodding and poking when she clearly wants to figure it out on her own. I feel like all I’d be doing then is pushing her away, you know?’

Wendy nods sagely. She looks down at her tall beer and drinks with a grimace. Down the far end of the bar Yeri waves with a smile and Seulgi waves back. ‘Maybe it’s for the best,’ Wendy says. ‘To let it resolve itself, I mean. Maybe it’s just that she’s stuck in a slump and she needs to get over it on her own.’

‘Maybe. I just wish she’d talk to me.’ Seulgi drinks and wipes with a sigh. ‘I was watching that video again,’ she says. ‘The highlights one. The one where she spins out. I keep playing back the bit they were talking about. They said she looked desperate.’

‘Well,’ Wendy says.

‘Well what?’

‘Well she did. You know it. I know it. It was a stupid decision and it could’ve been even more costly. Imagine if she’d have clipped wings with Yeri instead of just tires. Or if Yeri had gotten a puncture. Then it would’ve been over for the Samsungs for the race. Not just Irene. That’s reckless, is what it is. Sorry to say it. Reminds me of—’

‘Me in China last year. Yeah.’

Wendy holds up her beer and bows her head. As if to say: Exactly.

‘I don’t know what to do,’ Seulgi says.

‘You want my advice, poor as it often is?’

‘Yeah. Please.’

‘I think it’s best to let it resolve itself. Be there for her, let her know again and again she can talk to you, but don’t push it too far. Don’t make her clam up. A little bit of constant positive reinforcement can go a long way. A little bit of optimism every day. Sometimes it’s good to just be that sunshine in someone’s life, you know? Like how I’m always in your ear telling you that you can do it, that you’re good enough. That’s why I do it. Because eventually it wears on you. It would wear on anyone.’

‘Yeah,’ says Seulgi. ‘Makes a lot of sense. Maybe you’re right.’

‘I am. I think I am. Sometimes I’m good at stuff like this. And sometimes not. But hey, we’ll see. You want another beer?’

‘Sure.’

‘We should probably talk about tomorrow. And about the race.’

‘Probably.’

‘I can’t be bothered, though.’

Seulgi laughs. ‘Nor can I,’ she says, only partly the truth and only to appease Wendy for the time being. Perhaps it’s telling of the person she has become that there’s no time she’d refuse to talk about racing, none at all. She’s at the bar with the others for two hours, long enough to watch in amusement as Yeri is carried half up the stairs by Joy and Jennie after a good six or seven drinks and Wendy says her goodbyes and she’s left in a sort of awkward state of silence with the Ferrari drivers. Thinking one moment: Should I say sorry for beating them at Monza? And then thinking: Should I tell them I love Red Velvet cake?

Eventually she calls it a night and disappears to her room. It takes a long time to decide that leaving Irene alone is perhaps the best thing to do. Her hand moves to her bracelet. From the window the ringed lights of Interlagos look like Christmas decorations. The river drifts in peace along the horizon. Such a beautiful city, she thinks, before her thoughts turn back to Irene. Desperate. And Wendy was right. Desperation has no place in a sport like Formula 1. Never could do.

The next morning the smile Wendy gives her in the garage is the widest she thinks she’s ever seen. She tosses Seulgi the helmet in her hands before Seulgi can say anything. Seulgi turns it and inspects it in the low light. It’s similar to her own minus a few adjustments. The orange number 13 has been replaced on one side only by a number 12 in gold lettering, and on top the Korean flag sits neatly side by side with the flag of Brazil. ‘What’s this?’ she says.

‘Your tribute helmet for the weekend.’

‘What? Where did you get this?’

‘From the boss.’

‘I thought I wasn’t allowed to change it more than once a season.’

‘Yeah, well. He said you’d like it. And the crowd definitely will.’

Seulgi looks at it again. It feels almost sacrilegious, seeing the number 12, as touching as the tribute undoubtedly is. ‘Well,’ Wendy says. ‘Nice day today. Time to get out there and do your thing.’

‘Am I seriously allowed to wear this?’

‘Duh. Why else would I give it to you? You’re the second Senna.’

Seulgi turns the helmet in her hands again. The 12 glimmers like ice against the narrow outside sunlight. ‘No I’m not,’ she says. ‘I’m the first Seulgi.’

When she glances at the timing sheets once both practice session are through and the day is finished the result is neither alarming nor comforting. She’s at the top, predictably, and Irene’s in third, better than her last half a dozen results but not where she should be. And it’s practice. Seulgi reminds herself of that in the back of the cab on the way to the hotel to call it a night. The fact she hasn’t spoken to Irene at all in nearly three days alarms her more than it probably should, but confrontation has never been her strong point. She sends a text and sits by the window in the bar and watches the slow turning of the evening. A pastel sunset. Small car headlamps pass by in fleeting glory and are lost to the oncoming dark. It’s twenty minutes before she spots Irene at the far end of the bar, clad in a black hoodie and her roundrimmed glasses.

‘Hey,’ she says, leaning in to kiss Seulgi on the cheek and sit across the table from her. She sounds almost sick again, almost distant.

‘Sorry I didn’t text you earlier. Or yesterday. We were down here at the bar. I should’ve asked you to come. Jennie was asking about you.’

Irene shrugs it off. ‘I would’ve stayed in my room,’ she says. ‘Wasn’t feeling up to it. Had all my focus on the race and stuff. Sorry for not talking to you either. I haven’t been ignoring you or anything. I’ve just…you know.’

‘Yeah,’ Seulgi lies. She runs a hand around the rim of her coffeecup absently. The look on Irene’s face isn’t quite exhausted but it isn’t quite all there either, pale and gorgeous and almost cruelly so. She wants so badly to confront it, to say that one word – Desperate. But instead all she can think to do is smile at Irene and tell her she loves her and always will and to allow fate to take its course. Everything happens for a reason.

‘You’ll do well,’ she says. ‘I know you will. This track suits you. It’s all about who’s the better driver.’

‘Thanks,’ says Irene. ‘Should be a good fight. And I should get some rest.’

‘I’ll see you tomorrow. After qualifying.’

‘Yeah,’ Irene says. ‘Or after the race. I might be busy.’

Seulgi feels her heart sink in her chest. ‘Okay,’ she says, almost a whisper. ‘Whatever suits you better.’

Thoughts of Irene never enter her head throughout the last practice of the weekend. Even when qualifying begins it’s only about the track, the lap, what’s ahead. She gets a strong exit out of Junção to start her flying lap and the fans are in the stands with their APEX banners ready and their cheering and she smiles through her helmet, hands sweaty and blood pumping. It’s a warm and good day, and when she slows and takes a perfect line through the Senna S at turns one and two and powers out and onto the back straight she begins to think about the race ahead. ‘Okay,’ Wendy says in her ear. ‘This should be an easy one. Don’t go too hard out there. Try and hide as much pace as you can. It’s Q3 where we need to put the speed down.’

‘Sure thing,’ Seulgi says. She takes it lighter through Descida do Lago and Ferradura. Sector three is a breeze to her. Every line is fierce and on the ragged edge of perfection, none of that trademark smoothness Irene often employs and none of it needed. The crowd serenade her across the line and as she slows the static interrupts her for Wendy to say, ‘That’s P1 for now. Good job. Bring it back to the pits and we’ll get her ready for Q2.’

She pulls it into the pitlane and climbs out and checks the timing sheet. The first round of qualifying is never fully indicative of speed. Some of the teams are still hiding pace and Apex is one of them. It’s her and Joy and then Yeri in third and Irene in fourth. ‘The Renaults are half a second back,’ she says, fiddling with her glove.

‘Yeah. I know. Looks like it’s going to be just between us and Samsung tomorrow. Unless they pull something magical out of the bag, that is. Like you did in Monza.’

‘Stop it.’

‘Figured I’d you ego some more. You ready?’

‘As I’ll ever be.’

She heads back out onto the track slowly for her outlap. She sails across the line and slowly through the Senna S curves and watches one of the fast Racing Lines on their flying lap soar straight past her and down Reta Oposta in a pink blur, but her mind isn’t on Racing Line or Ferrari or even Renault. Only Samsung. She shifts into fourth gear for Descida do Lago and then up through Ferrardura and it’s only as she slows right down for the sharp right-hander at turn eight that she notices something is very wrong. She tries to shift up and the car feels sluggish and unresponsive and when she shifts into fourth gear the sound is a thick and heavy clunk from somewhere behind her head. The crowd are on their feet, camera phones out and gasping. ‘Wendy,’ she says. ‘Something’s wrong.’

‘We know. Just keep it going.’

‘I can’t,’ Seulgi says. ‘Wendy, there’s smoke.’

The crowd gasp again. She slows right down for Bico do Pato and a small of flame explodes out of the exhaust port and across the rear wing and the car coughs and spits and hums. It stinks of exhaust fumes and motor oil. ‘Wendy,’ she mutters, pulling the car to one side and letting it slide slowly along the grass. ‘Something’s on fire. I can see it.’

‘Turn the car off, Seulgi. P1, four seconds, then P-zero. Turn everything off.’

‘.’

‘I’m sorry.’

A handful of other cars all fly past, ready to start their flying laps. She cuts the engine and rests her head on the steeringwheel and curses again. ‘I’m sorry,’ Wendy repeats. When she hands the wheel to the marshal and clambers out of the cockpit the car is still softly smoking.

She watches the final round of qualifying from her seat in the garage. Thinking: I should be there among them. I should be at the front.

Irene is the first of the frontrunners to cross the line. The crowd watch her finish her lap and leap out of their seats as the massive digital timing screen displays one minute, seven seconds point five. And less than half a minute later Joy rounds the final corner and comes soaring across the line one tenth of a second faster. Most everyone in the Apex garage are out of their seats and pumping the air immediately. All but Seulgi, watching in concern and disbelief as first Jennie crosses the line a tenth of a second quicker than Irene and then Yeri, last of the cars on track, puts it on pole position.

‘That should’ve been me,’ she says, voice barely there. The timing screens read:

1. YERI KIM – 1:07:208

2. JENNIE KIM – 1:07:316

3. SOOYOUNG PARK – 1:07:380

4. IRENE BAE – 1:07:514

‘That should’ve been me,’ she repeats. ‘I did a one seven point one last year. That would’ve put me on pole today.’

‘I’m sorry,’ says Wendy. ‘Engine failure.’

‘What does that mean for me tomorrow? Where am I starting?’

The look on Wendy’s face is sour and apologetic. ‘Right at the back of the grid,’ she says. ‘We’re gonna have to fit you new engine parts.’

‘What new parts?’

‘Everything. It’s a brand-new power unit. ICE, MGU-K, MGU-H, energy store, CE. The whole lot. I’m really sorry.’

Seulgi looks at the timing boards again. In a strange and warming moment of clarity she offers a genuine smile. ‘It’s okay,’ she says. ‘I get to have some fun. Get to put on a show.’

‘You sound happier than I thought you would.’

‘Yeah,’ Seulgi says, still smiling. ‘I think I’m finally at peace with myself. I think I’ve got my confidence back.’

‘That’s good. That’s really good.’

‘Something Joy said to me really stuck. Win, lose, crash.’

‘Don’t make it a crash. Please.’

‘I won’t,’ Seulgi says, like she’s never been more certain of anything in her life.

She doesn’t see Irene that night at all. The only conversation is a brief text back and forth and an affirmation of their love and a quick Good luck before Seulgi calls it a night early. All that runs through her head is thoughts of the race tomorrow. Starting twentieth is most assuredly a curse but that doesn’t also stop it becoming a blessing. She knows that the Apex is fast enough that the only cars able to trouble her are the Samsungs and the Renaults, all at the front.

‘Maybe the Ferraris,’ she mutters to herself, alone in her room, and adds shortly after, ‘Maybe if we were still in Monza.’

She arrives to the paddock early on Sunday morning to scout the day. The dogwhelk sun sits like a pale coin and there are no clouds and the world has taken on a chalky white appearance in the early glare of the morning. It smells of barbecued meat and oil. She takes a look at the car in the middle of the garage. The white paint winks in the low light.

‘She’s a beauty, isn’t she?’ Wendy says.

‘Yes she is.’

‘Have you christened her yet?’

‘What?’

‘Given her a name, I mean.’

‘No. Should I do that?’

‘Sure.’

‘Why?’

‘It’s what all the great champions do,’ Wendy says.

‘Does Irene name her cars?’

‘Yeah. You didn’t know that?’

Seulgi shakes her head.

‘She seriously didn’t tell you?’

‘No.’

‘Last year’s car was Starburst. The year before was Cobalt. I don’t remember 2017. I think it was Scarlet or something. And Sebastian Vettel had Gina and Kylie. So now it’s your turn.’

‘Starburst is a cool name,’ Seulgi says.

‘Well, it’s already taken. Sorry.’

She thinks about it for a while. Tries to think of something suitable. ‘How about Reve?’ she says.

‘Reve? Is that even a word?’

‘It’s French. Means dream.’

‘Why do you know that?’

‘I don’t know,’ Seulgi admits. ‘Think I heard it somewhere. Or saw it on a tattoo website. But I like it. It rolls off the tongue.’

‘Up to you.’

She takes another good look at it. It’s a car that feels more like home than her apartment in Korea does. ‘Reve,’ she says, teasing out the pronunciation. ‘I christen you, Reve. Welcome to the family.’

The fear of defeat is only superseded by the ecstasy of victory.

It’s a feeling Seulgi’s been chasing her entire life, the ultimate form of happiness, life lived on pure adrenaline, on the very precipice of it all. She lines up at the rear of the grid, behind the slow Williams and the Racing Lines and the Cook-Hondas. There’s no trepidation anymore. The orange and white banners dance in the cool breeze. ‘Seventy-one laps,’ Wendy says on the radio. ‘You’re on a different strategy to all of the frontrunners, so think about your own race. This one’s about your tire management.’

‘I know.’

‘I know you know. I’m just telling you again because it’s my job.’

‘Go on,’ Seulgi says.

‘Okay, you’re starting on the mediums. Everyone in the top ten is on the softs and we think they’re gonna be almost certainly two-stopping, but you get the luxury of not doing that. Preserve your tires and do a great stint on the hards and you should be in with a chance at a podium.’

‘Podium’s not good enough. I want to win.’

‘Well, drive like you did in Monza and you should win this in your sleep with ten laps to go.’

‘That’s what I like to hear.’

‘Heads up.’

The first light comes on and Seulgi’s hands are tight around the wheel. Come on Reve, she thinks. Show me what you can do.

The last of the lights go out and she gets a blistering start. By the time they even out onto Reta Oposta she’s already up into seventeenth and the slipstream her forward and she dummies and dips to the inside and cuts into sixteenth place at the left-hander ahead. The crowd are on their feet. They came for a show.

‘What a start!’ Wendy says, and Seulgi’s smiling already. She’s never been great on her tires – it’s her biggest failing as a driver – and it’s something she and Wendy have both attributed to her driving style. Irene’s smooth lines allow her to ease the car into every situation, the rubber gliding along the tarmac, the heat spread evenly. Seulgi’s aggressive wrestling with the rear end has her tires in much worse condition, but what she loses in longevity she gains in pure race speed. If it were not for the rain, Monza would have been the same, too.

But thirteen laps later and she’s in eight place and gaining rapidly on the Chamisul ahead of her and her tires feel as good as new. Every line is just as rough and rugged but the corner exits are faster and cleaner and Reve feels like a brand new car. ‘This engine,’ she mumbles. ‘Wendy, you’re a genius.’

‘It wasn’t me. Thank the mechanics.’

‘What pace am I keeping to?’

‘Your last lap was a one eleven point eight. Jennie and Joy are both in the low one minute twelves. Irene and Yeri are about the same, maybe a little faster. You’re catching them and your tires are going to last a lot longer. This is good. Really good.’

By lap twenty-five she can feel the tires begin to slip and lose their grip but there’s still life in them and her preservation has worked wonders for her pace because she’s in sixth and it’s the black and yellow glare of the Renault ahead of her on the main street that has her pushing the gas pedal to the floor and working up the courage to take each corner just a slight later. She’s still smiling. Her heart feels as if it might burst at any moment. This is a new Seulgi, the perfect encapsulation of everything she has become – her reckless and explosive start as a rookie, memories of China and Bahrain last year, her determination, her absurd natural talent, the way she feels every twitch and movement of the car before it has even begun to move.

‘C’mon, Reve,’ she mutters. ‘Give me a bit more.’

‘Lap times are steady,’ says Wendy through static. ‘You’re the fastest car out there on track at the moment.’

‘Where’s Irene?’

‘Currently third after that first round of pit stops. Joy’s out in front. Yeri in second but gaining.’

‘When am I pitting?’

‘We’re thinking of boxing you around lap thirty-four. How are the tires?’

‘Tires have got life in them,’ Seulgi says. ‘I can stay out if needed.’

‘No point. You’re running a really good race. Keep this up.’

She obliges both Wendy and the crowd. Lap thirty-four the hard tires are fitted and she’s instantly the fastest car on the circuit again. She overtakes the Renault like it’s nothing on lap thirty-seven. Then on lap forty-one she uses the slipstream and DRS along Reta Oposta to dummy Jennie and force her wide and takes the inside line and up into fourth. The crowd are loud enough that she can hear them through the wail of the engine.

‘Reve,’ she says, ‘you beauty.’

On lap fifty-five and with less than half an hour to go she’s close enough to the bluewhite Samsung in front to see it power around the curve and disappear along the main straight. ‘Is that who I think it is?’ she says. ‘I can’t see the number from here.’

‘Yeah, it’s Irene.’

‘What’s the gap?’

‘Six seconds,’ Wendy says. ‘But you’re pulling out two seconds a lap.’

‘How? These tires are twenty laps old.’

‘Her lap times are tumbling. Don’t know why, but she’s slipped off the pace. Yeri and Joy are way out in front.’

‘I can still get a podium,’ Seulgi says, more to herself than anything. With every corner the Samsung grows larger, closer. Two laps later and the gap is two seconds. Lap fifty-nine and it’s down to nine tenths and she has DRS coming up out of Junção and turn fourteen and onto the main straight. She slows for the S curve and is less than half a second and Irene is right there for the taking.

‘Come on,’ she says. The crowd are leaning into the barricades. They know already this is the one they want to see more than any other. By Reta Oposta she’s fast enough with DRS that the drainsuck of air has her struggling to keep the car balanced as she comes up so close behind Irene she can almost reach out and touch the rear wing. With DRS it’s the simplest of overtakes. She shifts right and then immediately dummies back to the left and cuts up and alongside Irene with the superior speed. The same move she used on Jennie and so many others. Racing etiquette dictates that the car overtaken allows the other car to pass safely. The simplest of overtakes, Seulgi says, and feels a pang of disappointment at not giving the fans the battle they deserve. Only this time Irene turns her wheel a slight to her left.

All it takes is half a second for her world to come crashing down. It’s a spectacular recovery drive from last place to a podium and then suddenly it isn’t any of that. She’s going so fast and with such intensity that there is no time to react at all. It was only for a moment and only at the thinnest of angles but Irene’s sudden shift has their wheels coming together and at three kilometres per hour there’s nowhere to go but into each other. The silence in the crowd feels as if the air has been out of the world entirely. You can hear a pin drop. Seulgi’s front right tire explodes in a shower of sparks and rubber and her foot is almost through the floor of the car with the brakes but it’s far too little, far too late. She goes skittering off toward the barrier on the left of the track and Irene disappears down the straight and toward Descida do Lago still in seventh gear, the front of her car utterly obliterated by the impact. Seulgi braces. Her breath catching in . It’s a hundred metres to the metal reinforced barricade and then it’s nothing at all.

‘Puncture,’ Wendy says, and it’s almost comical how late and uninformed it is.

She ploughs into the side of the barrier and the car scrapes thin sheaves of metal from along the barricade and comes to a dead stop almost on the corner of the circuit itself. Seulgi’s hands are nowhere near the steeringwheel and for that she’s thankful because one look at the state of it tells her the impact would have instantly broken her wrists. She takes a moment to just sit there. Already the marshals are waving to one another and the safety car billboard lights are flashing bright yellow. It smells of used rubber and smoke. She climbs out of the cockpit and stands and observes the ruins. Not much left of Reve at all. And across the other side of the track, nestled there in the gravel, Irene sits in the cockpit with her head in her hands.

‘What a ing stupid move,’ Wendy says.

Seulgi sits there at the back of the garage and listens in silence. It’s the angriest she’s seen Wendy in more than a decade, since their time as kids together, fighting over something stupid and lost to the past. Pacing up and down she runs a hand through her hair and attempts to cool her temper and fails miserably. ‘I’m sorry,’ she says a touch gentler. ‘I know you’re not going to like what I’m gonna say next.’

‘It’s okay.’

‘That—’ she points at the shattered carcass of the car. ‘That was ing dangerous, Seulgi. That was reckless and stupid and dangerous. You could’ve been seriously hurt, or worse.’

‘It wasn’t that bad.’

‘What if the car had been lifted up over yours instead of skidding off into the dirt like that? It could’ve decapitated you. It was a ing amateur move, is what it was. She should know better. Especially around you.’

‘Wendy.’

‘I’m sorry, but it’s true.’

‘Wendy, please. I know you’re angry—’

‘You’re damn right I’m angry. I have every right to be, and so do you. She ruined your chance at a podium because of, what, exactly? And for what? In the hopes that you’d back out of there and let her stay ahead of you? Like you were some junior series driver or something? She did it again. Same as Monza. She got desperate and tried to do the impossible and failed. And this time she put you in harm’s way to do it.’

‘These things happen in racing.’

‘Yeah, well, I’m glad you’re so calm about it. I’m glad someone is.’

‘Where are you going now?’

‘To have a long debriefing with some very important people about what happened today,’ Wendy says, almost spits, and it’s more than a touch disconcerting. ‘Do you need a lift to the hospital?’

‘No, I can get there myself. Thanks.’

‘You need to have a serious talk with her, Seulgi. About whatever’s going on in her life right now. I mean it.’

‘I know,’ Seulgi says, no more than a whisper.

There are no fireworks across the Pinheiros river. No silent appreciation of the night, no hand-holding, no celebrations of races almost won and victories snatched at the last possible moment. Only Seulgi opening Irene’s hotel door and finding her sat on the floor beside the little wooden kitchen table, back leaning against the wall, legs bunched up to her chest, bottle of whiskey next to her. She’s been crying. Seulgi notices that before anything else. Irene turns to her and looks her up and down and starts crying again.

‘Hey,’ Seulgi says, scooting up next to her and taking her hand. ‘Hey, it’s okay.’

‘I’m so sorry. So sorry.’

‘It’s okay.’

‘It isn’t,’ Irene whimpers. ‘It isn’t okay at all. I ed up today. And not like normal. I put you in the way of danger for my own selfish reasons and I could have hurt you and I’m so ing sorry. I wish I could take it back. Wish I could just replay that moment and not turn the wheel and just let you pass. I’m so sorry, Seulgi.’

‘It’s okay,’ Seulgi repeats, unsure of what else to say. She lets Irene rest her head on her shoulder. She smells of perfume and sweat and vaguely of whiskey, like an old alcoholic. Trembling and cold in Seulgi’s embrace. The dynamic of their relationship has altered such that Seulgi isn’t quite sure how to proceed. Brazil has by fate or by tremendous misfortune become a place of heartache and bad memories. Last year it was the bitterness of almost winning and now it’s this. The difference is it has never been this before, or anything close to it. It has always been Irene holding Seulgi close and reassuring her and telling her it was all going to get better. And when the reverse is true Seulgi sits uncomfortable and unsure of herself and kisses Irene on the top of her head and tells her it’s going to all be fine, because what else is there to do? This is not Irene. So vulnerable and childlike and open to misery. Never has been.

‘I could’ve hurt you,’ Irene mumbles. ‘What sort of person am I that I would do something like that?’

‘It’s okay.’

‘No it isn’t. Stop saying that. I could’ve hurt the only person I truly have ever loved. And if that ever happened, I’d never forgive myself.’

A long silence. The faintly amusing truth that all of Seulgi’s fears have been overcome save for the fear of confronting Irene. So with all the courage in the world she says, ‘Are you going to tell me what’s wrong yet? Or are you going to continue hiding from me and pretending you can get through it without talking about it?’

Irene looks at her. She wipes her eyes and leans back against the wall and wraps her arms around her knees. ‘Turns out I’m a lot more like you than I realised,’ she says.

‘What do you mean?’

She shifts a slight and continues. ‘What you told me about believing you’d overcome all your worries after testing and after Korea last year – about how you’d finally found your confidence – and then all of it coming crashing down after Bahrain and Baku? That was me. That is me. Only it’s not self-confidence. Well, it is, but that’s only a small facet of it.’

Seulgi motions her to keep going and she does, voice distant and on the brink of failing her.

‘I thought after that kiss last year, and after everything we went through, that I was okay with losing, as long as it was to you. I told myself that. I told you that, with a smile, too. But I’m not. I’m not okay with losing, Seulgi. This is everything I’ve ever had and you know that as well as I do at this point. And the problem is that you don’t solve that, as much as I love you. You don’t fill that hole in my heart. You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me, but so is this sport. This is all I have. And then you come along and you beat me, and you just keep beating me, and maybe it’s finally time for me to admit that I’m not the best anymore, but I can’t do that. I just can’t. It’s selfish and childish and whatever else, call it every name you want, but I can’t lose. Not like this.’

For a minute she’s silent. Then she says, ‘It’s unhealthy. And it’s going to kill me one of these days. It could’ve killed me today. And it’s this awful self-fulfilling cycle – the worse I feel about my performances, the worse I do, and the worse I do, the worse I then feel. Belgium, Monza, today. It’s been going on since Bahrain. And now you’re thirty points clear of me and there are four races left and all I can think about is the possibility of me losing. And I don’t know how I can live with that. And if you want to know the reason I never told you, it’s because I’ve said it all before, give or take. I’m just repeating myself. But the cruelest part about being human is that things don’t change just because we want them to. We’re too complex for that. And as much as I’d have loved to have put all this behind me last year, the bitter truth is that I still won. I still stood on that stage after Korea and lifted that trophy and got the badge and the champagne and the honours. You lost. That’s the truth of it. There was no confronting the reality of me losing and how I would truly cope with that because that reality never existed. I never lost. And now the opposite is close to being real and I can’t fathom it. I just can’t.’

Seulgi remains silent. To this there is nothing suitable to say. Irene's problems and her own are not so diffeent at heart, but similarities cannot on their own mend separate wounds.

‘I think I know what I need to do,’ Irene says. ‘And I need some help from you.’

‘Anything. You know that.’

‘I think we should break up.’

‘What?’

‘Just for a short time,’ Irene clarifies. ‘And not properly break up. I think we should just have some time apart, not seeing or thinking about each other.’

‘Why would you ever think that’s a good idea?’

‘Because it’s the only way I’m going to be able to separate my love for you from my love for this sport. This is everything to me, and so are you. And I can’t reconcile that right now. God help me, I wish I could, but it’s impossible. The only way for me to get through this is to realise there’s a world for me out there without this sport and without you, whether that be in fashion or modelling or something entirely different. Because nothing is healthy if it engulfs you fully, no matter how much you want it to be. Love or work. My life can’t just be Formula 1 anymore. And it can’t just be you, either. I have to find myself, on my own. And then once I've found it, I have to share it with you. I have to struggle and endure and find that love for myself that’s been missing for so long, and if that means spending some time apart, I think I need to do it. Please, Seulgi. Don’t make this any harder for me. Please.’

Seulgi looks at her again.

‘Just for a short while. For a few races, until Mexico or Korea. Then we’ll go back to how it was. And we’ll be better. I promise.’

‘What are you going to do?’

‘I don’t know. I’ve been trying to find things to occupy myself with – that’s the whole deal with the fashion shoots and the Tommy Hilfiger and reconnecting with old friends. Doing new things. You showed me how to love again. Now I need to learn how to be human. And I think I can do that. I just need some time alone, to clear my head. Where I can focus on my own performance in the context of, well…me. And not us.’

Seulgi smiles at her. The tranquility she feels is both surprising and yet entirely comprehensible. ‘I think we should settle this like the mature adults we are,’ she says.

‘So do I.’

‘No moping about and hiding things anymore. No pretending we’re okay when we’re not. No avoiding each other.’

‘I wasn’t avoiding you.’

‘I know. I just meant in general.’

‘Then, yeah. I agree.’

‘And if you really believe that time apart is what will help you, then time apart it is.’

‘Thank you,’ Irene says with a genuine smile. She leans in and kisses Seulgi with such love and such gentle appraisal that Seulgi has to fight to stop from pulling her in further right then and there.

‘I’ll still love you,’ Seulgi says.

‘I know. I’ll love you too. I’m not going anywhere. Just…you know.’

‘Yeah. I know. Only for a month or two. Until Mexico, you said.’

‘Or Korea.’

‘Let’s make it Mexico.’

Irene giggles and kisses her again.

‘No texts either?’

‘Nothing that’ll make me start thinking about you and missing you,’ Irene says. ‘Please.’

‘Whatever you say. Whatever suits you best. I’m here for you.’

‘I know. Thank you. For everything. But for now I just want to concentrate on the rest of the season.’

‘Sounds like a good idea. But if this is our last night together for a while, I have a request.’

‘What?’

‘Let’s make it count for something.’