Page 37 of Spin Control

David and I both burst out laughing, and Elizabeth shrugs good-naturedly before regaling us with some of the other theories floating around. It resets the tone of the call, helping us end on a much more positive note.

But now that the humor has worn off, it’s dawning on me just how disastrous this could be. I sit and brood for longer than I should, and when my phone buzzes with the reminder about my next meeting, I get up and jog around my living room before downing a bottle of water. Then, I join the call with the R&D team at the factory and our aerodynamicist, Jack Carmichael. “Please tell me you have some good news.”

Jack grins. “We’ve got Lu’s simulator data. I think you’re going to be very pleased.”

I arrive at the paddock in Barcelona on Thursday feeling the strangest mix of emotions I’ve ever had when walking into a race weekend.

I’m damn-near giddy about the fact I’m going to test a possible season-altering upgrade package that I helped bring to life while simultaneously dreading the inevitable questions that’ll come my way about my sexual history.

But to my surprise, the scandalous story about me and Stas gets completely overshadowed when the Bosch team principal is suddenly sacked for unprofessional conduct. It turns out he was having a very cliché affair with his much younger personal assistant, and that when he broke up with her, he also fired her. He clearly never paid attention to that saying about a woman scorned.

After media day wraps with nary a question about my personal life, I breathe easier. On Friday, I arrive at the circuit early, excited to test the upgrade I helped bring to life: an additional layer of thermal management on the brake cooling system that helps the tires maintain a more consistent temperature throughout the race. I figured the idea would die during wind tunnel testing—but the thermal system ended up being even more promising than expected.

So here we are now, testing it out on the track. I take direction from the engineering team during the practice sessions as we gather data, listening closely to their feedback and focusing on the feel of the car, especially in the high-stress braking areas. At the end of the day, I’m excited—and the team is, too.

When the third qualifying session begins on Saturday, my times have been the best all weekend long and the upgrade is all anyone can talk about. This thermal management really works wonders when the other cars on the track are also running at top speed and generating an incredible amount of heat. But just because I’ve done well thus far doesn’t mean shit now. Pole position is mine to lose. I have to perform. I have to rise to the occasion. I have to make it happen.

I find that Zen headspace, relying on my training and instincts to guide me around the circuit. I asked Paul to only give me critical information, so when he says, “Last two minutes,” but doesn’t give me further updates, I know that means I still have the fastest time.

I nearly ask what the interval is. But if I needed to know, he’d tell me.

So I take a deep breath.

And I drive.

I wait for the verdict after crossing the finish line, but there’s only silence in my headset. It’s strange not to have an immediate update. By the time I’m climbing out of the car, I’m certain that something catastrophic has happened: I was disqualified, the FIA is investigating the upgrade, word has just come in that I’m being fired, effective immediately. But then Albrecht grabs my shoulders, Paul is jumping up and down, and my pit crew surrounds me, their claps and cheers nearly deafening.

“I’m guessing I’m on pole?”

“You’re not only on pole,” Albrecht says. “Thad’s Orion was more than a full second slower, you mad genius!”

But I don’t let myself celebrate. I don’t let myself bask in this success. Not on Saturday. Not even when the reporters start saying they heard I came up with the upgrade’s concept. I stay cool. I stay focused. I stay sharp.

And when I’m the first to cross the finish line on Sunday, I finally let myself smile.

17

After weeks of living out of one suitcase and many hotel rooms, I sink into my own couch, in my own place, filled with my own things.

Despite staying in nice hotels, I had begun daydreaming about sleeping in my own bed and romanticizing every little thing about my Upper West Side apartment—including the bathroom faucet that drips unless you turn it just so and the sound of the kid downstairs squeakily practicing violin on Saturday mornings.

When we arrived in Barcelona, David and I were certain the weekend was going to be a veritable nightmare. But then I overheard a hushed conversation between two Bosch employees while having my morning coffee and knew the gossip was a golden opportunity. So I dropped an anonymous tip to a journalist who took the bait, reached out to the irate former assistant, and published the story. I didn’t think the Bosch team principal would face any real consequences. High-powered men rarely get in real trouble over affairs. But I also can’t say I’m all that upset my actions resulted in a philanderer getting fired.

Once the F1 gossip du jour was firmly centered on another man and another team, things for Martine went incredibly well since Wes not only won the race, but masterminded a car upgrade that had the F1 community singing his and the team’s praises. So David told me to take the two weeks before the race in Montréal to go relax at home.

But now that I’m home, I‘m quickly realizing I have no idea how to do that. Though I busy myself with sorting the pile of mail I’ve received, throwing out all the expired items in the refrigerator, and unpacking my suitcase, my mind is restless.

It’s a perfect June day, complete with a robin’s egg blue sky and low humidity, so I go for a long run in Central Park, then pick up an indulgent bacon, egg, and cheese on an everything bagel. As I’m stepping back into my apartment, I pinpoint why feel so on edge. Usually, I come home when the crisis is handled. But this time, it’s nowhere near resolved. In fact, any one of the balls we’ve been juggling could come crashing down at any moment.

I’m decidedly not in control of this crisis yet—and I hate it.

I especially hate that I can’t satisfy the one thing I’m most curious about: Stas Dubinsky. After learning he’d been in touch with Wes, I called in a favor with a private investigator. I wanted Stas to know that if he wants me to do something, he should ask me directly—not go through Wes. The message was delivered, and I’ve wondered how Stas feels about the fact that I can get to him. Whether his uncle really is the head of a crime syndicate. What he thinks about his hot night in Macau going public. If he is in love with Wes, even though Wes isn’t in love with him.

I keep telling myself the situation with Wes and Stas is none of my business and not my job to handle. And yet, I also can’t separate Wes or Stas from Martine. There are so many pieces to this puzzle and so many answers I don’t have. I would never admit it out loud, but I’m concerned that even with all of the contingencies and plans we’ve put together, I still have no idea what’s coming next.

After I’ve showered, changed into comfy loungewear, and settled onto the couch, I flip on the TV and choose a frothy series about women assassins in Victorian London. I’m in the midst of the third episode when my phone rings. My whole body reacts and I inhale deeply, prepared to face a new Martine emergency that will have me on yet another international flight.

So when I see that it’s my sister, my heart leaps. It’s been well over a month since we last spoke.