Chasing Daisy

my face. The door to Luis’s room opens and he comes out with his head down. And then he looks up and sees me.
    ‘Daisy? Are you alright?’
    I shake my head quickly as my nose starts to prickle. He ushers me into his room. My hand is shaking so I put his plate of food down onto the table with a clatter.
    ‘Is that for me?’ he asks.
    I nod, silently, unable to meet his eyes.
    ‘I’m not hungry.’
    ‘You have to eat!’ I exclaim, suddenly cross.
    ‘I don’t want to eat,’ he replies nonchalantly.
    ‘Well, tough! Because you’re going to!’
    He raises one eyebrow at me with amusement. ‘And how are you going to manage that, exactly?’
    ‘I’ll shove it down your throat if you’re not careful,’ I warn.
    He sighs and collapses onto the sofa. ‘Give me one piece of bacon,’ he demands. I grab the plate and sit down next to him, picking out the crispiest piece I can see. He takes it from me, reluctantly, and chews along the edge of it before finally popping it into his mouth.
    ‘If João could see me now . . .’ he comments.
    ‘João would just be damned relieved you’re eating at all,’ I say hotly.
    He holds out his hand for another piece.
    ‘Are you coming to watch the race today?’ he asks after a moment.
    ‘I don’t know,’ I reply. ‘I don’t think so.’
    ‘Why not?’
    ‘Luis, you know why not. I’m just trying to, you know, break myself in gently.’
    He chucks the piece of bacon back onto the plate and slumps into the sofa. ‘ Fode-se ,’ he mutters.
    ‘What does that mean?’ I ask, but he ignores me. ‘Fuck it? Luis, did you just say, “fuck it”?’
    He doesn’t answer.
    ‘Well, fuck you,’ I tell him.
    ‘ Fottiti ?’ He glances at me hopefully and my face breaks into a grin.
    ‘You’re such a testa di cazzo . When are you going to have a shave?’
    He shrugs. ‘Who gives a shit?’
    ‘I do. You look weird with a beard.’
    ‘Weirdy beardy?’
    ‘Yes!’ I laugh.
    ‘I’ll have a shave if you come and watch the race.’
    My face falls and I stare at him. ‘I don’t know if I can.’
    ‘Sure you can.’ He pats me casually on the knee before standing up and stretching his arms over his head. His T-shirt rides up and I can see his far-too-skinny torso underneath.
    ‘Eat another piece – no, two more pieces – of bacon and you’ve got yourself a deal,’ I say, joining him on his feet and offering up the plate. He gives me a wry look, but reaches down and grabs two pieces, shovelling them both into his mouth at the same time.
    ‘That’s disgusting,’ I say, grimacing at the sight. He grins at me, making it even worse. ‘Oh, stop!’ I insist, but he swallows and puts me out of my misery.
    ‘Where’s my coffee?’ he asks suddenly, looking on the table.
    ‘I didn’t bring one,’ I reply.
    ‘Jesus. And you’re supposed to be a bun tart.’
    ‘Oi!’ I go to slap him on his arm, but he blocks me. ‘I don’t know why I’ve been worrying about you, Luis Castro.’ I shake my head and start to head out of the room. He follows me.
    ‘See you in the pits in a couple of hours.’
    ‘I’ll be there,’ I promise, as a chill goes through me.
    Red, red, red, red, red, GO! I can barely make out Luis’s car so far back, but it looks like he’s overtaking several cars at the start. After a while the race positions flash up on the television screens above our heads and my thoughts are confirmed: Luis has made up four places on the grid and is now running eighth. That’s not bad. At least it’s in the points. Pierre, in the other car, is still sixth.
    Luis is now hot on the tail of Germany’s Benni Fischer in seventh place.
    ‘WHOA!’ a few people in the garages shout as he nips out from behind him and outbreaks him into a corner. Seventh!
    ‘Bloody hell!’ Holly exclaims from my side. ‘What’s gotten into him?’
    I don’t answer, just stare up at the screens in anticipation. We’re standing in Luis’s garage. I’ve made a concerted effort not to look through to Pierre’s.
    It was raining this morning, but when the race started it was dry. Suddenly the heavens open again and the mechanics go into overdrive as Luis pulls into the pits for a tyre change. Cars still wearing their ‘dry’ tyres are spinning off the track and fear begins to creep back into my heart.
    A few laps later and on his ‘wet’ tyres, Luis has climbed another two places on the grid. He’s now running sixth and Pierre has climbed a place into fifth.