Chasing Daisy

on Saturdays and Sundays we wear black skirts with white trim and gold silk shirts. The outfits look better than they sound. And if you lose an item of clothing or sell it on eBay, you’re in serious trouble. In fact, one girl last year got the sack for it.
    The other things you must absolutely not lose are your race credentials. They’re a bit like ski passes. They hang around your neck and you have to swipe them to get through the security gates into the paddock area. The paddock is where the hospitality suites and garages are situated – areas which are strictly forbidden to the general public – but our passes are access-all-areas. They’re like gold dust – each team only gets a certain number of passes like this, so I know how lucky I am.
    The people on the grid are thinning out because it’s almost time for the race to start. I take one last look at Will’s car and manage to spot his navy blue and silver helmet in the cockpit. He’s already strapped in. Holly and I hurry back to the garages along with swarms of team members vacating the starting grid and stand in front of the television screens. The sound of the engines is deafening as the twenty-odd drivers set off on the warm-up lap, zigzagging from side to side along the straights to heat up their tyres. Finally they file around the last corner onto the pit straight and take their positions on the grid. The atmosphere is tense as the five traffic lights above the starting line glow red, red, red, red, red, then they go out and it’s GO!
    Will has a good start and takes the first corner without too much trouble, but the driver in fourth place – a Canadian called Kit Bryson – nips up the inside and swipes second place from under Luis’s nose, relegating him down to third. Over the next few laps, Will starts to pull away from the pack, but then there’s an accident halfway down the field and the safety car is brought out as a cautionary measure. The safety car slows the drivers down so the track can be cleared of crash debris and consequently the gap between Will and Kit Bryson is closed as the pack tightens up. When the flag goes green and the racing kicks into gear again, Will manages to keep his lead, but there’s a problem a few laps later. Smoke is coming from the back of Will’s car and the sight of it makes several of our mechanics curse. They hurry outside to the pit lane, but Will doesn’t even make it around the last corner before his engine gives up. He pulls into one of the gravel pits – designed to slow down the cars that have run off the track – and we watch on the screens as he gets out of the car and track marshals swarm over it.
    Simon is sitting at the control desk on the pit wall in front of a bank of computers and one of the television cameras zooms in on the side of his stony face. Another screen shows Will starting the trek to the pits.
    Holly tugs on my sleeve. ‘We’d better get back,’ she says, ever the professional.
    I follow her reluctantly, wishing I could be there when Will arrives.
    Twenty minutes go by in the hospitality area and Holly and I are kept busy serving drinks and canapés to the guests watching the race on the big screens. Luis hasn’t managed to overtake Kit, but he’s given it a good shot a couple of times. I’m standing there watching the action when Will walks in. The crowd applauds him and he waves his acknowledgement, then makes his way towards his private room.
    He’s all alone. No girlfriend, not even his parents to comfort him.
    I wonder if he needs anything?
    My feet are walking in the direction of his room before I can properly stop to think about it. Even when I start to doubt my actions they just keep moving and finally I’m outside his door and my hand is lifting up to knock. . .
    What am I doing?
    The door opens and he’s standing there, his overalls stripped down to his waist and his naked chest gleaming with sweat.
    ‘Er, hi.’ He regards me warily.
    ‘Sorry to bother you,’ I quickly tell him, the words stumbling out of my mouth. ‘I was just wondering if you wanted me to get anything for you. A drink, some food, some clean clothes . . .’
    ‘Actually, I can’t find my team shirt. There was a whole stack of them here, somewhere.’ He glances around his room.
    ‘Shall I take a look?’ I ask.
    He stands aside and waves me in. The drivers’ rooms at the various tracks around the world are not big, but they’re big enough for the drivers to relax in and get