Chasing Daisy

the last five months, because until early November when we end up back in Brazil for his home-town race, we’ll be seeing a LOT of each other.
    There’s no getting away from it – I’m going to have to face him sometime – but just not now. Please, not now.
    ‘Daisy!’ Frederick barks. ‘I need you to run an errand.’
    My boss! My saviour! Thank you, thank you, thank you!
    ‘The look of relief on your face,’ Holly comments with wry amusement as I scuttle away in the direction of the kitchen.
    ‘Where are you going?’ Frederick asks in bewilderment as I duck under the arm he was resting against the doorframe.
    ‘Just in here!’ I reply brightly, waving my hands around to denote the kitchen, which is excellently out of Luis’s line of vision.
    Frederick looks perplexed, but continues. ‘Catalina wants some popcorn. And I don’t have any goddamn popcorn. Go and get some from one of the stands.’ He hands me some money.
    ‘Yes, boss!’ I beam.
    He gives me an odd look as I hurry out of the kitchen and back through the hospitality area with my head down.
    Catalina is Simon’s wife. Simon Andrews is the big boss and he owns the team. But Frederick – Frederick Vogel – is my immediate boss. He’s the head chef.
    Frederick is German, by the way. And Catalina is Spanish. Simon is English and Holly, while we’re at it, is Scottish. What a multi-national bunch we are.
    The Australian Grand Prix takes place in Albert Park, and yesterday I spotted a popcorn stand being set up on the other side of the shimmering green lake. I grab one of the team scooters and start it up.
    It’s Friday, two days before race day, but the track is still packed with spectators, here to watch the practice sessions. I drive carefully, breathing in the fresh, sunny air. It’s the end of March, and unlike Europe and America which are swinging into spring, Australia is well into autumn. We’ve been told to expect rain this weekend, but right now there’s barely a cloud in the sky. Melbourne’s city skyscrapers soar up in the distance ahead of me, and behind me, I picture the ocean sparkling cool and blue.
    I can smell the popcorn stand before I see it, salt and butter wafting towards me on a light breeze. Mmm, junk food . . . I wonder if I could also squeeze some for myself in the scooter’s storage box? I consider it while the guy behind the counter scoops the fluffy, white kernels into a bag, but eventually decide it’s a no-go.
    I pay for the popcorn and stuff Frederick’s change into my pocket, then unlock the box under my seat. Hmm, this popcorn is going to spill out – the bag’s full to the brim and I need to be able to fold the top over. I suppose I could ask for another bag to wrap over the top . . . Or . . . I could eat some! Yes, that’s the only logical conclusion.
    I lean up against the scooter and delve in. The guy at the popcorn stand is watching me with amusement. What the hell are you staring at, buster? My glare wards off his gaze, but he’s still grinning. I stuff another handful into my mouth. It’s so warm and so . . . perfectly popped. I’ve probably eaten enough, now. Maybe just a little more . . . Right, that’s it. Stop, now. Now! Regretfully I close the bag and store it under my seat, then start up the scooter.
    If there are this many people here now, it’s going to be packed on race day, I think to myself as I swerve around a group of slow-walking pedestrians. All of a sudden I spot two men wearing our team’s overalls up ahead, and just as I go to turn a corner in front of a set of grandstands, I realise they’re racing drivers, one of whom is Luis.
    My back wheel catches some grit and slides out from under me as I take the corner. Suddenly the whole scooter is skidding and I can hear the grandstand half-full of spectators gasp in unison as I shoot across the gravel in front of them.
    ‘Whoa!’ Will Trust – the team’s other driver – jumps out of the way, but Luis stays put, frozen in a crouch as though expecting to catch me.
    ‘JESUS CHRIST!’ I hear an Australian woman cry as my bike comes to a stop right in front of him. ‘She almost ran over Luis Castro!’
    She pronounces the name, ‘Lewis’, not ‘Lew-eesh’, as she’s supposed to. I may not like the jackass, but it still bugs me when people can’t say his name properly.
    ‘That’ll make a nice change from him running over me, then,’ I snap, getting to my feet.
    I immediately realise my mistake. That