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clap as I approach them watching the race on the big screens. I’m confused for a moment because they can’t be that hungry and then I realise Will has come out of his room behind me. That could have been way embarrassing; I almost smiled and curtsied. I stand back and let him shake hands with the sponsors, and the air is full of the sound of their commiserations. A bullish American man turns to me and shouts, ‘Give the man something to eat, for Christ’s sake!’ before cracking up laughing at his own non-wit. Will smirks at me as he relieves my tray of a prawn skewer.
    The laps count down towards the finish and Luis is still running in second place, although Kit has managed to put some distance between them. The pit stops have come and gone, but Luis hasn’t managed to close the gap and it looks like he – and the team – will walk away from Australia with eight championship points. We would have received ten for a win, and as it is, Will gets nothing.
    I pause for a break to watch the cars go round the last few laps. It must be hard for Will to sit here and watch his team-mate walk away with the glory. It’s Luis’s first year in Formula 1 and this result is going to create a real buzz around him.
    Will stands up in front of me. Most of the spectators turn to stare at him.
    ‘I’d better go join the team in the pits,’ he says.
    The most important sponsors are in the garages already, so the majority of people stay put in their seats, looking sorrowful at the sight of the team’s most famous driver departing. He spins around and comes face to face with me.
    ‘Daisy, are you coming to the pits?’ I hear Holly call, and look over my shoulder to see she’s just come from the kitchen, which means Frederick has given us the go-ahead.
    ‘Er, yeah, sure!’ I call back, distractedly side-stepping to let Will past. But he calmly indicates for me to go first, so I nervously lead the way out of the hospitality area. The three of us walk across the grass and asphalt to the pits while I desperately try to think of something to say. The garage looms just metres away and I want to kick myself because nothing comes to mind.
    He. Has. A. Girlfriend.
    Yes, yes, apart from that. Too late, we’re here.
    A few mechanics call Will over to the television screens. Holly and I tag along to watch the last couple of laps. Finally the black and white chequered flag waves to denote the finish and everyone in Luis’s side of the garage cheers and embraces, delighted with their second-place result. Will’s side of the garage is more restrained, but they all clap politely.
    We run outside to watch the victory lap and wait for Luis to pull in. He leaps out of the car and bounds over to the waiting mechanics for a massive group hug. I’m in the middle of the throng, getting pulled this way and that, and it’s easy to get swept away in the mood of the moment. The thought occurs to me that if Luis hadn’t messed up his start, he would have won. Maybe he should cut out the late nights and partying . . . I wonder if Simon is also thinking the same thing.
    We go excitedly en masse to witness the handing out of the trophies and Holly and I squeal as the drivers on the podium spray champagne over us and the crowd below. Finally they file inside for the press conference. I look around but can’t see Will, then I notice him being interviewed by a camera crew. He looks serious. Professional. At that moment he glances my way, and as our eyes meet, he seems to falter for a split-second. He quickly turns back to the interviewer and continues, but as Holly and I return to the garages to watch the press conference on the TV screens, I’m too caught up in my thoughts to concentrate.
    Hours later, when we’re in the middle of a mass clear-up session, Simon calls me in to the directors’ suite. Holly and Frederick look at me in alarm as I hurry after him, terrified he’s going to fire me for damaging one of the scooters. Inside the suite, he