Headline: Gibbes Presented with Prestigious Fans Choice Autosports Award in Montreal
Mallory
If I ever have the time and money, I need to come back to the south of France and spend time here not working. It is the ultimate irony to be in such a beautiful place and be unable to enjoy it.
Despite the warnings from Sandra and the fact that I have been a good bad-employee, deliberately pulling back from posting so much material on Lennox, he continues to outshine Digby at each race even if he doesn’t win. He’s been less of an asshole to the journalists. He gives them such long, thoughtful answers that they now joke he’s been replaced by a body double. I have no choice but to fake a smile each time because he thinks he’s helping me. He spends even more time with his fans at every race. They now mob the hotels the team stays in and he stands outside until every single one has a signed item or a selfie.
Digby’s been even worse for weeks because of it. When hundreds of photos and blogs were posted of Lennox shopping in Monaco, Digby’s home race, it particularly enraged him. Digby had won that race yet all the internet and the paddock could talk about was Lennox at a freaking bookstore. Insta videos poured in of him flipping through language books because now he wants to learn Italian. Then he signed random books for people and even read to kids in the children’s section. He read. To children. In several languages.
I can’t control that the world finds that insanely attractive. They’re videos posted by the public, I can’t make them disappear. And what am I going to do, tell Lennox to kindly go back to biting everyone’s heads off and insulting reporters? Please stop being so sweet and wonderful so you don’t get us both fired?
I’m certainly not going to heap more stress into his life and tell him what Sandra has me doing. Despite Digby’s tantrums, Lennox has been happier since Scotland. He lets more things run off his shoulders, and I’m going to keep it that way.
But now that he’s showing the world a tiny fraction of the man he really is, in a misguided attempt to help me keep my job, I assume, the world has latched onto him.
It’s out of control.
So out of control that Sandra has scheduled a Skype call with me saying the topic was not an “email appropriate conversation.” Corporate speak for someone not wanting to leave a trail of evidence.
While the cars are on track qualifying at the Circuit Automobile Paul Ricard, I want to be in the garage with Matty and Jack keeping my eyes on Lennox. Instead, I am ferreted away in Lennox’s suite in the motorhome waiting for the call to come. I am a bundle of shaking nerves, and it’s not the sugar rush from all the delicious French pastries Tatiana and Francesca have been stuffing us with.
My mouth goes dry when my laptop screen finally lights up with the call notification. Coming into focus, Sandra is not pleased. Less pleased than usual, even.
I’m so frazzled I don’t even let her start, I know what this is about. “Sandra, I’m doing what you said. I can’t do anything about the fan awards or the pictures regular people post online, the blogs, the…”
“I realize,” she cuts me off waving her hands in front of my screen to stop my rambling. “They’re very unhappy, Ms. Mitchell. Very unhappy.” Of course, she means the scroogey DuPont’s and their sniveling man-child son who throws tantrums whenever he doesn’t get exactly what he wants.
“What can I do?” Lennox is going to inadvertently destroy his career at this pace, by being himself, something I encouraged him to do. I can’t bear even more humiliation heaped onto him and I’ve been running myself ragged trying to stay far away from Digby so there are no other head-smashing incidents.
If I thought Lennox was an overbearing, territorial brute before, he has really ratcheted up his overprotectiveness ever since Scotland. I am glue to Matty and Jack at each race, velcro to their sides. It’s so bad Matty asked me if I was coming with to ‘take a piss’ because I followed him absentmindedly even as he started wa
lking into the restroom.
“Mr. DuPont has requested… demanded your services,” Sandra says, rubbing her eyes as if this is as painful for her as it is for me.
“Excuse me?” My services? Like, buy me, Pretty Woman style? Is that what he did with Kate, that vile man-whore? Apparently, he can’t even get his own women, he needs to steal those from Lennox, too.
“Your social media, marketing services,” she clarifies and I let out a sigh of relief. No wait, that’s not much better! “As he explained, you must be doing such a good job that the Number One driver should have the best representation.”
“No. No, no no, Sandra.” I shake my head. “I can’t do that!”
“We have no choice, Ms. Mitchell. He…” her head swivels from side to side making sure no one can hear her and then she whispers, “he has the Board in his pocket, Mallory. With the recent err, ‘racing incident’ in the hallway, we have no choice.”
“Lennox will kill him! Literally, kill him!” I’m not even exaggerating. I can picture Lennox burying Digby in the Highpoint Cemetery and god help me, I’d help him dig the grave.
“Be smart,” Sandra sneers. “You think that’s not exactly what he’s banking on?” She taps her pen on her desk, takes her glasses off and rubs her eyes before continuing. “You’ll do social engagement and sponsor events with both drivers. We can increase your salary…”
“I don’t want more money, Sandra! I c-can’t do this to Lennox!” My stupid, stupid eyes are filling up with moisture and I’m so frustrated. I promised him I would stay away from Digby. I learned long ago that life is not fair but this is unreal.
“I warned you not to get involved,” she shakes her head but it’s not disappointment, I don’t think. It’s sympathy. “Mr. DuPont has been given your phone number, email, and he’ll be expecting your assistance effective immediately.”
Sandra wishes me good luck before she disconnects and I laugh. Luck, ha. Maybe I should have put more coins on the stones at Fairy Glen.
I pace back and forth in the tiny suite of the motorhome and stress eat all the little chocolates on Lennox’s desk from some fan. Sorry kind stranger, but he can’t eat them anyway and I need them.
He can’t find out about this, he just can’t. If he retaliates, Celeritas will terminate his contract, which is exactly what Digby wants, and then he’s done driving, forever. Just like my NBA client who went too far and never recovered, Celeritas will kick him to the curb and he’ll never recover. There are only ten teams on the grid and severing a contract will blackball him.
I’m sick with the thought, I can’t stand keeping secrets from him. He’s been so honest with me, showed me his scars. But that’s why I have no choice. I won’t open those wounds up, dig my fingers inside, and aggravate the injury. I have to hide this from him, too, for his own good.