The Untouchable (27 page)

Chapter Fifty-One

Race direction suggested cancelling the race, but Magrit stepped in, saying that was the last thing Hans—any of them—wanted. Marco, stricken, subdued like he’d been tranquilized, put on his leathers, added a black armband and reported to the garage. After a minute’s silence in the golden, spring sunshine, grief running in the capacity crowd like a sombre tide, standing in their thousands, paying tribute to a talented rider who’d died far too young, the bikes took off on the sighting lap, the screech of power forcing a fraction of normality and reality into race day.

Marco, on the front row, in second position, started badly. He fell back on the first corner, but after six laps, his ferocious determination pushed him up four places. Rosy had no doubts that day. Marco would win. He would win for Hans. There would be no falls or crashes, no clashes, no running wide, no technical problems. She knew.

He won. The chequered flag swirled as he blasted over the finish line, habitual challengers Savage, West, and Miguel nowhere near his slipstream. He rode a slow victory lap, only raising his head, hand on his heart, when he passed the grandstands housing Hans’s fan club. Later, after a subdued ceremony on the podium during which champagne was opened but not sprayed or drunk, merely used in sombre toasts, Hans’s crew chief opened the garage so fans could pay homage to Hans’s reserve bike. Polished and perfect, it stood on a stand in the middle of the floor, cordoned off with red ropes. The one on which he’d been killed had been sent to the scrapheap. No one had the heart to salvage what little hadn’t been damaged.

That night, Marco came back to the truck after midnight. Rosy unable to sleep, heard the bedroom door close quietly. She sat up, hearing voices. Zavi, soothing, and Marco, distraught. Torn, she lay back on the pillows. What could she do? She had witnessed Marco’s first victory of the season, but it had coincided with one of the lowest points in his life. Complicated. Only time could heal something like that. Time and hard work. She could do nothing, apart from be there, and that’s what she did best
—
that’s all she did
—
at the moment. Be there for Marco.

Hours later, he came to her, getting under the duvet, wrapping his arms and legs around her, his head on her breasts. She held him, saying nothing, stroking his face while he cried.

Thank God for the two-week break before the next race.

***

A week later, in the Villa Diana, Marco put on his never-worn dark suit, a sober shirt, a black silk tie, and black brogues.

“You don’t have to come,” he said to Rosy. “I know how hard it’ll be for you.”

“I want to.” In plain black dress, shoes and a hat with a small veil, Rosy went with Marco, just for the day, to Amsterdam, for Hans Kirkman’s funeral.

In a packed cathedral, Rosy took her seat in a pew halfway down the outside aisle, alone in the dark shadow of an immense pillar, unremarkable in a sea of black dotted with hundreds of pale faces. Waiting for the coffin to arrive, head down, she saw a movement out of the corner of her eye.

“Zavi,” she whispered. “Shouldn’t you be doing something else? Be somewhere else?”

“Marco asked me to look after you. To make sure you were okay.”

“Where is he?”

“Outside, waiting for the coffin.”

Rosy nodded, gripping the hand Zavi offered until her knuckles were as white as her face, concentrating on the person sitting in the pew in front of her. Roman West, bowed, his hands over his eyes.

After an eternity of silence, the congregation rose. The coffin arrived, borne by Marco and five other men Rosy recognized from the team and Hans’s family. A large spray of red flowers lay on the top, tied with billowing black silk ribbons—the DRT colours of which Hans had been so proud. Marco, his face pale and set, moved with the others, slowly up the aisle, eyes fixed straight ahead, bearing the weight of the world.

Behind the coffin came Magrit, Hans’s younger brother and others, arm in arm in black, grief stricken.

I’m used to it. He knows what he’s doing.

Rosy, unable to watch, to see more, lowered her head as a message lodged in her subconscious, one of those warnings that store themselves for later.

“Grief is the price we pay for love,” the priest intoned.

She sniffed. Zavi handed her a fresh tissue and squeezed her hand. She lifted her head and stared at the altarpiece of Jesus in his mother’s arms.

The most exciting part of Hans’s life, the part that made him come alive, had killed him.

Chapter Fifty-Two

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It’s been the most terrible week, Fi, I can’t even begin to describe the heavy mood in the paddock, or my own feelings. Marco’s a wreck; the whole team’s devastated. As for Hans’s garage, you can just imagine.

We went home, briefly. How lovely it was to see Leo, all jolly and smiling, without the faintest clue we’re all carrying such pain. He was a joy, and he put things back in perspective, just a little.

Miss you.

Rosy X

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Charlie says it’s very rare that a rider is killed. Nevertheless, it’s horrible, and a tragic waste of young life. Be strong sweetheart. We’re all thinking of you and Marco.

Otherwise, how are you? Send me some news.

Love you,

Fiona.

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How am I? What can I say? It’s a funny life. I still don’t quite know what I’m doing here, apart from being close to the man I’m mad about. It’s crazy
—
we’ve been to Rome, Aragon, The Hague, Le Mans, and the next stop is the Czech Republic. In between, whenever we can
—
correction: whenever HE can, we go back to Villa Diana
—
the best part, if I’m honest.

Marco took my advice to heart and there’s a huge renovation project going on at the villa, all because Leo needs a secure home. Except he’s kind of missed the point. Leo needs PARENTS for that. Stable ones. But I guess it’s a start, and the place was falling apart anyway. Leo is beautifully looked after by Mel, and is the smiley-est baby I’ve ever come across! Do you know, he’s almost six months old? I can’t believe how he’s grown. Mel sends us photos of him every week and it’s like looking at a different child every time.

I asked, okay begged, Marco to let Mel and Leo travel with us. He almost cracked, but in the end it was a very firm No. Not fair, because Ricky, Mel’s boyfriend, works as a physio
on one of the British teams and travels everywhere with them, us, so we’d be one big happy family in a way.

After the race in the Czech Republic we go to the UK for the classic that is Silverstone and then the entire paddock loads itself onto special chartered airliners
—
that’s all the people, trucks, bikes, garages packed away into giant containers, motor
homes, everything − and we fly to Chicago to start the American chapter of the season. I’m going to try to get back to London before that, for my birthday (hint)
—
maybe duck out of the Czech trip if Marco agrees. I’ll keep you posted.

As you’ve probably gathered, I fit in and around Marco’s life
—
a life that consists of fitness training, practice, and racing. Also, there’s the specialized diet, constant public functions and events, the meeting of contractual agreements, including modelling (I kid you not - spot Marco next month in the Italian Vogue underwear feature), and
—
tricky
—
getting a good night’s sleep. He sleeps a LOT. Sleep rests, heals, refreshes the body, and clears the mind. Worst…
worst
is that he doesn’t drink; he tops out at about a glass a week while I eke a bottle. Desperate times. I LONG for our frequent after-work happy hours at The King’s Head.

Re the meticulous diet, guess who doesn’t eat cake? Right. Marco. Hans always did though. Luckily, the two ex-racing champs in the commentary box don’t give a muffin about their waistlines, likewise most of the crew in Marco’s garage, and his staff
—
so I’ve got willing guinea pigs at least. One advantage, I’ve got loads of creative development time in the kitchen, even if it is in the back of a truck.

Marco’s fitness training consumes every spare minute of every day. Imagine muscling a 1000cc (that’s big), 330 pound rocket-on-wheels around a twisty track with all the hounds of hell chasing you at 100—200 mph. Moto GP riders are among the fittest athletes. They have to be agile,
and aerobically fit, maintaining excellent ability to outrun fatigue and recover quickly so their performance isn’t reduced, so their reflex actions, judgements, speed, positioning, all that, aren’t affected. If that isn’t enough, they have to be anaerobically fit, too
—
that’s the ability to work physically at high intensity.

In the gym (he’s always in the gym), it’s all about core strength, posture, and joint strength, and super-toning the muscles of the hands, stomach, forearms and inner thighs (all that gripping). Back, and especially head and neck muscles have to be in superb condition too, to withstand the high-speed cornering forces. It never ends. But I’m not complaining about everything. On the bright side, Marco is a perfect physical specimen!

Fit as he is, yesterday, after practice, he got off his bike completely breathless, his hair DRENCHED in sweat. Turns out they’d clocked his pulse rate at 190 during the session. He has a resting pulse of 44, so don’t tell me that’s healthy.

Then there’s the yoga, the physio, the medical examinations. Marco rarely falls, but he did last week, in practice, really hard. How he wasn’t hurt, I can’t imagine, but I went into total shock because I’ve never seen it happen live—the loss of control at high speed, the cloud of dust in the runoff, the tension and silence in the garage while the dust clears and the medics rush in. I had to go and sit in a dark corner for a while to get back to myself. Felt sick for two days. Marco brushed it off as ‘nothing’ when I tried to talk about it.

Something else: he’s a born winner. Winning is everything, while second is nothing. It affects his mood.

Do you remember Marco’s friend, Zavi
—
the guy you met in London that night when Marco came to Red Velvet? He tries to come to all the European races and when he’s with Marco, Marco’s different. He’s calmer, easier within himself, not as withdrawn
—
it’s like Zavi’s his muse, not me (does that sound mad?).

So, how am I? Okay, I’m homesick. Not bored, but homesick and, if I’m honest, a bit lonely. I guess it’s a little unrealistic to beg you to come and see me. That’s why I’m going to try to get to London, shortly.

Love Rosy.

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Are you sure you’re not in love with Zavi? Of course I remember him. He iced cookies with Mary.

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Ha ha! No. He has a girlfriend. He’s a real friend, though, and we both love Marco – that’s the connect. That’s all.

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What about fans? Does the hunk get mobbed wherever you go? Do you?

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Female obsession with Marco is scary
—
last week some screaming teenage fans toppled a barrier and literally trampled each other to get to him. My instinct was to run but he just stood there, smiling, signing autographs on anything and everything that got thrust at him. They grabbed him, touched him, jostled him. Some girls were crying hysterically like they’d seen the face of Jesus in a pancake. It was disturbing. We got totally separated in the crowd. I turned my back and strolled off, heart hammering, and escaped into the VIP area, shaking like a jelly. Not funny. Also very strange to see the object of my desire as public property, being mauled.

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Can’t Zavi help you? He’s lived that life, still does to a certain degree. Surely he can advise you how to cope with the pressures?

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Maybe, but right now Zavi
—
poor guy
—
is in hospital in Milan with a vile infection. I don’t want to whinge at him. In fact I don’t want to whinge, and I am, aren’t I? I love Marco and I’m going to give it all I’ve got.

PS. Our six-week trial period has come and gone, forgotten. Is that a good thing?

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That’s what I like to hear. And, yes, it’s a good thing you didn’t count down the days to six weeks. There’s only one thing to do if you think you can’t live with Marco. Come home to London see if you can live without him! LOL

Fi XXX

***

The oven timer pinged. Rosy signed off, got up from the desk and went into the kitchen. Opening the oven she pulled out a tray of biscuits and placed them on a rack to cool. The start of the Halloween range, step one, complete.

She’d been negative about life with Marco in the exchange of emails with Fiona. Of course she couldn’t tell Fiona
everything
, like how astonishingly sexy Marco was, how breathtakingly fabulous the sex was! Did that mean everything was negative, apart from the sex? Apart from the time they spent together at night, in bed? Although, not always in bed. That morning on the beige carpet, for example, when she was on her hands and knees looking for a fallen earring, he came to help her, found it, and when she kissed him to thank him, things had gone from good, to better, to best in an extremely short space of time.

“Oh! Oh!” she gasped.

“Am I squashing you?”

“No...it’s just a...a...floorgasm!” she cried.

They shrieked at the awfulness of the joke and clung to each other, crying with laughter. They had rolled apart, lain side by side on the carpet, holding hands, her skirt around her waist, Marco naked, and burst out laughing again. It was more intimate and sexy than the sex.