Rebel

Jared Westbrook was supposed to die today.

The television doesn’t seem to know which story it prefers, but it chooses me.

“Maude Falkenberg takes the British Grand Prix after a closely fought battle at Silverstone. The 24-year-old Scottish driver came through the final sector ahead of her nearest rival, German driver Lukas Weber, to secure another win in what has already been an extraordinary Formula One season. Weber kept within striking distance right to the final lap, but Falkenberg held him off and crossed the line just under two seconds clear. The result adds another triumph to an impressive campaign for the Falkenberg heiress, who continues to establish herself among Formula One’s leading names.”

I lower the volume and walk into the trophy study, leaving the door ajar.

Racing trophies line the shelves. Medals from my time with the Lady Margaret Hall women’s football team, framed photographs, and old competition numbers fill the spaces between them. Podium photographs from my racing career hang alongside pictures from those years. Ribbons and rosettes from show-jumping events are tucked away in the chest of drawers, while silver cups rest beside photographs of horses I’ve long since stopped riding.

The newest prize sits on the table in front of me. I stare at it as the broadcast replays the run to the chequered flag.

“Much of Falkenberg’s sporting pedigree can be traced to her mother, Queen Odette of Svarnia. Even before ascending the throne beside King Edmund, Her Majesty was already a familiar figure across several distinct worlds. She competed at the highest level of Formula One, maintained a career in competitive equestrianism, and worked internationally as a model, all the while overseeing the Falkenberg’s jewellery house and its extensive private holdings.”

What in the devil possessed them to include that? I haven’t the faintest.

“The Falkenberg name has long been associated with exceptional jewellery, rare stones and bespoke pieces, with Her Majesty continuing to take an active role in the family’s interests. Yet it was her ability to move between the racetrack, equestrian circuit, fashion world, and the family business without appearing to sacrifice one for another that made her such an extraordinary figure.”

And what, exactly, has that got to do with the whole business?

“Perhaps, then, it is hardly surprising that her daughter has inherited the same appetite for competition. Whether Maude Falkenberg will one day eclipse her mother’s sporting legacy remains to be seen. At only 24, however, she is already giving the world plenty of reason to wonder.

I swear, this is beginning to grate.

“Falkenberg has attracted almost as much attention away from the circuit as she has on it. Several years ago, she made headlines across Svarnia when she formally withdrew from royal duties, stepping away from her position within the Crown and choosing to live publicly under her mother’s Falkenberg name. A princess voluntarily relinquishing the privileges and obligations attached to her position was hardly an ordinary occurrence, particularly within a reigning royal family. Falkenberg has offered little explanation beyond her desire to build a life of her own, and the matter has endured as a subject of fascination ever since.”

And they call this sports news? Och, splendid.

My phone rings. Father’s name appears on the caller ID. Of all people, eh?

“You actually raced.”

“Yes.”

“After everything I’ve said to you, you still insist on behaving like this?”

“Sure, why not? I don’t remember asking for your permission.”

“Don’t be insolent,” he threatens.

“Then don’t ask questions you know the answer to,” I fire back.

“Do you have any idea how reckless you look?”

“I’ve been called worse.”

“This isn’t some harmless little pastime, Maude. Every time you step into that car, you drag the Midways name into it, and instead of conducting yourself like a woman with some sense, you carry on like an overindulged brat who thinks a podium excuses everything.You’re far too old for this childish behaviour. You have a degree you were warned against pursuing, a career you were told to reconsider, and responsibilities you still seem determined to treat as optional—”

“If you wanted obedience, you should’ve had a son. Pray tell, I was the one on the grid today, not George. She’s never been anywhere near the bloody thing. If the Midways name has found its way into the mud, Father, I must say, you’ve done a brilliant job of putting it there yourself.”

“Don’t even start, you fool! Have you forgotten you’re the first girl in this family? You were meant for marriage, for a life where you could represent this family properly and stand beside the right man. Your mother and I—”

I snort. “She isn’t my mother.”

“Watch your mouth.”

“No, watch yours. You don’t get to dress this up as some respectable family arrangement and expect me to play along with it. And for the love of all that’s holy, don’t make it sound like I was raised for the sole purpose of being handed to some man!” I reply through gritted teeth,

“That’s not what I said—”

“That is exactly what you said.”

“You know perfectly well what your position requires—”

“Yeah, but pretending that your mistress is my mother just because you’ve decided she fits more neatly into the family picture than the woman who actually gave birth to me isn’t part of my obligation.”

“Don’t take that tone with me, girl.”

“I’ll take whatever tone I please.”

“You are becoming intolerably arrogant, you ungrateful—”

“I wonder where I got that from,” I purse my lips.

“Are you really going to make this difficult, Maddy?”

“Good night, Father.”

I end the call and decide I still like the way he sounds. It is almost impressive how irritating a person can be without ever raising their voice. My father, for example, could insult you into the ground and maintain such impeccable manners that anyone listening in would take him for a gentleman.

I shake my head and stride back into the living room, dropping onto the sofa to pour myself a flute of Louis Roederer Cristal. I bought it myself on the way back, along with strawberries, crisps, two blocks of cheese and enough bread to make tomorrow’s breakfast without leaving the house.

I cross my legs and take a sip. The footage shows the switchback I pulled on Lukas, allowing him to take the corner prior to my cutting back and slipping past him. I have to admit, that was rather satisfying.

I can’t help grinning.

The champagne has gone flat by the time someone knocks.

There is no mistaking who it is the instant I twist the knob. It’s late, and only one person has any business being here.

“Hi,” Eleanor greets me. She’s still wearing the same clothes she had on earlier, her hair slightly undone, her handbag hanging from her shoulder like she’s forgotten it’s there.

“Hey.” I relieve her of her coat.

“Sorry,” she mutters.

“For what?” I lead her to the kitchen.

“Missing your win.”

“That’s fine,” I assure her. “I won either way.”

That gets a weak laugh out of her.

“How is he?” I redirect the subject.

Her face changes. “They’ve taken him in,” she sighs. “They’re still checking him.”

“Right.” I recall the crash—the screech of tyres, the sharp crack of metal, the force of the impact rattling through the car. I hadn’t seen much beyond the barrier in front of me. Mostly, I remember the noise. “You want some?” I hold up the bottle.

Eleanor nods and sits at the counter. I pour the champagne into a saucer glass and slide it towards her.

“They said he’s lucky.”

“That’s good.”

Seems like Jared Westbrook is harder to kill than I gave him credit for.

“They found injuries that weren’t from the crash.”

My forehead creases. “What?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, isn’t that interesting?”

She ignores it.

“The doctor said there were signs he’d been hurt before the crash. His ribs were bruised and sore, his cheekbone was puffed up, and he’d split his lip. There were abrasions along his forearms too.”

“And what does that suggest?”

“They think he was in a fight.”

“Preceding the race?”

“Yes,” she gasps. “Last night, they believed.” She looks down at the glass. “Dr. Whitmore told us the marks looked like they’d happened several hours in the run-up to him taking to the track.”

I set the bottle down. “He shouldn’t have been racing, then.”

“No, he shouldn’t.” Her fingers tighten around the stem.

“Is he awake?”

“Earlier, yes. I don’t know now.”

I twirl my drink, regarding her as she absentmindedly fidgets with the pendant of her necklace. The programme goes on in the sitting room until the presenter’s voice suddenly cuts out.

“Breaking news from London this evening. It has just been confirmed that Jared Westbrook, the American Formula One driver, has sadly passed away following the crash at today’s British Grand Prix. Westbrook was involved in an incident with French driver Étienne Moreau during the closing stages of the race, as Moreau attempted to close the gap to German driver Lukas Weber. Moreau is in a critical but stable condition and is expected to remain unconscious for the time being. Our thoughts and prayers are with Westbrook’s family, friends and colleagues at this difficult time.”

Eleanor’s fingers go slack.

The Baccarat slips from her hand and shatters against the floor.

She is already halfway to the living room by the time the words fully register.

Eleanor is crying so hard her shoulders tremble. I perch beside her, unsure whether to say anything at all. When she wipes at her face, the sleeve of her blouse loosens from her shoulder, and I catch sight of the discolouration beneath it. Violet patches spread across her skin, some darker than others, half-hidden beneath the silk.

I examine it closely. Judging by the appearance, it couldn’t be more than a night old.

“Eleanor…”

She hastily adjusts the fabric over her shoulder.

“I don’t understand why I’m crying,” she whispers. “I don’t understand. After everything, I should be relieved. I should be—” Ellie chokes on the sentence.

She wipes at her cheeks, only for more tears to spill over. “I knew what he was like. I knew about the drugs. I knew about the fights, the people he went around with, the things he did when he was furious. I knew he was going to that underground fight last night. I knew it, and I still left.”

I squeeze her palm.

“I should’ve never left the flat. I should’ve gotten him to remain home. Maybe if I hadn’t gone to Mum’s, he wouldn’t have to… to…” She trails off. “Maybe I could’ve stopped him from coming to harm. I could’ve talked to him. I could’ve tried to fix things instead of walking away when I knew he was in a temper.”

“Oh, Ellie.”

“I don’t—I don’t understand.”

“I know.”

“He was horrible sometimes, but—”

Eleanor curls up onto the sofa, burying herself in the cushion on my lap, her tears soaking into the cashmere.

“But I love him, Maude. I really do. I don’t get it!” she growls.

“I know,” I caress her hair, inhaling every ounce of patience I have.

I don’t either.

How do you mourn someone who made you afraid to come home? How do you miss someone whose footsteps made your stomach clench? How do you grieve a pathetic specimen of a man who terrorised you?

I’ve told her she should have left sooner. She knows exactly how I feel about him, but this isn’t the right time to say it again.

I’m her friend.

Sometimes being a good friend means knowing when to speak and when to just be there. And sometimes, it means granting them the space to lament a brute you’re utterly certain will always be the same.

Morning at Ravenscraig House is much as it is most days.

The gravel drive winds between the clipped hedges, with the old stone walls stretching to the fields beyond. A few sheep graze in the distance, and one of the groundsmen is already working near the lower gardens.

I wait beside the car while Eleanor finishes gathering her things. Her suitcase appears first, wheeled over by one of the staff. Then she follows.

My driver, Sarah, a woman in her forties, approaches and unlocks the rear of my Bentley Flying Spur Mulliner.

We climb in silently.

The Bentley rolls onto the country road to Gullane. Stone walls flank the road, giving way to sprawling farmland, fields divided by hedgerows and old masonry boundaries. The coastline stretches across the horizon.

“Do you think she’ll be all right?”

“She’ll be surrounded by people,” I respond.

“That isn’t what I mean. I know she’ll have people around her. I mean her, Maddy. I kept thinking about her at the hospital last night, having to hear it all, and I wasn’t there. I should have been there.”

“You couldn’t have been.”

“I could’ve gone back.”

“It was past midnight, Eleanor.”

“I know, but—”

“And I wasn’t about to send you back to London in the middle of the night.”

We pass the Gullane Golf Club, then continue through Dirleton and North Berwick, before heading west to Edinburgh.

“I could’ve tried.”

Heaven forbid we’re entertaining this particular concern again.

“You could’ve tried, yes. And then you’d have spent half the journey exhausted and the other half wondering whether you were even doing the right thing. You didn’t know what had happened until we saw it ourselves. There was neither a warning nor time to plan anything. You can’t keep going back over the night and pretending there was some obvious decision you missed.”

“I know that. I just keep thinking about how horrible it must have been for her, with Uncle Ben in Arizona, halfway across the world, and me being the only one who could have been there for her—and I wasn’t. I don’t want her to look at me and think I should have been.”

Oh, bloody hell.

“She’s just lost her son, Ellie. Do you honestly think she’s going to be sitting there deciding whether you made enough effort to get to London after midnight? You’re putting yourself in the middle of something that has nothing to do with proving what sort of girlfriend you are.”

“That isn’t what I’m doing.”

“It is,” I counter. “You’ve been doing it since the report was aired.”

“I’m worried about her.”

“I know you’re worried about her; that’s why you’re going back while scarcely a soul beyond the estate has stirred. But you’re already trying to work out what she’ll think, what she’ll need, what you should say, what you shouldn’t say, and how you can make the whole thing easier for her before you’ve even walked into the hospital. You don’t have to arrive with the answer to something nobody can fix.”

“I just don’t want to make it worse.”

“Then don’t treat it as something you have to get right. She’s grieving. You’re grieving. You can walk in there without knowing what to say and still be there for her.”

She fiddles with her ring. “I still wish I’d been there.”

“I know you do, but wishing you’d been there doesn’t mean you failed her because you weren’t.”

Several minutes elapse to the hum of the engine.

The countryside gradually recedes as the lanes widen, traffic thickens, and Newbridge comes into view.

“I’m sorry, Maude,” Eleanor mumbles. “I didn’t mean to make it sound as if I regretted coming to celebrate with you. There was just a lot going on, and I know I’ve been rather preoccupied.”

“You’re fine, Ellie.”

She rubs her thumb over the edge of her diamond pinky signet. “I just don’t want you to think I wasn’t grateful.”

“I don’t,” I incline my head.

“Right,” she casts her eyes to the Queensferry Crossing and bites the inside of her cheek. “I’m trying. It’s just that—”

“Oh, please.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t make me hate you, Elle. Stop apologising. You’ve done considerably more irritating things than this.”

“Fine,” she chuckles.

My lashes droop.

Trauma is remarkably efficient that way. It teaches you to read displeasure before it surfaces, to apologise before you’re accused, and to mistake compliance for safety. Eleanor, meanwhile, has made quite a practice of surviving both.