Looking around to find a safe spot from which to watch the race, where she’d be out of the way but still get a good view, Gloria continued through the pits. It was then she saw him. Tucked away at the end of the row, his height and his dirty-blond hair caught her eye, and that was before she realised he was probably a good candidate for an interview. He had a tiny team of just two men, who on further inspection were likely family members—there was a definite resemblance.

The racer, clad in black and white leathers which had only one logo on them—compared to all the others, who had more logos than leather visible—was clearly happy to get his hands dirty as he performed what her untrained eye assumed were final checks on his bike. The lurid green and black Kawasaki was also noticeably devoid of sponsorship badges. So he didn’t have companies throwing their marketing budgets at him, and his team was… compact, to say the least. Was he the underdog she’d been looking for?

Casually moving closer, she pasted a neutral smile on her face as she hovered nearby, hoping to pick up a snippet of chatter that might come in useful later when she tried to engage the racer in conversation. Despite the small team, however, they were all business, and soon the racer—whom she’d internally dubbed as ‘19’, taken from the number emblazoned onto his motorbike—had thrown one long leg over the bike, pulled on his helmet and gloves, and was ready to go.

An unintelligible announcement rang out on the PA system, but understanding it didn’t seem to matter. Everyone that mattered knew what it meant. Engines revved and tyres squealed as the racers made their way out onto the track.

In spite of her previous disinterest, a frisson of excitement ran through Gloria’s body. Maybe the reason she’d never been interested in sport before was because she’d never attended a live event. Watching this sort of thing on the television just didn’t do anything for her—she never found herself rooting for anyone, or caring about results, so it all seemed pretty pointless. But maybe the remove of watching on screen was the reason for her dispassion.

Being here, in the thick of it all, seeing the preparation—albeit briefly—and taking in the sights, sounds and atmosphere, had already piqued her interest, and they hadn’t even started the race yet.

Graeme raised his eyebrows. “I’m an editor, not a dictator. But come on, Gloria, do me a favour here. Like I said, there’s no one else to take his place—you’re the only one with time in your schedule. If I’m not mistaken, the stuff you’re currently working on isn’t time-sensitive. Sunday’s race, however, is.” He leaned forward and put his elbows on the desk, then flashed her a smile. “We’ll even put you up in a nice hotel, right near to the track. One little article, Gloria. You’ll be saving my life. Please.”

Gloria knew when she was beaten. Graeme wouldn’t force her, she knew that, but it was clearly very important to him. And he’d never asked her to do something like this before—he was generally very laid back, and let her get on with writing pretty much whatever she wanted to. So one article out of her comfort zone—albeit way out of her comfort zone—was the least she could do. “All right,” she said resignedly. “I’ll do it, for you. But you have to give me a full briefing on what exactly you’re looking for. The last thing I want is to end up writing something where I’ve taken completely the wrong angle.

“And,” she added, “where the hell is Donington Park, anyway?”

Graeme’s expression turned despairing. “In the Midlands, Gloria. Near Derby and Nottingham. North of Watford Gap.”

“Bloody hell, that’s miles away! Have I got to drive? I’ll need a pool car.”

“Drive, get the train, hell, you can even fly. The circuit’s next door to a bloody airport. I don’t care, as long as you go, all right?”

She folded her arms. “The train will be fine. Though a first class ticket wouldn’t go amiss.”

Graeme rolled his eyes. “Done.”

Gloria Heath gaped at her boss, Graeme, unsure if she’d heard him correctly. No, no, she couldn’t have heard him correctly, because she thought he’d said he wanted her to go and cover the first round of the British Superbikes at Donington Park. She shook her head and chuckled. He must have said The Great British Bake Off. That sounded similar, didn’t it?

Graeme frowned. “Something funny, Gloria?”

She snapped her focus back to her editor and smiled. “Sorry. I must be going deaf, or mad, because I thought you said you wanted me to cover some motorbike race.”

His expression was stony. “I did,” he replied coolly. “Do you have a problem with that?”

Blinking, she opened her mouth, then closed it again. Narrowing her eyes, she said, “But I’m a lifestyle reporter. I cover—”

“I’m well aware of what you cover, Gloria. I’ve been your boss for three years—don’t you think I’m familiar with what you write by now?” He sighed. “I know it’s not your usual thing, and is way out of your comfort zone, but don’t you think a change would be nice? A bit of a challenge for you?”

Gulping, she replied, “A ch-challenge? Graeme… did I do something wrong?”

He rolled his eyes. “It’s an article, Gloria, not a bloody punishment. No, you didn’t do anything wrong. Your work is exemplary—always has been, and I’m sure it always will be. But I have one of the sports writers off sick, with no one else available to take his place, and not covering the first round of the British Superbikes is tantamount to blasphemy for our motorsport readers.”

A feeling of dread settled in her stomach, making her nauseous. “Do I… have a choice?”