#silly me just forgotten about tumblr allowing more than 10 gifs

[littlegirlinvisible]

#BAEKHONG being: comedians [x]

[redbullcateringfiction]

Chapter 5 -

Cantata

Arabella is the executive assistant for Mercedes Team Principal Toto Wolff. 10 years into her career, it looks like the tide is changing, and she's beginning to question her relationship with him. Is it something more, or nothing but an idea lingering in her head?

F/M, Fluff, Boss/Employee Relationship, Romance, Pining, Love, Slow Burn

Fifth chapter below the cut or click here for AO3

Click here for the previous chapter on Tumblr, and click here for a list of all chapters

(Total: 21735 words thus far)

Oh? The right time to use a lawyer? You little shit. I immediately went to block his number, but paused. God, maybe he was onto something. He’s right. I can’t talk about my life with anyone, and…would this contract guarantee that he couldn’t say anything? I need a lawyer to read over this contract with a lawyer. I stared at the screen without really doing anything. I felt a sudden tap on my shoulder, I looked over and saw a line of 10 or so engineers. “How’s it going, ATM?” James asked. As one of the trackside engineers, he had been one of those who gifted me the greatest gift any paddock regular can receive: A nickname. 

I suppose Toto and Bono had it easy since it really was just what they had always been called. It was, afterall, really just their names. My nickname was far less affectionate. Both representative of the way the engineers would jokingly ask me to sign off on the paychecks, since they believed I held so much power at Brackley I could do so, and of the way I was also notorious for standing right behind Toto ready to shuffle him off to his next engagement. ATM stood for “Assigned Toto Micromanager.” It did, however, make it impossible to tell over text if they were asking “at the moment” or simply calling me by name. ‘Bono is on the pit wall ATM.’ As in right now or are we just mocking me? Fuck. 

“Good, good. Let’s get the party started,” I smiled. One after another, they filtered through. Of course, at least one of them had forgotten some silly thing they couldn’t bring through customs, turning them into an international smuggler, and I into the negotiator. In many ways, this could easily be one of the silliest parts of my job. Kindly asking a customs agent to overlook the Schumacher memorabilia that brightly displayed “Marlboro” and thus consisted of cigarette advertisements was certainly not in the job description. 

“Now, why would you wear that shirt?” I asked as the offending engineer finally passed through customs.

“I didn’t know it would be a problem!” She answered, throwing up her hands.

“Well, now you do,” I replied, rolling my eyes. She looked tempted to throw me the bird. “Just throw on a sweatshirt.”

“Fine, fine,” She sighed, reaching into her bag and pulling out a sweater.

I put in my ear buds as the line finally came to a close, and I began to walk to the car. I quickly found my playlist. Unlike my father, I was not a fan of Bach, Mozart, or Schubert. Rather Ellington, Corea, and Monk graced my ears. It had pissed off my ex-boyfriend enough that he wrote a song about it. I wish though that listening to that song gave me the giggles rather than could send me into tears. Unfortunately, the song refused to leave me alone. It followed me into stores. It followed me into the paddock. It followed me into every single rewind playlist Spotify gives me every single year. No one allows me to forget that damn song. 

I ran to the car and climbed in, managing to wave down the driver. “Arabella Lazaar, right? Four seasons?” He asked. 

“Yes, yes. Thank you so much,” I answered. I quickly dialed down Toto.

“Hello?” He answered.

“I’m on my way. We have to remind the engineers about clothing requirements at customs again,” I sighed.

“Who was the offender this time?” He laughed.

“Sarah with a Schumacher Senior shirt,” I explained.

“What could be the problem-”

“Marlboro,” I interrupted.

“Ah. Got it. Well, send out the email tonight. Should I meet you in the lobby? I have you checked in already.”

“Already? Sure. I’ll be there in half an hour. Looks like traffic is a mess since everyone’s coming in for testing.”

“Not too bad, Ms. Lazaar. I can make it happen in twenty.”

“Then twenty! He says we can make it in twenty,” I explained to Toto. 

“Then twenty, I’ll see you here in twenty.” I could practically hear him smiling through the phone. “See you soon.”

“See you,” I answered. “Thank you so much.”

“No problem,” The driver answered. 

~

Cathal Lynch’s girlfriend accidentally revealed through new song

Cathal Lynch, lead singer of Irish pop-rock band Four Odd Bottles, has long kept his love life private. For the past 3 years he has referenced his girlfriend at shows and in interviews, but has never revealed her identity. Fan theories have suggested supermodels, ex-classmates, and that perhaps, she doesn’t even actually exist! However, the release of the band's newest song - 4th From the Gate - accidentally revealed her identity. 

Simple references such as “racing stars,” and “dry tires on a wet pavement,” implied to listeners that Lynch may be dating a member of the Formula 1 community. Fans further found that Cathal’s posts on Instagram seemed to be located near or close to locations where Formula 1 races had taken place. None of this directly pointed to the woman who inspires Cathal’s boisterous love songs. However, several final details collided in the perfect storm to reveal her identity.

At the recent Formula 1 Japanese Grand Prix, Lynch took a picture with now 6-time world champion  Lewis Hamilton. This picture, taken from within the garage, told many fans that Cathal Lynch was either a big fan of Mercedes-Petronas, or with the recent song, his girlfriend works for Mercedes. Fans recalled that earlier songs had referenced Cathal Lynch’s girlfriend’s long curly hair, her tanned skin, and even that she may be Dutch. In the background of this picture was Arabella Lazaar - Curly haired, medium skinned, Dutch executive assistant to Mercedes team principal Toto Wolff. 

This afternoon, Cathal Lynch half-confirmed this was a simple Instagram story that showed a long curly hair on his pillow captioned “Always leaving pieces of herself with me. Even the ones she knows I hate.” To many fans, this was all they needed to immediately determine Arabella Lazaar was the woman inspiring Cathal Lynch’s music for the past 3 years. 

Four Odd Bottle’s did not respond to our request for comment.

~

We arrived at the hotel after 10 minutes, on the dot. I thanked the driver and was sure to grab my bags that I had placed in the trunk. As soon as I walked in, Toto was practically waiting by the door. 

“Arabella, haven’t seen you in a while,” He joked. 

“Oh, those two hours must’ve been so tortuous for you,” I spoke, immediately catching myself on the basis it may have sounded just a little bit flirty. Toto didn’t seem to notice though and laughed. 

“You just know they were. Every single minute, I was thinking, oh, how will I know what I am going to do in the next 5 minutes? Oh right, she sent an email, and I am to do absolutely nothing until she tells me what to do.”

“I’m not that bad,” I defended myself.

“Whatever helps you sleep at night,” He smirked. “Let me take your bags.”

We started walking towards the elevator and he lead me to my room. “I’m right next door, so you can bother me first thing in the morning.”

“And you know I will,” I smiled, taking the key from his hand. “Has someone already checked over your room?”

“I did. I know how to look over my own room.”

“Surprising,” I sassed. I walked in and immediately went to shut the door, but toto caught it with his foot.

“Uh, sorry. Do you mind if I was to finish our earlier conversation?” He asked, sweetly offering me a smile. 

“Oh. Sure. It had already slipped my mind,” I poorly lied. It had stuck in my brain like a leech. “Did you want to step in?” Fuck, why did I say that?

“Sure, sure,” He answered, closing the door behind him. “I just wanted to apologize for interrupting your date last night. I had a few too many drinks at the event, and saw you…and I’m not sure. Something just came over me. And suddenly I recalled you heading up to the room, and I figured, why not just ask? It just wasn’t appropriate and I wanted to apologize.”

“Oh…um…no worries! It wasn’t a date,” I quickly deflected. Why did I say that? Why not just accept the apology? Klootzak. 

“It wasn’t?” Toto asked, seemingly just as surprised at my statement as me. “Oh, well good, I suppose. Not good. Just…yes, okay.”

“Yeah, I was just uh…meeting with my lawyer.”

“Your lawyer ?”

Yes, of course. That was somehow better. I’m planning on suing you, Toto Wolff.

“Just uh…with contract renewal coming up soon. He’s been my lawyer since the incident with Cathal,” I mumbled. I’m very bad at lying. “Just good to have someone on my side.”

“Oh, of course. Well, then, I’m deeply sorry for implying that you were on a date by asking if he was your boyfriend from the Christmas party,” Toto answered.

“Mauricio? No, uh, we split up shortly after that.” Please stop talking, Arabella. Why can’t I just shut up sometimes?

“That's right. Mauricio. I’m sorry about that, though.” Okay, Arabella, take a breath and think for a moment about how you’ll respond. 

“Ah, we weren’t that serious. I’m not bothered. What’s done is done,” I smiled. I do not have the heart nor emotional capacity to tell Toto that Mauricio and I dated for about 3 weeks and had already broken up when I made him come to the Christmas Party with me. I just didn’t want to look lonely. It was a nice deal though. As a massive fan of Lewis, he didn’t mind getting the opportunity to meet everyone on his team. When my ex-boyfriend and I had been together, I rarely let him come to events with me. Of course, the one time I did, all hell broke loose. That’s why I don’t date celebrities anymore. Unfortunately, it being the one time I brought someone with me to the Christmas Party, it had stuck in everyone’s brains and to this day people ask me if Mauricio and I are still together. 

“Regardless, Arabella. That was my point. I apologize,” He smiled. 

“I understand that, and I accept your apology. It really isn’t anything to apologize for though,” I explained. 

“Okay,” Toto sighed. “Can I make it up to you though?”

"Give me a day off, you mean?” I chuckled. 

“We both know you wouldn't accept that. But we have some free time tonight. In exchange for ruining your last dinner, I propose you at least let me buy you dinner. You don’t have to sit down with me or anything, but I can at least buy it for you.”

“Can I think about it?” I asked.

“Think as long as you’d like,” He conceded, throwing up his hands. “I’ll head out. If you want to take me up on the offer, just shoot me a text.”

I nodded and he left out the door. I immediately crashed onto the bed, holding my face in the pillow. Perhaps Jeffrey was right. I did, in fact, desperately need someone to talk to. I looked at the text message again and tried to use the little bit of legalese I knew to understand it. I’m nowhere near a professional but this seems reasonable enough. No part of me wants to just sign this…but what options do I have? I downloaded it and sat on it for a moment, staring at it. I decided to call Jeffrey himself. I might not know legalese but I can interpret bullshit when I hear it. 

“Oh, Arabella. I didn’t expect this,” Jeffrey answered the phone. 

“I know. But, do me a favor here,” I spluttered. “Just…explain to me what all this means. I think I get the idea, but just walk me through it, and I’ll let you know if I have any questions.”

“That’s not a problem. Go ahead. What’s your first concern?”

“I’m not sure what section 1.3 really means. I think it’s saying that your retainer is typically 50%  of expected hours, but since the expected work hours here are unlimited…then the retainer is $50,000? But also since it’s pro bono, there isn’t a retainer?”

“Basically. Here, let me walk you through it. So you see…”

~

“Cathal, I can’t do this,” I cried, burying my head in my hands. “The calling, the texting, the death threats. It just isn’t ending.” I thought I would puke as my phone just continuously buzzed. 

“I know,” He whimpered through the phone. “I’m really sorry.”

“Why did you post that stupid fucking photo?” I begged. “Everyone knows it's me.”

“How the fuck was I supposed to know that they could figure out your god damn name from a picture that barely had you in the background? How the fuck was I supposed to know that, Belle?”

“I don’t fucking know! God, fuck!” I screamed. I could feel my chest getting tight, and suddenly I felt the need to lower my curtains. I could not look at Brackley right now. Absolutely not. “If anyone, and I mean anyone, finds my fucking address I will fucking kill you.”

“Then I’m dead. Because I already have the fucking team paying off paparazzi after paparazzi. I fucking care about you, Belle. I do. Do not blame me for this level of insanity.”

“People want to kill me because I’m dating you. Even though, to them, I’m the reason for all your music. Yet, they want me dead for it.”

“None of them are real, I assure you, Belle,” He tried to calm me down. “None of them. They always send bullshit like this and they never mean it. It’s just one of those great perks of being famous.”

“I do not want to be famous,” I complained.

“Really? Running around with Formula drivers and working for actors and actresses, and dating a fucking musician? No part of you wants to be famous? It sure as fuck seems like you do.”

“No, I do not, Cathal. It’s my job. It’s my fucking job,” I wept. I could feel my tears staining the pillow beneath me. Every inch was slowly becoming covered with tears. I touched it. I had cried so hard and for so long that the other side of it was becoming damp. I would surely have to throw this pillow out. I would have to carry it to the trash in the kitchen, and then drag the bag out to the trash bin. I would have to take the bin to the curb, and make sure it didn’t block the garage, so I could take my car and drive it to work in the morning. I would have to stay at work trying to avoid thinking about this or risk dropping into a sad mess of tears. I would have to drive back home, and be careful not to hit my garbage can if it had shifted since they picked it up. I would then have to get out of my car and drag the bin back into the garage. I would have to do all of this without running into paparazzi because I doubt Cathal’s team could stop all of them. I would have to do all of this without for a second having a panic attack. I would have to do all of this without letting anyone know just how much it had fucked me up.

That to me was the most important factor. No matter what happened and no matter how bad this made me feel, absolutely no one would know how fucked up this had me. Whatever pictures the paparazzi took of me, I would look fucking good. This could be the worst day of my life but there’s no reason for anyone to know except me and Cathal. I pulled myself together as Cathal ranted about my hypocriticism. 

“You know what, Cathal? You can blame me all you want. You can say I’m the reason why my life was ruined. The truth is though, I know you better than anyone else. I know you better than all your fucking fans do. I know that you left all those bread crumbs on purpose. I know that you wanted them to know who I was because you thought it was so silly that I didn’t want to be known. You thought it was so weird that someone could date a magnificent celebrity like you and not just want to date them for their fame. You thought it was so absurd. Why don’t you go fuck a groupie about it? Why don’t you pass some venereal disease all throughout Europe about it? I don’t care anymore. I did exactly as I was told, Cathal. Go fuck yourself,” I spoke, hanging up. I turned my phone off. If someone needs me, they know how to get a hold of me without calling or texting me. I cleaned my face up, and put on a nice bathrobe. I threw the pillow out in the garbage, and made sure my house was clean. I then opened up the blinds. Sure enough, as soon as I did, I saw a camera flash inside a car that was neatly parked outside my house. 

At least I knew that when that picture hit the tabloids, it would be a good one.

~

“And there we go. Everything explained. What do you think?” Jeffrey asked, sounding like he nearly needed to catch his breath. I yawned deeply, becoming sleepy after Jeffrey had managed to run through the entire contract in excruciating detail without stopping.

“I think you really like being a lawyer,” I yawned again.

“I do, yes,” I could practically hear him beaming through the phone. 

“Yeah, really boring for me, honestly,” I deadpanned. “Anyway, yeah, sounds good. I’ll sign it.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really. And after I sign it, how long until it goes into effect?”

“Instantly.”

“Great.” I instantly signed the paperwork and immediately returned it to him. 

“Thanks. Just got it.”

“Okay. Should I go to dinner with Toto?”

“Oh-we’re starting right away. Jesus Christ, Arabella. I’m not a magic 8 ball,” Jeffrey answered. “I don’t know if you should go to- wait he asked you out?”

“Asked me out is a strong sentiment,” I explained. “I really hope the walls here aren’t thin.”

“Is he right next to you or something?”

“His room is.”

“Oh my God, Arabella. That man wants you so bad.”

“Fucking hell, Jeffrey. I set up the rooms. Do you know who is also right next to him? Bono. Do you know who is also right next to me? Musconi. Because we’re all taking the same fucking car in the morning,” I explained.

“So…you want him so bad?”

“No, fucking hell, Jeffrey. It was just luck of the draw, I guess,” I replied. “All I did was say we should be on the same floor. In case something went wrong with the car.”

“Fine, fine. Whatever you say. So, he asked you for dinner?”

“Technically. He’s making up for interrupting our date…that I told him wasn’t a date.”

“Rude.”

“Rude? You gave me the idea with the whole ‘contract coming up’ bullshit. I just went with it. I didn’t want him to feel quite so crap for putting me in this situation.”

“Oh, situation? I’m a situation now?”

“Yes, Jeffrey. Yes, you are.” I looked out the window and could clearly see the signs of the impending dust storm. My family didn’t visit Morocco frequently when I was a child, but since we usually visited Marrakech in May, they were incredibly frequent. The wind would start blowing over the desert, and soon the sky would turn to a bright orange, the sand devouring us whole, while my father practically slapped us with face coverings to keep each of us from falling into unstoppable coughing fits. In a particularly bad one, I would stumble over my own feet trying to grab my sister’s shoulder, just to know I had someone with me. 

“You know, this is supposed to be a mutually positive experience.  You get to complain about work. I get to complain about work. Pretty good deal, I think,” Jeffrey argued.

“I think it’s closer to blackmail. Besides, you have given me very little advice in this situation.”

“Well, what exactly did he say, Arabella? Can I call you Bella?”

“You cannot. I’m not a crusty white dog,” I sighed. That was my go to line when someone asked if they could call me Bella. I found it made them far less difficult about it. “He just apologized and said he would make it up for me. I could pretty much take him up on dinner or just let him buy my room service basically.”

“Does…does he not already pay for your food when you travel?” Jeffrey asked. 

“Oh fuck you and your cleverness,” I sighed. “So…do you think it was a date then?”

“I promise you, I’m not trying to play therapist with you, but two things. For someone who says that she’s positive her boss isn’t into her, and she’s positive she isn’t into her boss, you’re awfully preoccupied with whether this is a date or not. Second thing, how would I know? Arabella, I barely know you and this guy. I can make assumptions based on my own knowledge about how I think things work but I can’t just come outright and say ‘Yes, for sure’ based on 3 hours of talking and maybe another hour of having sex,” Jeffrey explained. “You would actually have better luck with a magic 8 ball.”

“I’m really not into him. Just…curious,” I confidently spoke. “I’m 32 and lost out on my one realistic chance of marriage a year and a half ago. I get my hopes up at the slightest bit of attention even if I try to pretend I don’t.” As I spoke, the confidence quickly wore off. 

Jeffrey took a deep sigh. “Cathal, right?”

“I thought you were joking about Googling me,” I laughed, trying to soften the fact that my eyes were welling up with tears. I was over my ex. I had been for a long time. Nonetheless, the way he constantly crept up in my life had a strange way of never allowing old wounds to heal properly. We weren’t together for some crazy long period of time, but fame just wasn’t really for me. He just couldn’t understand that. Eventually, he was over it. Eventually, I was over being disrespected. Having your business out there all the time makes it impossible to ignore everything. Him being a musician means I constantly notice the way I don’t think he’s over me though. Releasing two breakup albums is a bit much, don’t you think? I could forgive one, but a second that was clearly still about me? Freaked me out a bit, if I’m honest. 

“I wasn’t. It was the first thing I saw. Your name plastered over all those headlines. Pictures of your house, pictures of you at races, pictures of you at Brackley. Just everywhere,” Jeffrey explained. 

“Most people forgot about it a long time ago. It was a Shakespearean tragedy in 5 acts for pop culture nerds. For everyone else, it really wasn’t anything.” I hate to admit it, but perhaps Cathal was the reason why I hated staying in Brackley so much. The way the discomfort lingered, and the way I swore sometimes I could smell him on my couch. It was stained with him, practically. Every inch was Cathal, Cathal, Cathal. Guitars on the walls, albums on the shelves, and a closet full of outfits he had worn while touring. It took months of vacuuming to stop finding his cat’s hair. 

“Not you though, huh? I can hear it in your voice,” Jeffrey answered.

“In my voice? Are you talking nonsense again?”

“Do you really think I’m not at all perceptive? I’m a lawyer, Arabella. Stop underestimating my people skills for once, or I’m going to hang up the phone.”

“Fine, fine. You’re right. It hasn’t really left me, partially, because it follows me around everywhere. You yourself said that you found it just by googling my name. Article after article detailing start-to-finish every aspect of our breakup and potential relationship history. None of that to mention that he’s two albums into the breakup and he won’t stop making songs about me.”

“How do you even know they’re about you?” Jeffrey asked innocently.

“The last album had a song called 100 degrees, which was entirely a reference to the perfect tire temp on an F1 tire. Not to mention the song just literally was about how hot I am but for some reason talking about me like I’m a car,” I sighed.

“I bet that didn’t sell well.” 

“Lookup ‘Cathal Lynch objectifies ex-girlfriend quite literally in newest single.’ That one actually gives me quite the giggle,” I told him, thinking about the article. It had some great one liners, such as ‘ He compares her body to a Ferrari, which considering their recent performance in F1, she will certainly take as an insult.’ They were right. I did. 

“Is he trying to win you back?” 

“More like he’s trying to annoy me. Every single time he puts an album out there talking about me, or mentions me at a concert, or talks about it in an interview, it gets my name right back in the tabloids. He knows I hate that. Thankfully, the press doesn’t really care to get my pictures anywhere but F1 races since they know I’ll always be there, and why waste resources when everyone else has seemingly moved on?”

“Except him.”

“Obviously,” I groaned. “Anyway…you’re right. I’ll figure out on my own what to do when it comes to the dinner thing. I need to be a grown up, I suppose.”

“Yes, you should. Now, do you mind if I have my own little moment here about my life?” Jeffrey asked. What am I supposed to say? No? After bitching for very long about everything in my life? It wouldn’t be fair.

“Yeah, of course.”

“Do you know what I hate? More than anything else?”

“Hmm?”

“So many people think I do DaVinci code type shit, and have the tomb of Jesus Christ himself locked away in a vault in Switzerland just because I work for a Swiss Bank.”

“Really? What’s the weirdest thing you have stored away?” I asked.

“I don’t actually know. We don’t ask questions. One client was storing just a single banana, and got pretty mad when the thing went rotten.”

“Did…did they think you would keep it fresh forever?”

“Somehow, yes. It was apparently one of those super rare plant species and his personal fruit tree had grown that singular one that year. I told him we’d buy him a box of those bananas to satisfy him.”

“What? Really? You just had the company shell out that that money just because this dude doesn’t understand a single thing about safety deposit boxes?”

“Y’know, when I was a kid, my dad made me work at Tesco. He wanted me to see how retail worked because he swore that I would otherwise grow up an entitled rich kid. And when I was a cashier, I would sit there and complain about my managers giving random people free things for things that were their fault. Then suddenly, one day he left early, gave me his pin and told me to handle any problems that arose. One customer in, and I realized how much easier it was to just satisfy them with whatever silly request they had even if it wasn't our fault.”

“Nice story, Jeffrey. My parents own a tiny hotel on an island. We weren’t playing poor, we just were. The hotel to this day barely stays afloat. And whenever someone came in and begged for something free or said they were upset with the way the room was cleaned, whatever, my parents would check and make sure it wasn’t their fault. If it wasn’t, they would happily tell them to fuck off,” I storied back to him.

“Alright, Arabella. Whatever you say, huh? You can’t just let someone have an opinion, can you?” He asked.

“That whole story was an opinion? What are you, a Tory?” I joked.

“Oh, shush,” He laughed. 

“Now you tell a woman to quiet up, huh? Jeffrey…tsk, tsk, tsk.”

“Alright, alright. I get it. Well, run off now and figure out what you’re doing tonight. I’ll let you go now.”

“Oh, really? I thought there would be more.”

“I just didn’t want you to feel weird. It’s supposed to be a tradeoff. I wanted to trade,” Jeffrey shrugged.

“You know you don’t have to say something. You can just wait until something happens and then call me,” I explained.

“Except if I turn on Sky Sports and see Mercedes is at the paddock?” Jeffrey asked.

“Unless it’s the race or qualifying, that’s probably the perfect time to call, actually. I’m an assistant, not an engineer, Jeffrey.”

“Oh, right on. Well, I’ll speak with you later, Bella.”

“Nope.”

“Thought I’d get away with it,” He sighed, hanging up the phone. I laughed hearing my phone beep away. As useless as I suppose that conversation was in practicality, in theory, it felt very safe. Somehow, despite the literal contract I had just signed and argument we had last night,  I might as well had been speaking with someone I knew for a decade. Perhaps he knew so much from looking me up that he could truly act like that, or maybe we just truly have the perfect matching energies for a platonic relationship. 

I stared at the door thinking about my next move. I realized that if I did what I wanted to do, I would be locking myself in this room, keeping to my strict comfort zone. I don’t want to do that. I sent off a text to Toto.

Me: I’ll take you up on the offer.

Tags: @daddyslittlevillain