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She’d intended to leave Curt’s party on her own. And leave Curt, too. Being the acknowledged girlfriend of a man twice her age, a man in the process of divorcing his third (or was it his fourth?) wife, who had a girl in every town to party with if Marlene didn’t want to party with him (and more and more, she didn’t) was starting to feel ridiculous.
But Curt had begged her to be the hostess for today’s party. “There will be some new people this time. Formula 1 drivers, you know, very sexy guys. We might even have James Hunt. You know who he is, right?”
Sure, Marlene knew. She knew that James Hunt, the one time she’d met him, at some party or another, had asked her her name, and when she’d replied, threw an arm around her and said, “Oooh, another German girl! Cold as stone on the outside, hotter than hell on the inside!” She hadn’t bothered to correct him, on either account. That had been back when she thought Curt really loved her, and even though James Hunt was cute, in the way an overgrown puppy is cute, and rumored to be very good in bed, she knew he was good for a one-night stand, but that was it. Curt, at the time, had seemed like a better choice.
And maybe Curt still had some appeal, given the constant presence of James and his wife Suzy in the tabloids, but after today… Marlene had rushed around the party, introducing herself and making sure everyone had drinks, food, people to talk with, and then realized Curt wasn’t there. She heard an odd noise coming from the pantry, threw open the door, and found a maid bent over the table, squealing like a pig as Curt screwed her from behind. He’d smiled -- clearly feeling no guilt at being “caught” -- and asked her to join them,
And that was it. Marlene was done. She flew out of the house. Someone called to her, in an Austrian accent, asking for a ride. When she looked up, she saw… well. A young, slightly-built man, not terribly handsome with his buck teeth and receding hairline, and overly well-dressed for a house party. He looked like he’d rather be anywhere else than Curt’s party, like he wasn’t the partying sort in general -- maybe a bit shy? He flicked his eyes over her (because what man wouldn’t, with the dress she was wearing?) and she said she could drive him to Trento.
She’d blurted out something about leaving Curt, and then stopped herself from saying more, because she wasn’t really in a mood to spill her guts out, especially to a stranger whose entire attitude would have been “leave me alone”, except he needed a ride to the train and must have felt the need to be minimally civil. At least it seemed he’d be the quiet sort, so there’d be no further chance of an awkward conversation.
They did talk, a little, until a favorite song of hers came on the radio and she started to sing along. But then he switched off the radio -- the nerve! -- and he gave her that ridiculous speech about his ass being able to tell what was wrong with her car. He’d accurately predicted the breakdown, which just made Marlene more angry (stuck! In the countryside! With probably the grumpiest, least romantic man she’d ever met!) And then she couldn’t believe it when it turned out to be his -- what? certainly not his good looks -- rather than her use of her own good looks, that got them rescued, by a couple of Italian goofballs who immediately tried to convince her that this man she was with was someone important.
The situation was so absurd that she decided to flirt with him. As he drove, he shot her an occasional glance, and if she said something clever, one corner of his mouth might turn up.
The two Italians were annoying her, and she thought of James Hunt when they said her companion was a Formula 1 driver, and how could this repressed character possibly do the same thing as James Hunt? So she pushed him a little harder. He sounded a little less like a grouchy old man when he asked why he should drive fast when he had no incentive. She answered him, somewhat outrageously, “Because I am asking you to.” … and that was when everything changed.
Once her heart was out of her throat, after the sudden acceleration and a couple of nimbly-handled encounters with other drivers, she realized there had to be more to this man than she’d guessed. This was his way of flirting back at her! And she finally believed the Italians, shouting “Niki Lauda, Niki Lauda, Niki Lauda!” as they hurtled along the country roads.
She noticed that he didn’t push her away, the couple of times she got thrown against him. Whether this was because he didn’t notice (being entirely focused on driving the Italians’ rattletrap junker like a race car), or didn’t mind, she couldn’t tell.
Once they were in Trento and rid of the Italians and their car, she was pretty sure it was because he hadn’t minded. He was solicitously attentive, insisting that her stranded car be dealt with immediately. She told him the name of her mechanic shop in Salzburg, and he nearly blew up. “Those assholes! They are incompetent, and they knew that they’d strand you -- you! -- and get more of your money that way!” The extra “you!” got her attention, especially with the unmistakable hand gesture for “curvy, pretty woman”, something she would not have expected from a man who seemed so controlled.
He found a phone, made a couple of calls, and led her to a small, unassuming mechanics shop down an alleyway in a bad part of town. He didn’t let the guys there fawn over him until they’d sent someone out with a tow truck and had a long, technical conversation with him about Marlene’s brand of car and how it worked, and what modifications would improve its reliability. Only then would he talk Formula 1 with them. When her car arrived, he broke off the conversation again and directed the men as they swarmed over her car -- just like a pit crew at the races, she realized. They identified a list of problems that corresponded very well with what “his ass” had told him, and then discussed every detail of the necessary repairs with him. And then the shop owner drew up an estimate that was far less than she’d expected, and told her the car would be ready in two days.
He then insisted on finding a hotel for her, one near the train station with a nice quiet cafe next door, where he joined her for coffee, which they enjoyed in comfortable silence. When it was time for him to catch his train, he stood, looked away and cleared his throat nervously, and then looked right at her. He has the most beautiful eyes, she thought. How did I miss that earlier?
“I need to get to Salzburg tonight and won’t be able to come back here in two days to be sure the mechanics have fixed your car correctly; I’ll be preparing for my next race.” He looked away and cleared his throat again, very obviously trying not to be pushy as he handed her a business card from Ferrari, with his personal number and an office number on it. “But I would like to see you when we are both in Salzburg again. If you want.”
As he walked off, she looked at the card. Andreas “Niki” Lauda. And she decided, Yes, I want.