Chapter Text
“Seriously?” Mark asked the desk agent. “No flights at all?”
“I'm so sorry, sir.” The desk agent looked even closer to tears than Mark felt. “It's a once-in-a-generation weather event. There's absolutely nothing we can do.”
For a second, Mark was tempted to offer money. He had never forgotten what it was like to be a regular kid from a regular family, especially in the hyper-rich world of F1, and more than once, a driver or a team boss had helpfully pointed out that he was rich now and could use his wealth to fix some problems.
Storms weren't one of them.
And he'd known – deep down, when he saw the headlines this morning, he'd known he wasn't getting on a plane. But he packed the car anyway, and drove to the airport with his suitcases, the radio off so his hopes wouldn't be dashed, and he'd hoped and hoped and listened to terrible Christmas songs and hoped some more all the way there.
He had been so desperate to get to Australia.
Mark sighed.
“Thanks anyway, mate. And listen, have a happy Christmas. This must have been a shitty day for you.”
The agent smiled. “Thank you, sir. Only another few hours.”
Mark reached into his pocket. There was one thing money could do, and that was make people smile. “Have one on me.” He stuffed a note into the desk agent's hand and disappeared into the crowd before the agent could spot that it was a fifty and not a fiver.
And before anyone could see Mark's eyes dampen and turn red.
It was pointless, he knew, even as he sat down on the airport floor with his phone. If commercial flights couldn't get out of England with the storms, it wasn't likely any boats were sailing either. Maybe if he could get to the continent by sea or road, he could find a way to make his connection in Abu Dhabi and get to Australia for Christmas, like he promised he would this year. But even outside the airport building, he could hear the storm winds gathering. And of course he'd left his flight to the last minute, for no good reason, so even if he did manage to find a ridiculous, Top-Gear-esque road route to catch a flight to Australia from some other country, at this stage, he wouldn't arrive in time for Christmas.
But he was going to try.
First, he rang Flavio, who laughed a bit and offered to send a case of whiskey. Ann didn't pick up, but she was a long shot – the kind of people who used private planes weren't the kind of people she tended to like. Then he tried his contacts in Porsche, and in Red Bull. No joy. He tried to remember which drivers used private planes – not so fashionable these days, with climate activism, so no point asking Lewis or Seb. JB didn't move around so much now that he was settled in the US. His best bet was probably Fernando.
Mark didn't want his best racing friend to know he was alone for Christmas.
It sounded kind of pathetic.
And he preferred when Fernando thought he was interesting and cool.
Which also sounded kind of pathetic.
But Fernando might have a plane, or might know someone who did, and if anything was leaving England today, Mark wanted to be on it.
“Mark!” Fernando always sounded so happy to hear from him. His cheery voice on the phone went oddly with the photo Mark had assigned to Fernando in his contacts, which was very glowery.
“Fonz, how are you? Early happy Christmas to you mate, what are you up to?”
“I'm spending it in England! In Oxford.”
Mark's heart leapt and his stomach rolled to his feet, like it always did when he heard Fernando was close by.
Pathetic.
“You've seen the storm, then?”
“Sure have. Not going outside today.”
“Wish I had that option, mate. I'm at the airport and no flights can take off. I'm due home in Australia for Christmas Day. Which starts twelve hours earlier there than it does here, remember.” Mark looked at his watch. Already Christmas Eve morning at home.
“So tomorrow?”
“The very same. If I'm not on a plane tonight, I'm not gonna make it.”
“Mark, is all over the news. Britain is cut off. No flights in or out.”
“Shit. I was really hoping between us we'd know one ridiculous flash bastard taking his private jet out today.”
“Flavio?”
“First person I called. No joy.”
Fernando groaned. “Fuck.”
“I thought you might know someone...”
“I am so sorry, Mark, but no one I know is that stupid. They are saying worst storms in forty years.”
“I knew it was a long shot.” Mark looked around the airport. He saw an older couple who looked especially upset – maybe going to see the grandchildren, and maybe not sure how many more chances they'd get.
He looked away.
“Mark, you must come here. What airport are you at? I can come and get you if you don't have a car.”
“Fernando, don't be daft. The roads will be wild, you can't drive in this. I've got the car with me, I'm gonna head home and hunker down with the dogs and watch stupid movies and make the best of it.”
“You must come to us! We'd love to have you!”
“We? Who's the girlfriend of the week?”
“Mark.”
“I'm sorry, I'm sorry.” Mark had agreed to stop referring to Fernando's girlfriends that way, in exchange for Fernando not getting offended if Mark got someone's name wrong during the first two weeks of dating. Mark had also promised not to send Fernando any more revolving door catalogues in the post with 'for your bedroom' written on them in biro, if Fernando would stop asking if Mark's virginity had grown back.
It was easier to joke about it than to admit it was eating him up to see Fernando compulsively work his way through the world's most beautiful women. And easier than telling his friend that the reason Mark didn't date was because no one could measure up to Fernando.
“She is Fabienne, and I know she would not leave someone alone at Christmas.”
“How long have you been dating?” Mark asked.
“Define 'dating.'”
“Do you know her last name?”
“Am not that bad!” Fernando dissolved into laughter. “Come over. I'll send you directions. I have more Spanish wine than I could drink and I know how you love reds.”
“Fernando, I am not gatecrashing your romantic Christmas with Fabienne. Have a fantastic time. Reckon we might manage a new year drink?”
“I'm in England til the fifth. Give me a call?”
“Will do, mate. Thanks. And happy Christmas to you both.”
Fernando hung up. Wouldn't have killed him to say it back, Mark thought.
He braced himself and phoned home.
That call was quick – Mark's parents had access to the same news reports as Fernando and weren't surprised.
“I'm more relieved you're not travelling in this, to be honest,” his mum said. “We'll do Christmas whenever you get here next. I'll send you an IOU for a turkey dinner.”
Mark smiled. “I'll sort out dates once we know what this storm is doing. They're saying it could be weeks of a cold front. I might try for the end of January, if that works for you guys?”
“See how it goes,” his dad said. “I'm so glad you're back at your house and safe.”
Mark looked guiltily around the airport. He didn't want his parents worrying about him on the roads.
“Yeah, just me and the dogs. My neighbour was going to take them so I've brought them back.”
“Oh, good. I didn't want to think of you all alone.” His mum's voice cracked.
“I won't be alone, Mum, I've got friends here. I'll be fine.”
His mum knew him well enough not to press the issue.
“We'll see you soon, Mark. And we'll Facetime you tomorrow!”
“Bye. Love you both. Happy Christmas.”
“And to you, sweetheart.”
Mark hung up. The roads weren't getting any better and he was nearly an hour from home – and he was going to collect his dogs on the way – so there was no sense hanging around.
He couldn't get to Australia.
He looked like a sad loser to Fernando.
He got to hear about Fabienne, who was probably having sex with Fernando in front of a roaring log fire literally right this second, as Mark fought tears in a miserable, crowded airport full of people who were desperately upset.
The older couple were headed for the exit too. Mark caught up with them.
“Were you on the Australia flight via Abu Dhabi?” he asked.
The man nodded. “Yes. Going to see our daughter. She had a baby in March – this is our first visit. Well, it was supposed to be.”
“Can I give you a lift anywhere?” Mark asked. “It's a rotten night out there and you must be gutted.”
The older woman smiled. “You're very kind, but we have the car.”
“Would you allow me to see you home? I'm a professional driver, and the idea of something happening in that storm, on your way home – I really would be happier, if you didn't mind.”
The couple looked at each other.
“If cost is an issue, I'll cover your airport parking. And a cab back.”
The man looked into Mark's face. “I know you from somewhere, don't I? You look very familiar. TV?”
Mark felt a blush rising. “Little bit, yeah. I do a few things.”
“And you're a driver – I know you now! You're that racing driver.”
“Caught rotten,” Mark admitted.
“I'm so sorry,” the man said. “I don't follow racing so I don't know your name.”
“I'm Mark.”
“I'm Charlie.” The men shook hands, and the woman reached out for Mark too.
“I'm Pauline. Thanks so much. I hate driving in bad weather. I would appreciate a lift home but I won't hear of you covering the parking.”
“How about we argue about it on the way?”
Mark dropped Charlie and Pauline at their house, which wasn't too far out of his way. He didn't know why he had latched onto them, but the idea of a crash on the motorway, their daughter all that distance away in Australia, getting bad news at Christmas... it lodged into his head and wouldn't budge, so he couldn't relax until he saw them inside their front door. They were a nice pair, full of chat about their daughter's life in Australia, and by the time Mark left them off, he felt like he'd made friends. He was grateful that they didn't ask him to stay for Christmas – he had been afraid a feelgood Hallmark movie might break out – and he switched his satnav destination to Home, a little happier than he had been before his good deed.
As he prepared to pull away from the kerb, he saw a message pop up.
FERNANDO
Are you home from the airport yet? Text me when you're in safely!
MARK
Got delayed doing a Good Samaritan bit, cracking old couple with a daughter back home, dropped them off. Home in about an hour. Don't wait up. Partying with the 60-plus set is no joke.
FERNANDO
I think I am good at English and then you start talking.
Mark laughed in spite of his hellish evening and turned for home.
By the time Mark got in, it was after midnight. Technically, and depressingly, Christmas Eve. He got the dogs settled, made himself a hot whiskey, just because, and drank it in his cold, empty house, feeling about as cheerful as the wind outside sounded. Tomorrow he would be brave and make the best of it. Tonight, he would wallow and feel sorry for himself. He texted Fernando and didn't hear back. Fernando's texting fingers were probably inside his girlfriend by now.
Mark climbed into bed, breaking his personal rule and letting the dogs in with him. Partly for warmth – he'd expected to be away for a few weeks, so he'd turned the heating off, and the house hadn't warmed up yet – but partly because he felt like a lonely sad bastard and just wanted them close. He'd pay for it later. Raven knew he was getting a rare treat, but Patch always reckoned he was entitled to go where he wanted and Mark knew it'd take him a while to persuade the younger dog to go back to his own bed.
Mark knew he was being a brat. He had an amazing family; they were just far away. He had wonderful friends; he just didn't want to impose. If JB was in England, Mark knew he'd be welcome. Or with Ann, but he didn't like to intrude.
Which brought him to the real source of his Christmas heartsickness.
Thinking of Fernando in his house in Oxford – less than an hour away – with a new beautiful woman.
Inviting Mark over out of pity.
(And kindness and friendship, and OK, they always had fun together. But Mark only felt the pity).
The worst part was how badly Mark ached to phone Fernando – even now, at 2am – and accept the invitation. Even watching Fernando erotically feed Brussels sprouts to an underwear model was preferable to no Fernando at all.
Mark wanted to spend Christmas with the man he loved.
Unfortunately, that man was his friend. His racing buddy. And likely the straightest person on the planet. If there was a straight pride parade, Fernando would probably be the Grand Marshal. He'd probably have sex with a model right there on the float.
Mark rolled over dramatically in bed, dislodging Patch, who squawked.
“Yeah, alright buddy,” he whispered. “Fair enough. I'll stop.”