“I mean, I assumed you were protected.”
“Oh, I see,” she said, getting out of the pool. She put towels on the hot concrete, and we lay down naked in the sun, facing each other. “I thought I was, too. But I’d had a busy time and had been going through a dry spell with the guy I was seeing. I think I just lost track. I thought I’d be fine, but I guess if it’s fated to happen, there’s not a lot we can do. You’re not angry, are you?”
“No, not at all. How could I be?” I reassured her. “When we were making love in the pool just then, I didn’t think I could feel any happier. But you’ve gone and proved me wrong. And it solves our problem.”
“Which problem?”
“About how to move forward. Let’s just say I know what we’re going to do now.”
Summer
I’d never been to Spain. Lucky for me, that was the next fixture for the Moto GP, a famous circuit called Jerez in the southern part of the country. Only this time, we were not here to race. James’s shoulder hadn’t healed yet, but that wasn’t the reason.
I’d never been more nervous about anything than telling James about the baby. Never, except when I had actually found out I was pregnant. It was the first day on Mustique. James was happily in the land of groovy unicorns and funky painkillers when I realized I was late. Not too late, but when I thought about it, I also realized I’d been pretty fast and loose with my birth control. So I strolled down to the little island store. There was only one, and only one bar as well. I got a stick to pee on—after waiting in line behind Steven Tyler from Aerosmith, I realized later—and went back to the villa.
The little blue lines announced my condition, and I sat still, utterly frozen for a long time. What would this mean for us? I felt a sinking hole in my stomach as I pictured James’s angry reaction. I wasn’t ready for this, and it certainly couldn’t have been high on his list of life goals right now. Then my hands began to shake as I wondered if it could be Derek’s after that unfortunate tryst on my couch. I calmed myself by deciding that the odds were clearly in James’s favor.
Anyway, the Barcelo Montecastillo Golf, a five-star resort right next to the Spanish track, was our venue for this Friday night’s dinner, which James was throwing himself. The occasion? He was announcing his retirement from racing.
The press would hardly report it. To them, it was just another also-ran failing to make it, but he was so loved and respected in the racing community that everyone he’d invited RSVP’d to this celebration of his career. It only seemed fitting to hold it at the time and place of the race, as well as making sure the multinational guest list would be mostly gathered in the same town at the time.
The night went well. James was constantly occupied by friends, colleagues, and well-wishers. He was monopolized, taking him away from me a bit, but I understood. It was his night. And when he told me he couldn’t bear the thought of being injured again—or worse, putting me and a baby through that—I couldn’t have loved him more. I knew he loved it, but he was getting too old, anyway.
Not only were almost all the riders from this year’s season in attendance, so were past heroes like Mick Doohan, Wayne Gardner, Carl Fogarty, Colin Edwards, and even Eddie Lawson. Their names didn’t mean much to me, but from the way James talked about them, they were clearly a bunch of big deals. Marc Márquez and sweet Sam from Dunlop were at the top table with us, as was the irrepressible little Italian, nine times world champion, Valentino Rossi who, despite his thick accent and having had a few drinks, had taken over compere duties.
It was only me who looked for someone else. I saw Blake—who I invited without telling James—shuffling about on the fringes of the party with his wife, who looked far too pretty to be with a slime ball like him. He was shunned by most of the other guests because, though what he did had not been officially recognized as malicious, word had leaked out and it was a shitty thing to do to another rider. Eventually, I spotted Suzi, too. It had taken some arranging, but she was there as the date of one of the lower level riders. She wore a tight, short, blue-sequined number. Good. I wanted her to look fabulous.
Valentino had been reading tribute cards from people throughout the industry, many of them rude or insulting in a good humored way, and all of them embarrassing James to some extent. Those, coupled with Rossi’s own stories about James’s escapades, all delivered in his over the top accent, had the crowd in stitches.