Regardless of my lacklustre reaction, he clipped it to the railing as I watched on, nauseated. The more I thought about it, the more irritated I became. He was an obnoxious narcissist and he was making my skin crawl.

“So I’m supposed to throw the keys in the river?” He looked at me, holding them up. “Do you want to do the honours?”

Not a chance. “You do it. You went to all the trouble, after all.” I tried to keep the sarcasm to a minimum.

I stood against the railing and watched the two small keys, bonded together by a tiny silver ring, sail through the air. Instead of the romantic moment I imagined it was meant to be, it felt like I was watching my self-worth plummet into the murky water and disappear. I needed to get away from there. I needed to escape before another panic attack took hold.

“I’m getting cold. Can we go?” I didn’t wait for his response. I just walked away, choking on the enormous lump in my throat that seemed to have taken up permanent residency.

Over the next few days, I felt my rebellious streak gain traction, and I was finding it harder and harder to hide it. I was riding a rollercoaster of guilt as the seed of doubt began to shoot. One minute I’d be convinced breaking up with Richard was the only way forward, and then I’d spiral downward and fear the repercussions for my fragile mother. I couldn’t just abandon my life as she knew it without seriously considering how badly it could impact her. I loved her, and part of me clung to the fact that she was so invested in me. How would I feel if she abandoned me?

By the weekend, I was almost beside myself with the constant flip-flopping of my poor tortured mind. Fortunately, there were no social engagements I was expected to attend, so I was free to drive the two hours north of Melbourne to Winton raceway for a little adrenaline therapy. I left at the crack of dawn on Saturday and arrived invigorated and determined. As I pulled my Mini into one of the designated parking bays, I felt my excitement level escalate, allowing my brain to finally compartmentalise my mother, Richard and even Leo, giving me a modicum of peace.

Supersprints took place on a racetrack and, whilst the rush of the drag came from the extreme acceleration, I got my Supersprint adrenaline from the never-ending quest to achieve a ‘perfect lap’ and in beating my personal best times. A number of cars of similar performance were sent onto the track at roughly five-second intervals for a specified number of ‘hot laps,’ which were electronically timed to thousandths of a second. My objective was to register the fastest lap time in my car’s class over a number of five-lap sessions during the day. Achieving better times than guys in similar cars to mine was always icing on the cake.

It was a case of pushing myself and my car to our absolute limits on every lap. Brake ten metres too early at one hundred and fifty kilometres per hour—lose two tenths of a second. Brake ten metres too late—run wide, lose half a second. Miss an apex coming on to the main straight—lose a few kph mid-corner speed and kiss goodbye to a full second. It was all a question of concentration and consistency, and by the end of each session, I found myself drained and perspiring freely.

I’d only been to Winton once before and knew I needed to get myself up to speed for the first flying timed lap after the quick left-right dogleg corner leading to the start finish line straight. The trickiest part of the track was somewhat risquely called ‘the Cleavage,’ due to the obvious similarity of the double-dipping corner layout. The ninety-degree right hander onto the main straight was my favourite corner and also the most important one on the whole circuit. I knew that every extra bit of speed I could hold through here would be carried for the whole length of the main straight and help to compensate for my JCW Mini’s relative lack of horsepower compared to my opposition.

My phone rang just as I was getting out of my car. Looking at the screen, I groaned.

“Hey, Mum.” I cupped my phone with my free hand, attempting to muffle the sound of the cars revving in the background. This is the last place on earth she’d expect me to be, and she would be horrified I was participating in such a high-risk activity. She’d be even more concerned by how it would look to be alone at a racetrack full of men.

“Hello, darling. Where are you?”

“I’m out and about.” I tried to sound upbeat and friendly. I didn’t want to lie, but I would if I had to. “I’m flat out today, actually.”

“Oh okay.” She sounded sulky and dejected.

“Sorry, Mum. Did you need something?”

“I just thought we could have lunch together today. There’s a new restaurant in Prahran getting fabulous reviews.”

“Oh… um…”

“Please, Juliette. We need to spend more time together.”

“I come to the house every Sunday night for dinner,” I retorted, perhaps a little too aggressively.

“I’ve talked Richard into leaving the office for a few hours to join us.” She continued as if she hadn’t heard me. “He’s such a workaholic. It’s Saturday, for goodness’ sake. Such a good work ethic, that man.”

Surely, after our recent conversation, she had to know that was a deterrent rather than an incentive. I stared at the sky, willing it to drop a plausible excuse into my brain. I drew a blank.

“I’m really busy today, Mum.”

“You can be very selfish, Juliette. I don’t ask you for much.”

Tears stung my eyes and I paused before replying. “I’m sorry, Mum.” When no response came after a few seconds, I glanced at the screen. She had hung up.

I put my phone back in my pocket and closed my eyes, trying to push the negativity away. When I opened them, I gritted my teeth. This weekend was mine.

“You made it,” Jim called out, waving to me as I walked past his Subaru WRX towards the registration desk. “Of course.” I waved back. “No place I’d rather be. Where’s Shorty?”

“He’s over at Smithy’s car, fiddling with tyre pressures as usual.”

I laughed. Shorty worked as one of the bookies at Flemington racecourse, but his passion was engines and he could easily be a top race mechanic. He could talk endlessly about the intricacies of ignition-timing and suspension settings—and frequently did. When it came to improving a car’s performance, he could talk under wet cement with a mouth full of marbles, and it always made me smile. Listening to anyone talk about their passion is a joy, especially when the subject is something that interests me too.

I signed in and quickly scanned the entry list. I saw Scott Henderson was in the same class as me and wondered if he’d show me any more respect since I crushed him at the drag race. Probably not—his ego would’ve assured him it was a one-off fluke.

“Good luck, Juliette,” the lady behind the registration desk said as she checked off my CAMS licence details and handed me my race number. “You show those boys how it’s done.”

“Oh, don’t you worry,” I replied, grinning. “I fully intend to.”

Back in the pits, I took my jumper off and flung it on the plastic table set up next to my car. I then retrieved my fire-engine-red race suit from the back seat and pulled it on over my jeans and t-shirt. As I zipped up the front, I rolled my eyes, hearing several wolf whistles coming from nearby.

“Lookin’ good, Jules—I’ve always liked the Winton cleavage.” Scott Henderson’s face appeared in front of my car. “Shouldn’t you be at home doing the dishes or something?” he added with a smarmy grin.

I climbed into my car, shaking my head at his backhanded compliment and blatant chauvinism. I knew he was just trying to get a rise out of me. I clicked my six-point harness at the front, pulled it tight and gave him my best hair toss. “Just keep checking your rear-view mirror, pal—I’ll be all over you after a couple of laps.” I looked him dead in the eye and cocked my head, inviting him to bite. Instead, he just mumbled something under his breath and shuffled off.