Chapter 10
MINNIE
I’m riding so high on the walk from the media centre to the Team Village that I almost skip. Mum’s plan is already yielding excellent results. I secured some incredible interviews today – RaceX’s team principal, Eilo’s engineer, étienne and his teammate Tom.
Also Jack’s going to be on pole tomorrow. I don’t have a vested interest or anything, I just think he deserves it. His drive in qualifying was impeccable. I’ve never seen him so hungry. No one could’ve accused him of being complacent; it was like he had a point to prove.
The stadium’s steadily emptying, leaving journalists, stewards and cleaners alone in the eerily quiet behemoth.
The evening air is just as sticky as the daytime.
My hair seems permanently attached to the back of my neck, and I’ve applied so much powder I’m in danger of looking like Wednesday Addams.
As soon as I step onto the Astroturf and catch sight of Brian and the production team huddled outside Pagari’s unit, my good mood fizzles into nothing.
Krunal’s nowhere to be seen. Since he’s the only one who ferries decent questions my way, our post-qualifying segment isn’t looking good. Not for me, at least.
No matter. I put on my imaginary big girl pants (all the way up, past my tummy button), flash them a broad smile, and start to change my trainers for heels. I’ll be surprised if they fit; my feet have doubled in size from all this damn walking.
‘Minnie, a word?’ says Greg.
I straighten up. ‘Sure.’
‘Um.’ He shifts from one foot to the other. ‘Your… trousers?’
He’s looking at them like they’re covered in expletives. I look down to make sure they’re not; they’re the same swear-free Zara pinstriped trousers I put on this morning. Smart, but not too smart. ‘What about them?’
He scratches the back of his head. ‘They’re lovely but, um, can we stick to skirts in future?’
I flinch. ‘Skirts?’
‘Yes, it’s a…’ he swallows, ‘diversity thing.’
‘Diversity,’ I reiterate slowly. I have a vagina, isn’t that diversity enough?
‘Yeah, you know. Brian’s in trousers, Krunal’s in trousers,’ he’s gaining momentum, like he’s convinced himself of his bullshit, ‘and—’
‘Brian’s in shorts.’ I motion in his direction.
‘Yes, but, shorts are like short trousers. Skirts break up the aesthetic. Makes for nice visuals.’
Oh it’s about visuals all right.
‘And dresses? Are dresses ok?’ I’m surprised by how calm I’m being.
‘Yes!’ Greg beams so widely his face is in danger of cracking in two. ‘Dresses are great. Very diverse.’
He walks away with a little bounce in his step, and I resume putting on my heels. What the hell was that? Clearly a directive from the big boss in London or he would’ve said something this morning.
Maybe it’s not so bad. I’ve been wearing skirts and dresses for the past two months, I could—
Wait, no. You know what, how dare they? Natalie Pinkham wears trousers.
Danica Patrick wears trousers. Susie Wolff wears trousers.
Celine Fournier wears trousers – I can see her now by Martinelli’s unit with the rest of the Sportif+ team.
An all-female broadcasting team, expressing their identities in different ways.
I watch them laughing on air and feel a pang of envy.
I’ve never laughed on air. They’re serious, strong, knowledgeable, professional women.
It’s clear Channel 3 doesn’t think the same about me.
‘We’re on in one minute, Minnie,’ Greg calls.
As I drag my feet over to them, I consider taking a sip of water to moisten my throat, but I won’t be allowed to speak so what’s the point.
‘Afternoon, Minnie,’ says Brian. The way he says my name sounds like he’s saying Malibu Barbie. Urgh, I’m being paranoid.
‘Afternoon,’ I echo, chipper. I can be civil. I want to kick him in his ill-fitting shorts and scream ‘DIVERSITY!’, but we can’t all get what we want. In the liminal space between desire and saving for my own flat, there’s civility. ‘Good quali, hm?’
‘Good for some in the nice air-conditioned media centre,’ is his reply, accompanied by a patronising head dip.
Oh good god. You were in the comms box, you thumby-looking moron, and it was also inside.
‘On in fifteen seconds,’ Greg pipes up.
I shuffle next to Brian even though I’d rather go to a Taylor Swift concert wearing an ‘I heart Joe Alwyn’ t-shirt. ‘Shall we quickly go through our talking points for the segment?’ I ask.
‘No need.’ Brian stretches and I hear his shoulders click. ‘It’s all up here.’ He taps the side of his head.
‘But—’
Greg raises his hand – five seconds to go.
Oh why do I even bother.
‘What a day we’ve had at the Miami Grand Prix,’ Brian begins, and I stare vacuously into the lens like the dolly-brained bimbo he thinks I am.
‘We’re at the heart of it all in the Hard Rock Stadium.
Let’s get straight into it, shall we? As you can see from the Pagari suite behind me, first up it’s Jack Bowden, who once again takes pole tomorrow – striking ahead by two-tenths of a second. ’
I feel so stupid. Krunal’s presence diffuses the tension as he’s also a mute smiler, but without him, I’m a lone spare part in front of hundreds of thousands of viewers. I can’t do this for much longer.
When Brian pauses for breath outside RaceX’s unit, I seize my chance. ‘Sharing the front row with Jack is RaceX’s Gustaf Henriksson.’
Brian makes no effort to hide his offense. ‘Yes,’ he bristles, ‘he—’
‘Miami’s track has a powerful drag reduction system—’
He scoffs. ‘Our viewers know what DRS is, Minnie.’ I’m definitely not imagining the Malibu Barbie thing.
I speak quickly to mitigate the possibility of him butting in.
‘Yes, but my point is: if Gustaf can stay within a second of Jack tomorrow, the race is still up for grabs.’ Greg catches my eye behind the camera and is violently miming for me to stop.
I block him out. ‘But if he drops back too much, he’ll get the worst of both worlds – the dirty air from Jack’s car in front, plus he won’t be able to use his moveable rear wing flap to cut his own drag. That means—’
Brian’s cruel laugh curls my stomach. ‘Let’s leave shop talk to the professionals, shall we, Minnie?’
I freeze my face in something vaguely pleasant while I spiral.
What the actual fuck?
He just bulldozed me during our live show.
My gaze drifts to the cameraman, who shrugs helplessly as if to say, ‘you made your bed.’
Brian’s oblivious to what he’s done, wandering over to Martinelli monologuing about their internal politics. He thinks this is case closed.
Like hell it is.
‘It’s a certainty: Jones will leave by the end of the season,’ Brian’s wonking on. ‘Without him, Martinelli will be in the dust. The man’s a kingmaker. Glock, Taylor, Logan, Clarke, they’ll all follow him, and the team will be torn apart. They’ll—’
‘I disagree,’ I say.
I’m not being a prick – he’s talking crap. I would’ve disagreed anyway because I feel like being a prick, but it makes life easier not having to fabricate an argument.
It doubly pisses me off that he’s listing surnames that 99.9% of our viewers won’t have a clue about. He’s not in the F1 Old White Man’s Club here – he’s working on national TV, and it’s his job to entertain as well as inform. No one watches TV to feel condescended to.
Brian turns to me and blinks. ‘There is no disagreeing. I stated a fact.’
‘I agree Nick Jones, Martinelli’s Chief Technology Officer, is hugely frustrated with the ongoing factions within the team, and will very likely leave by the end of the year.
However, I don’t think – and this is purely my opinion – that all Martinelli’s top technical directors and race engineers and aerodynamicists under him will jump ship too.
They’ve been working in his shadow for years; now they can finally have an impact and shape the team’s future. ’
Brian looks at me like I’ve just declared the Volkswagen Beetle is the best car, like, ever. He then glares at Greg for back-up. There’s not even a pretence of professionality.
I take his stunned silence as an invitation to continue. ‘Let’s bring it back to this weekend, and speaking of Martinelli: étienne Blanchet saw great progress in qualifying. What did you make of his Q3, Brian?’ See? Civil.
Brian takes up the mantle with stuttering reluctance, eyebrows knitted together.
I don’t care if you don’t like it – welcome to the new format, bitch.