Chapter 27
MINNIE
As I go through my questions for Micah in my head, Jack sighs from behind the wheel. It’s so dramatic it’s nearly Oscar-worthy.
‘He’s hard on the throttle and harder on the brakes. You’re not used to the G-forces or the strain on your neck, so lean back against the headrest at all times. Be sure to stretch before you go in.’
I make a mental note. ‘Ok.’
‘Try and keep your head aligned with the movement of the car. Follow the racing line with your eyes, and don’t resist the G-forces – if anything, gently lean into them.’
‘I will.’
He scratches the back of his head. ‘His dad will want to talk to you. He’s his manager, agent and publicist all rolled into one. He even tried to work on the car once but Lorenzo stepped in.’
I blow out a breath. I knew Micah’s dad followed him everywhere but I didn’t know that.
‘He’s overbearing AF,’ Jack goes on. ‘And don’t call him Mr Adetunji. If you want to get on his good side, he’s “boss” or “sir”.’
I reach into the back for a spare sheet of paper and pen. ‘Got it.’
‘Micah has a little sister in the F1 Academy. She’s pretty good, could be great, but his dad couldn’t give a shit. His life is Micah. There’s a mountain of pressure on him. Doesn’t matter if he wins a race or gets a podium – he’s expected to be a World Champion. Nothing less matters.’
I’m scribbling down every word, using my thigh as a makeshift desk. My pen punctuates the paper in my haste. ‘Right.’
‘Micah’s big on body language and if he senses you’re nervous or weak, he’ll jump on it, so ask your hard questions in the car while he’s driving.’
‘Anything else?’
He looks over at me with a roguish smile. ‘When he’s got his earphones in before a race? He’s listening to Prince.’
‘No.’
‘Oh yes. His race engineer told me once.’
I put my pen in my lap. ‘Why are you helping me? You don’t want me to do this.’
‘I want you to get everything you need from this interview. He’s a slippery fucker and he’s not going to tell you shit while dressing it up like he has, so you need to know how to manage him.’
‘There’s a whole chapter dedicated to him in my binder,’ I quip.
Jack throws me a weary side-glance. ‘Knowing where he made his debut and how many pole-starts he’s had isn’t going to cut it.’
‘It’ll be fine.’
‘Well, if everything goes to shit, you know you can belt out “Raspberry Beret”.’
I burst out laughing as we pass our first road sign for Silverstone.
Jack was right about one thing: I don’t even make it inside the Pagari Team Hub before Micah’s dad pounces on me.
He’s waiting by himself at the foot of the outside stairs, hands linked behind his back.
I force my legs to keep walking towards him.
He’s not a large man, like his son, but he has powerful presence.
‘Good morning, Ms Roberts,’ he says in a strong Nigerian accent, and extends his hand for me to shake.
‘Good morning, sir. I’m very excited to be interviewing your son today.’
‘Good.’ There’s a stiff formality to his nod. ‘He is eager also.’
‘Great,’ I make to step around him, ‘so I’ll—’
‘Just one minute.’ His tone stops me dead.
‘I have some rules, Ms Roberts. Is that alright with you.’ It’s not a question.
I offer a small smile. ‘You will not bring up our family or my son’s life outside of Formula 1 – it is intensely private.
You will not broach allegations of safety concerns and regulatory disputes.
Last year’s British Grand Prix is also forbidden.
’ The team orders incident, on its anniversary.
How can I not bring it up? ‘Finally, you may not ask about Micah’s relationship to his teammate or with Pagari. ’
Those last two are ridiculous. ‘I have to maintain some level of journalistic—’
‘You may not.’ The full stop at the end of that sentence is loud and clear. ‘If you broach any of these topics, the interview will terminate and you will not be able to air any of the footage. Do I make myself clear?’
My nod is tiny.
‘I wish you a good interview,’ he says, turning on his heel and leading us inside.
What the hell can I ask Micah about? He’s ruled out basically everything – everything that will interest viewers, at least.
Maybe my questions should be open and broad, that way I can let him lead.
Surely I can’t get in trouble if Micah reveals something restricted of his own accord?
But then what if Micah’s as manipulative as Jack says?
I get visions of the interview being a series of bland questions followed by monosyllabic answers. Oh god.
My stomach sinks even more when I spot Greg across the hospitality suite. He doesn’t have to be here – the entire London office doesn’t have to either, including the Big Boss – and yet here we all are. Greg rushes over to me, grin so wide it looks like it hurts.
‘Today’s the big day,’ he says, gripping my arms and giving them a little shake. ‘Do you have everything you need?’
I gulp. ‘Think so.’
‘Excellent. We’re all set up here for the interview, and then we’ll head over to the track and do the hot lap. You should try the coffee here – it’s molto buono.’ He makes a chef’s kiss sign with his fingers that I hope I’ll never see again.
I spot Micah on the far side getting powdered.
He asked for this interview; he won’t jeopardise it.
Right? It’d damage his reputation – not as much as mine, but enough to sting.
F1 is a spectator sport and Liberty Media like drivers to play ball and appease fans.
They’d be pretty pissed if Micah looked like he was finally getting on board only to spit on said board.
It doesn’t need to be a spectacular interview. His presence alone will guarantee record ratings, and if he’s tedious and taciturn, it could be explained away as normal Micah behaviour. So long as I do my best, that will be enough, right?
Right?
The set up isn’t exactly conducive to him being vulnerable.
There are about forty crew members from Channel 3 and Pagari squeezed in here, and the tension’s mounting by the minute.
Mr Adetunji positioning himself behind one of the cameras isn’t helping either.
The operator is having to awkwardly lean around him to perfect his set-up.
I kick things off before nerves can climb any higher.
‘How do you feel coming to Silverstone this weekend?’ I ask once the cameras are rolling.
My question could be interpreted as prying into last year, or simply asking any driver about any upcoming race like any interviewer would.
Where the conversation goes from here is up to Micah. I catch his dad tensing nevertheless.
‘Good,’ Micah says coolly, not like I’ve pressed on a very tender bruise.
‘I came second last year, we had a British one-two, and a double win for the team. The car’s really strong around this track and I’m keen to see how far we can push it this year.
Also, obviously, it’s my home Grand Prix, so I’m always happy to be here. ’
Good for him. That’ll gain him some fans; no one likes a sore loser. He even spoke nicely about Jack.
‘Do you think there’s a win on the table?’ I probe.
His lips quirk. ‘I always think there’s a win on the table. If I didn’t, I shouldn’t be here.’
‘But it’s not always possible. What then?’
‘Then I make it possible.’
‘By taking steps other drivers won’t?’
‘Objection!’ sounds a voice from behind the camera and my heart stops beating.
‘It’s fine, Dad.’ Micah waves his hand, unruffled.
‘I know what you’re getting at. I’m a hard racer, I know I am.
I flirt with track limits, I never yield a position, I overtake in tight spaces.
Same as Ayrton Senna. Same as Sir Cliff Roberts.
’ He gives me a pointed look. ‘I’m put in that car to win and I’ll do anything to get the job done.
I care so much about this sport, this team, it can be to the detriment of popularity with the other drivers.
But it’s a sacrifice I’ve made peace with. They don’t pay me.’
You know what, he’s right. I’ve never seen him do anything my dad wouldn’t have done. My dad was all about pushing boundaries. The amount he used to bitch about his teammates bordered on chronic.
‘The fans will certainly be behind you this weekend.’ I cross my legs. ‘Despite not being on TikTok yourself, you’re the second most popular driver on the app with almost a million posts. Does that not tempt you to get social media?’
He smiles. ‘No, but I’m grateful for the support.’
‘The British press would also love to see you on the podium. They can’t get enough of homegrown talent.’
His smile wanes. ‘Only if I win.’ His voice has a solemn edge to it. ‘If I win, I’m British; if I lose, I’m Nigerian.’
Micah’s comment’s still clanging through me as the Pagari crew give my helmet one final shake. Thankfully I can’t see Jack, but I know he’s watching from somewhere in the stands. Overprotective weirdo.
‘You ready?’ Micah beams. He’s smiled about thirty times in the last half hour, and it’s in no small part due to the cameras constantly pointed our way.
‘Ready, cap’n,’ I confirm.
‘You’re not scared, are you?’
‘Not really.’ Blatant lie, but no one wants immortal footage painting them as a scardy cat.
There’s a reason my dad never drove a hot lap with me.
Why did this sound like such a good idea when Micah proposed it?
In the cold light of a dull Saturday morning, it’s looking singularly less good. At least it’s not raining.
The car gleams beside us in jewel red. Pagari are damn good at making supercars. The tyres are enormous, and with a six-litre engine, it’ll go like a rocket. I swallow the bile that’s worked its way up my throat. Why couldn’t he have chosen a Corsa?