Chapter 29
JACK
Finally I spot Minnie tottering through the paddock. I tell rather than ask my minders to excuse me for five minutes, and manage to catch her eye and motion to the small gap between the Pirelli and Maxim Performance motorhomes.
After three hours of patchy sleep sitting in my main mechanic’s chair, boy did I miss lying beside her.
Curling against her body, smelling her hair, listening to her soft breaths.
Beats waking up to someone dropping a case of brake materials.
The first thoughts that flashed in my head were: is she ok?
How’s her neck? Did she have nightmares about careering around Silverstone with a lunatic?
I really want us to go back to normal, and I’m aware it was only me who thought anything was different.
The urge to kiss her to say sorry almost knocks me sideways, but I can’t.
Someone might walk past. She looks ten times fresher than me, and I feel a bolt of pride that she used my flat to do it.
If only I wasn’t being such a goon I could’ve been there too.
‘Tell me about yesterday,’ I whisper, allowing myself the small luxury of brushing her fingers before shoving my hands in my pockets.
‘Tell me about qualifying,’ she retorts, incredulous. ‘How are you now starting from the pits?!’
Don’t remind me. ‘I oversteered,’ I mutter. ‘Micah first.’
‘Not Micah first! You crashed into the barrier. Are you even ok?’
‘I’m fine.’
‘That’s not like you. And I heard something about twenty-two parts wrecked?’
‘Twenty-three,’ I correct. ‘I don’t know what to tell you. It was wet. I lost the car.’
‘You didn’t come back last night,’ she adds softly.
‘I was up with the mechanics until three. It didn’t make sense to drive two hours home.’ A truth, just not the whole truth.
‘Are you really ok?’ She looks so worried. I feel a fresh stab of guilt.
I need to get my rivalry with Micah in check. He’s going to keep messing with my head – why wouldn’t he? It’s working a treat. It’s up to me to shut him out.
‘Yeah,’ I say through an out-breath. ‘Today’s going to be… what it will be.’ Micah will bag his beloved win, if he doesn’t let his good fortune go to his head. They’re predicting P12 for me. I haven’t scored outside the points in two years, and even that was a gearbox DNF. ‘Now Micah. How was it?’
‘He was…’ she roots around for the right word, looking annoyingly not like she hates him as much as I do, ‘charming.’
‘Surprise, surprise,’ I mutter.
‘It wasn’t put on. We had a really nice chat, actually, and the footage was incredible. He was open and receptive; he gave thoughtful answers. He was even nice about you.’
I don’t want to rain on her parade like yesterday so I raise my eyebrows. ‘Oh really?’
‘You were right about his dad, though. What a domineering momager.’
‘But I saw the hot lap—’
‘Ok, the hot lap wasn’t my favourite,’ she admits. ‘It made good TV, though. I don’t know how you do what you do.’
The difference is I don’t try to make someone black out. ‘It takes training, all right,’ I offer weakly.
‘But the interview’s what my team are most excited about.
He was brilliant, Jack. I can’t wait for you to watch it.
He was so vulnerable. He told me he’s British when he does well, and Nigerian when he does badly.
How crazy is that?’ She’s looking at me expectantly, like I’m supposed to buy this bullshit.
I guess this is where my good guy act comes to an end.
‘His mum’s a hedge fund manager. He’s the most decorated number two on the grid. Boo-hoo, poor Micah, racing for the best team in F1 with Nike brand sponsorship and a mansion in South London.’ I pretend to search around me. ‘Where did I put my violin?’
Minnie’s gone very still. ‘You think racism’s a joke?’
Oh so we’re having this argument. ‘You think I don’t understand discrimination? There’s a reason you grew up with half the drivers on this grid, Minnie.’
She jerks back like I’ve physically stung her. ‘How can you equate class to race?’
‘Where you come from is everything in this sport!’
‘He’s the only Black driver on the grid, Jack.’
‘Black yes, but not the only person of colour. Tiago’s—’
‘Minnie?’
We both look up at the mouth of the alleyway, and there stands Minnie’s mum.
I’d know her anywhere, even if I didn’t know Minnie.
Fifteen years ago, if you loved Cliff or Ackland, you’d heard of Cara Macklin.
She had a radiance the press couldn’t get enough of.
I can see it now, even though she’s glowering at me.
‘You said to meet outside Maxim, and I heard your voice,’ Cara says cautiously, eyes trained on me like she can tell I shagged her daughter in the early hours of yesterday morning. ‘Did I interrupt something?’
‘No!’ Minnie sings. ‘Mum, meet my friend Jack.’
She glides towards us, fancy bag in the crook of her arm. ‘Cara,’ she says. I’ve never heard a word so icy.
I feel the impulse to call her ma’am, but it’s not like she’s my mother-in-law so I settle for a ‘hi’.
‘We’re in the same friendship group with Kurt and étienne,’ Minnie explains too cheerily.
I almost do a double-take. The idea that I’m mates with that French aerosol can is hysterical.
‘It’s a small paddock,’ I hear myself say.
Now I get why Minnie doesn’t want us getting back to her mum. Cara’s staring at me like I’m her ex. She hates drivers, that much is clear. Or maybe she just hates me, what with my dashing good looks and the groundless heartbreaker label that seems to follow me from season to season.
If it’s the former, who can blame her? Cliff was the bastard to end all bastards, but that doesn’t mean we all are. If it’s the latter, she doesn’t know me. You can’t hate someone you don’t know.
‘On va prendre un café, Minnie?’ Cara says. Switching to French is a dick move but I let it slide. It’s nothing personal. She thinks it is, but I don’t see it that way. Still wish I’d paid more attention to languages at school, though.
Minnie hoists her bag higher. ‘Yes, let’s.’
Disappointment flashes through me at my ultra-limited time with Minnie being cut short, but maybe it’s for the best. That argument wasn’t headed anywhere good anyway.
‘It was lovely to meet you,’ I call after them.
Cara looks me up and down over her shoulder. ‘Goodbye Jack.’
I start strong, managing to nip around both DFKs without pushing hard.
The track’s much drier than yesterday and though the sky’s dark, it’s not forecast to rain so I’m planning for a clean run.
It’s going to be a long slog but if I can manage fuel and tyre degradation perfectly, I think we can do better than the predicted twelfth.
Finishing twelfth in a Pagari is plain pathetic.
I know this car better than I know my hometown.
Her limits, her shortcomings and, most importantly, her virtues are singed into me, and at the top of those virtues is her straight-line speed.
I sail past a Leone on the Wellington Straight. He puts up a feeble fight but I swerve on his inside and he’s shrinking in my wingmirror before he can say ‘downforce’. Next up, it’s the Alpha Prime I didn’t wipe out.
A handful of laps later, I meet my first big team competitor: the Ackland of Eilo M?kinen.
He had power unit failure in Q1 so started P19 but has since climbed to P15.
He wants to travel up the grid as much as I do, and he’s one tough defender.
There’s no point playing chicken, he’s ballsier on the brakes than me.
But I’m not worried. I have two things in my favour: a better car, and much more experience of this track.
Eilo follows a defensive racing line into Club corner, wasting time and tyre wear.
I linger in his dirty air, conserving and waiting, coasting along while he farts about ‘anticipating’ my overtake.
Could I eclipse him on the straight? Yes, I could – Ackland don’t have Pagari’s aerodynamic efficiency, amongst other things.
But would that hype the crowd up as much as tricking him on a corner? Hell no.
I don’t have to wait long. The pressure gets to him and he runs wide at the exit of Turn 2 – admittedly a difficult section if you don’t know it like I do – and the stands go nuts as I slither around him into Turn 3.
Adrenaline like I haven’t felt in months surges through me.
This is real racing. This is what I was put on this earth to do.
I’m not a show pony, I don’t care about the easy wins, I don’t relish driving a car that’s head and shoulders above everyone else.
I’m here to compete. My heart’s thumping so loudly I’d be surprised if it’s not picked up by the radio.
The first wave of cars begin pitting – the two-stop strategy boys.
That was my plan too, before I saw more of the pits than I ever wanted to this weekend.
The car feels good under me, making me feel like maybe our strategy gamble might pay off.
If we can go all the way on a one-stop, that’s at least twenty seconds I’ll have over these guys.
In a sport where a hundredth of a second matters, I might actually have a chance of placing somewhere decent.
I tell myself that as another four cars pit. Only five of us are left on our original soft compounds, and two of those are DFKs so they don’t count.
I clear a few of the mid-pack and suddenly the green rear wing of Kurtis Hatten-Meyer’s in my sights.
He’s more experienced than his teammate.
He knows I have a speed advantage and isn’t na?ve enough to open up inside lines for me.
I ask my race engineer in code if I have his consent to play dirty, and though he responds with ‘mind your tyres, we have a long way to go’, I can hear the smile in his voice.
For two whole laps I sit behind Kurtis, studying his lines and braking points. Halfway through the second lap, my starting point shines like a beacon: the exit of Becketts and Chapel. The position is so exact, I could describe the sign fans are holding beside it.
Like clockwork, on the third lap Kurtis approaches Chapel the exact same way he has for the last two. This is my chance. With the help of slipstream, I dive down his inside. The world narrows to pinpoint focus as we race side-by-side down the straight.
He’s keeping up well, making it impossible to nudge ahead before the corner.
My gut tells me he’s going to be cautious braking since he spun out last weekend from slowing too quickly, and I’m right.
I don’t brake until the very last moment and when I look in my wingmirror, he’s behind me.
I’m left feeling something like mourning at having trumped mighty Ackland so effortlessly, but I quickly get over it.
A lightning-fast pit-stop, thick traffic and a short yellow flag later, I hear those sweet, sweet words: ‘Jack, you’re in seventh.’
Seventh. From plum last. I can’t freaking believe it.
But I’m also not done yet. There are three laps to go and I’m going to make them count.
‘Hold the position. Watch your tyres,’ advises my race engineer, like my thoughts flash up on his telemetry dashboard.
He’s right: my rears aren’t feeling great – I’m slipping a bit around fast corners – and my brakes are fading. Not to mention I’m shattered. Three hours of sleep in a working garage will do that to you.
Then again, I never was good at following orders.
‘How far away’s Webber?’ I ask, more breath than words.
‘Jack…’ he cautions.
‘How far?’
‘Vale. Two point six.’
I put my foot down. These tyres have one more overtake in them.
‘Jack,’ he says again, trying to convey everything he can’t say over the radio. Something like: stop trying to be a fucking maverick and listen to me.
‘Trust me.’
I don’t know whether he does or doesn’t, but he shuts up while I gun down the straight.
Tom Webber’s the most seasoned driver of the lot and has more World Championships than I do.
Martinelli’s been a thorn in our side all season.
I’m going to beat their number one driver if it takes edging past him over the finish line by a spanner-length.
I don’t have capacity to go wheel-to-wheel with him or stalk him for two laps. He knows every defensive trick in the book, and his car has straight-line speed to rival mine. My only advantage is he’s on older tyres. Not much older, but I’ll take what I can get.
As he comes into view, his struggle’s clear. He’s skating around corners like the track’s flooded. That doesn’t make him an easy target necessarily, but it does make him vulnerable if I get this right.
With one lap to go, I tuck in close behind him.
Once again, I pick up the slipstream down the straight and by the next corner, I’ve committed to his outside line.
Webber swerves across the track and nearly clips my rear wing.
Blood rushing through my veins, I hold my nerve, just managing to maintain the position.
Once we reach the corner in earnest, he’s not foolish enough to push his tyres and risk skidding off on the final lap, and brakes before I do.
I say a quick prayer to the racing gods, and my grip sustains.
Martinelli’s number one driver is forced to yield.