Chapter 33
MINNIE
We walk the backstreets to town, passing holiday home after holiday home belonging to Italy’s rich and famous. It’s all broad gates and lush greenery under the Tuscan sun, a world away from tyre degradation trends and manic paddocks and silly season gossip.
Jack was all cute in the villa but now we’re in semi-public (even though a car hasn’t gone by in the last fifteen minutes), there’s at least a metre between us.
I won’t argue it – I’m joining his holiday – but I find it interesting.
To me, holding hands is just as couply as kissing in the pool or snuggling on a lounger. The demarcations he draws are strange.
‘You wanted to know a secret,’ he says quietly. ‘I have been keeping something from you.’
I raise my eyebrows, urging him to continue, and try not to hold my breath.
‘I have a brother.’
I wasn’t expecting that. Beats I’ve knocked a girl up and want to be his dad.
I don’t want to burst his bubble, but I know he has a brother.
Anyone who’s read the ‘Early life’ section of his Wikipedia page knows that.
There are old news articles about him too, but nothing recent.
The curious part’s why Jack considers him a secret.
This moment feels like a big deal to him so I play along. ‘Oh yeah?’
‘His name’s Teddy.’
Jack doesn’t hurry to expand, so I prompt, ‘Younger?’
‘By four years.’
We lapse into silence. If he wants to tell me, he can. If he doesn’t, that’s fine. After ten or so steps, he doesn’t look at me when he says, ‘I wasn’t totally honest about why my family couldn’t move with me to Italy. We lived hand-to-mouth, sure, but also… my brother needs fulltime care.
‘I’m not embarrassed by him or anything scummy like that. I don’t tell people to protect his privacy. He can’t have a say in what gets shared about him, and there were instances where reporters and fans turned up at my parents’ house and even Ted’s hospital appointment—and I can’t have that.’
Oh my god. Some people have no boundaries.
‘A long time ago I decided to only talk about him with people I trust,’ he goes on. ‘Journalists, fans and even my own PR manager give me shit about not standing up for disability rights, but my brother and his safety are more important.’
‘Of course. Thank you for sharing him with me.’
He looks like he’s not sure if opening up was the right decision. ‘Yeah.’
I didn’t know any of that; I just knew he had a younger brother who looked vaguely like him and was often pictured in a wheelchair.
‘If you don’t mind my asking, does he have a condition?’
He rubs his eye under his sunglasses. ‘Angelman Syndrome. Have you heard of it?’
‘No.’
‘It’s a genetic condition. I won’t bore you with the details, but to give you an idea of what it looks like, he was initially diagnosed with cerebral palsy.’
‘Right.’
‘He’s the best. He’s such a gas; he finds everything funny. Everything.’ Even with his eyes shielded I can see Jack brightening. ‘And he’s the hardest worker I know. It might take him half an hour to get in his pyjamas, but he’ll do it. I always say everyone should be more like Ted.’
‘He sounds brilliant.’
‘Yeah, he is. You’d like him. He’d definitely like you.’
‘You think?’
‘I mean, he’s a Bowden. You’re quite popular with them so far.’ He slides me a side look that sets my pulse racing. ‘He’d give you one of his famous hugs. He’s a big hugger.’
‘What a sweetheart.’ We cross the road onto another empty stretch. ‘So your parents had to prioritise his care over supporting your racing?’
‘I wouldn’t have had it any other way. Ted needed a lot of help, especially when he was little.
He didn’t sleep much, he couldn’t walk, he couldn’t talk, he was hyperactive, and he had these horrific seizures.
Dozens and dozens and dozens of them. He was in hospital sometimes three or four times a week.
So yeah, it was mostly me and my grandad. ’
I remember when he said his grandad saw racing as ‘a way to make sure I didn’t get lost’. That phrase takes on a new meaning now I have a window into his home life. My heart breaks for him.
‘So you didn’t get much attention?’ I probe.
His response is somewhere between a laugh and a snort.
‘My parents shouldn’t have been parents.
They’re too selfish, and frankly they couldn’t afford it.
Taking care of your sick kid shouldn’t be a burden, and it shouldn’t be a weapon you use against your other kid.
But it’s the same for millions of families with disabled children.
The disabled child is never the problem; it’s always the adults. ’
I take him in carefully. ‘He’s so lucky to have a brother like you.’
He shrugs. ‘Sure, I pay for fulltime care and set them up in a nice house, but I can’t see him much, and that’s all he cares about.’
‘You love and protect him, and that’s worth so much more than you give yourself credit for.’
He screws his face up like he doesn’t believe me.
We’ve almost reached town. The church bell tower rises above the pastel villas and palm trees. I can hear distant voices and cars.
Jack really trusts me. He’s told me so many deeply personal things, some of which could have big ramifications if we go south and I was a vindictive witch.
I don’t know what this means for us, but I do know I like feeling close to him and being the only romantic partner he’s shared this with.
I mean, I’m guessing, but if he’s usually having one-night stands, he’s not exactly going to relive his painful childhood.
We reach the main street through Forte dei Marmi and I angle my wide-brim sun hat down, channelling my inner Sophia Loren. You can never be too careful when you’re with one of the most famous drivers on the planet.
It’s all bakeries and restaurants, designer shops and bougainvillea-lined houses, with a grand piazza in the centre chock-full of people. I dip my hat lower. Part of me wishes we could join them having Aperol spritzes in the late afternoon sun, but it’s too risky.
We head into the small supermarket and pick up groceries for the next couple of days.
It’s hard not to marvel at the fresh bread and cheeses, and how cheap the wine is.
Jack speaks to the cashier in the strangest mix of Essex-tinted and native-sounding Italian.
I can’t judge, my Italian’s limited to car parts.
Feeling more adventurous, we take the seaside promenade back home with our ice creams. Hotels, restaurants and beachgoers clinging onto the last few hours of sun run along on one side; Vespas and supercars run along the other.
Luca’s 8C wouldn’t look out of place at all.
No one bothers Jack. He’s pretty obscured behind his baseball cap and sunglasses, and I guess they’re used to celebrities here.
This is nice. Really, really nice. I don’t want to admit to myself exactly how nice in case I make it into something it’s not. In case I want more holidays like this, more walks like this, talking about nothing and everything. This is all we’ll ever be. I should savour it while it lasts.
My carefree mood sputters in the evening when Jack goes to the toilet and I scroll mindlessly through X. A photo of him stops me dead, and I sit up.
It was taken today.
Jack’s laughing in front of the piazza – and I’m right beside him. It’s the back of my head but you can see my hair reaching down my back and the jewellery I usually wear. An F1 gossip channel’s posted it, along with the heading:
‘Jack Bowden spotted on vacation in Italy with mystery woman ’
‘What’s up?’ he says, coming back into the living room.
I thrust the screen at him. ‘We were spotted!’
I wait with bated breath as his eyes skim the post. ‘Ah, it’s alright. You can’t see it’s you. You can barely see you’re blonde, your hat’s so big.’
‘But we were spotted. Here.’
Why did we go out in public? That was so stupid!
People know he visits this town, and he races for Italy’s biggest motorsport team.
What na?ve idiots. There are tons of staff who work here; how difficult is it to send someone out for provisions?
The consequences if we’re caught are too steep to think about.
‘Don’t worry,’ he says. ‘The comments suspect you’re a model. I think it’s quite a good picture. Maybe we should frame it.’
I whack his arm. ‘I’m not kidding! If I turned ninety degrees either way a second before, my career’s down the toilet.’
‘Let’s not be dramatic.’ He flops down on the couch beside me. ‘Even if you were papped dead-on, between your hat and specs, all they’d see is your chin. Also, there’s no story. We weren’t kissing or hugging or anything. You could be my cousin. It’ll blow over in an hour.’
He kind of has a point. I settle back against the cushions, still staring at it. I do look quite chic, if you ignore the tote bag with lettuce poking out the top. Big hat, flowing sundress, Forte dei Marmi in the background – very Sophia Loren indeed.
I nurse my forehead. ‘That was way too close. We need to be more careful in future.’
He crawls over so his head’s in my lap. ‘Are you going to whinge all night or can we go back to watching Just Friends?’
‘Fine. I’m done. You can press play – but I mean it. We have to be more careful.’