36. MINNIE
MINNIE
‘What the fuck, Minnie?’ Mum shrieks. I turn the volume down on my AirPods as I navigate from my taxi to the media centre. Why I thought calling her en route was the best idea I’ll never know – whilst heaving all my materials and rushing because Greg requested me in early for a ‘chat’. Pray for me.
‘It was a stupid, drunken mistake. It meant nothing,’ I mumble, dodging stewards lining up metal barriers.
‘A driver? Have you lost your mind?’
‘Honestly, Mum, no one feels worse about it than I do.’ At least not everything spewing from my mouth’s a dirty rotten lie.
‘But I forbade you!’
I screw my face up. ‘No you did— I’m not five!’
‘I mean it, Minnie. Think of your career.’
Like she’s worried for my career. She’s as transparent as the cups they’re lining up on that makeshift bar. ‘I’ve thought of nothing but my career.’
It’s Thursday – press day – so the paddock’s quiet.
Monza doesn’t cater to the public until the Fan Zone opens at lunchtime, and the teams are holed up in their garages and motorhomes.
Thank god, because even without hordes of people, I still can’t find the sodding media centre.
While Mum rabbits on about ‘impulse control’ and ‘short-sightedness’, I consult my map for the fiftieth time.
My earlier suspicions are confirmed: it makes no sense.
Some of the squares are numbered but there are no numbers in the key.
I can’t even see the buildings in front of me on it. And how is it already this hot?!
‘Mum,’ I interrupt, ‘I need to call you back. I have to get to work.’
‘This isn’t over, Minnie. You need to think long and hard about what you’ve done.’
‘Yes. Fine. Bye.’
I’m about to get it from Greg, I don’t need it from her and her unresolved issues too.
When I eventually do manage to find the media centre – parched and dripping in sweat – I’m late. I don’t know why I’m stressing about the time, I’m probably about to be fired anyway. What’s a seven-minute delay to severance?
‘You’re late,’ announces Greg as I join him in the office he’s commandeered and close the door behind me.
‘So sorry. The map’s atrocious.’ I slump in a chair and fan myself with today’s schedule. I was too flustered to feel sad before, but now, sitting here in front of Greg’s burnt face, it creeps up on me. When he doesn’t begin, I put the schedule down and sit on my hands.
He interlinks his fingers on the table. ‘Do you know why I called this chat?’
It’s hardly anything as informal as a chat when you send me a calendar invite. Even so, it takes everything in me not to burst into tears. I hate being told off, and boy do I deserve what’s coming. I swallow the lump in my throat. ‘Yes,’ I squeak.
He doesn’t say anything, he just keeps staring at me.
I can’t take not knowing. ‘Am I fired?’ I whisper.
‘I don’t know.’
Oh god.
‘London wants to chat in ten minutes. We can talk about next steps from there,’ he continues.
Christ I hate the word ‘chat’.
‘It was just a kiss, I promise. We’re not… I’m not… That’s the first time I’ve spoken to Jack outside of work. I’d never show favouritism, I didn’t ask about Pagari, I don’t know anything about him outside of F1. I swear.’ I sound so convincing I almost believe myself.
‘I believe you, but even so. You’ve compromised our reputation as a broadcaster.’
‘I know. I’m so s—’
‘Behaving unprofessionally during a professional weekend undermines not only your creditability, but ours too. And doing it with a driver makes us all look careless and, more importantly, biased.’
Don’t cry, Minnie. Don’t cry. ‘Of course.’
‘We’re beacons of knowledge. People trust us completely.’ That’s a bit far but I get his point. ‘How can they trust someone who looks like they’re on Sun, Sex and Suspicious Parents?’ How old is that reference? And why does he choose now to grow some balls?
‘I’m so sorry, Greg. I am trustworthy, and I so value this job. I’m delighted ratings are up and the Micah feature went down so well. I really want to continue working hard and being part of this team and a… a beacon of knowledge.’
He nods resignedly and sits back. ‘Well. We’ll see what London says.’