Off Limits

Chapter 1

MINNIE

BAHRAIN

Ivolunteered. I bloody volunteered.

BECAUSE I VOLUNTEERED.

Our chief pundit — motorsport legend Brian O’Connell – is off sick, so our threadbare presenting team of three became an even barer team of two, and rather than letting my seasoned colleague Krunal do it, being the little swot I am, I raised my hand. Did I mention it’s my first weekend?

The grid walk is a pre-race tradition that sees VIPs, team members, Paddock Club guests and media swarm the grid in the final minutes before the race begins.

It’s a rare behind-the-scenes look at the teams and drivers as they make their final preparations.

Sounds amazing, right? Not for humble journalists who must point out what they see amidst the pandemonium and try to flag down anyone of note, who are all busy doing their jobs and not particularly inclined to speak to a little blonde newbie.

I gulp at the sight of the strip before me filling by the second.

The top teams are completely obscured behind thick hordes of entitled celebrities, influencers and dignitaries with no knowledge of F1.

I’m down at the back by both DFK Racing cars in P19 and P20.

It’s not a long walk to the Pagari on pole – the cars are only eight metres apart – but I’m beginning to feel like I’m trying to get to the bar in a supremely busy club.

And my segment’s only eight minutes long.

The white Gulf Air arch over the start line looms smugly in the distance.

It’s the first time I’ve been on a starting grid since my dad retired thirteen years ago.

It looks the same, but also different. New teams, new drivers, new cars.

My dad’s old competitor Lars Henriksson is now balder than Pitbull, and the Ackland principal’s face reminds me of an ancient tree trunk.

But the familiar faces, frenetic energy and all-encompassing passion haven’t gone anywhere.

It feels a little like coming home, if your home smells like petrol and the fetid press of too many men.

A Volare engineer bumps into me as he scurries by, and I’m reminded about the impending grid walk. On live TV. Starting any minute. My mouth’s as parched as the desert earth around the track.

‘Thirty seconds, Milly,’ says the cameraman.

‘It’s Minnie,’ I mumble so weakly I don’t even convince myself.

There’s only one thing to do: I play Chris Brown’s ‘Champion’ in my head. I don’t know when or how he became integral to psyching myself up but I just go with it. There’s no time to choose a singer with a cleaner track record.

Come on, girl, you can do this. It’s just a matter of walking along the tarmac, stopping people I’ve known since childhood, and asking their thoughts on the race. Men love talking about themselves, and I can make conversation with a wall.

I fan my armpits, wishing for the millionth time I wasn’t wearing a blazer dress. It was hard to imagine the weather being anything other than sub-zero when I was packing in England. Besides, my producer told me evenings in Bahrain are cool. Does this seem cool to you, Greg?

The cameraman mouths ‘five’ and begins to count down on his fingers.

Fuuuuck.

I grip my microphone tighter.

‘Go Minnie,’ says the voice in my earpiece.

‘Welcome to the grid!’ My grin is so exaggerated my cheeks are aching already. ‘We’ve got an amazing crowd watching from the stands and a lot of excitement on the ground. Let’s see who we can flag down.’

I power-walk into the congestion, hoping the cameraman can keep up. The overlapping instructions through my earpiece are coming so fast I can’t focus on any of them. Go to Alpha Prime! There’s the Crown Prince of Bahrain behind you! Sky’s talking to M?kinen!

‘I—um…’ Oh god. I don’t recognise anyone. ‘Excuse me—Sorry— Can I just—’ I can’t see more than two people in front of me. This is an absolute—

‘Coming through,’ says a voice behind me and I turn to see a RaceX car being pushed by four melting mechanics.

‘Sorry, so sorry.’ I scoot out the way. A familiar voice rises above the hubbub and I practically leap. ‘Kurtis Hatten-Meyer!’ Ackland’s number one driver. I’ve never been so delighted to see my old friend. Our fathers used to race together, so I’ve known him since he was—

Why is he shaking his head?

‘Sorry Minnie, team orders,’ Kurt says. ‘Good to see you, though.’

I angle away from the camera and give him a look that says, The fuck do you mean, ‘team orders’?

‘No press,’ he fails to elaborate with an apologetic smile.

I taught you how to swear in English, you ungrateful bastard.

I take a deep breath and rabbit about anything I can think of.

How the track temperature’s the coolest of the weekend, which won’t suit Tenzing and Volare as they’re starting on soft tyres, which means blah, blah, blah.

I’m word vomiting. It’s all I can do not to curl into a ball and sob into my infernal sleeves.

Everywhere I step, I’m in the way, or my cameraman’s in the way, or a foreign TV outlet’s securing a first-rate interview, or some dickhead’s grumbling about this being no place for women.

Amidst a sea of thobes and Martinelli boiler suits, I catch a swish of distinctive golden-brown hair.

Logic would dictate that he’s grown up a lot since I last saw him in the flesh (to give him credit, he was nine) but I wasn’t expecting him to be so rangy.

His Martinelli racing suit’s folded down, revealing the white branded base layer like every other driver, but on him it looks irrepressibly chic.

I sidle up beside him. ‘étienne Blanchet, how are you feeling about the race?’

I thrust my microphone at him in time to hear, ‘Sorry, no— Minnie Roberts? C’est toi?’

‘Yes, it’s me. How—’

‘Tu es présentatrice?’

‘Yes, I’m with Channel 3 airing live in the UK.’ English, moron.

He curves his lips down in that vague way French people do. Sorry, not French: Monegasque. He’s very touchy about that. He’s corrected his interviewers in every piece of media I’ve seen him do.

‘Can you give me two words about what you’re expecting today?’ I press. Please, étienne. Don’t be a knob. ‘Just two.’ I stare so meaningfully at him I’m in danger of popping out a contact.

‘Itz impossible, Grosse Minnie.’

Humiliation pools somewhere already slick under my blazer. Probably where my nipple covers have got to. ‘You can’t call a woman “big”, it’s considered rude.’

He recoils like he’s the offended one. ‘Itznot rude, itza childhood nickname. You were big. In every way.’

‘It was puppy fat,’ I mutter.

His eyebrow lifts. ‘Bien s?r.’

‘Well you were—’

‘Why are you wearing a coat?’ I’d think he’s staring at my boobs but his expression’s more akin to me having sprouted multi-coloured wind spinners.

‘It’s not a coat,’ I grit out, ‘it’s a blazer.’

‘It looks like a coat to me.’

I ready the kicker. ‘It’s a blazer dress.’

He flinches like I’ve pinched him. ‘C’est quoi?!’

‘His English has always been ropey.’ I grin angelically at the camera. An elaborate snort erupts behind me. ‘Bonne chance, étienne!’

There are twenty drivers on this sodding grid, one of them has to talk to me.

The whole point of volunteering was to show off my rapport with the top dogs and demonstrate it’s not difficult to commandeer drivers if you’ve known them since they wet the bed.

This is my chance to prove myself. I have the double-pronged burden of being both green and wildly unqualified for this job.

I desperately need to show what I can bring to Channel 3.

I’m about to start prattling on about what the wing and engine specialists are doing on the cars when my back collides with something solid.

‘I’m so sorry!’ I turn, and my eyes meet—

Holy shit, I’ve walked into Jack Bowden.

Pagari’s number one driver.

Two-time World Champion.

Today’s driver on pole.

His fluffy chestnut hair’s tousled like he removed his helmet and raked his fingers through it. TikTok montages don’t do him justice; the man’s a god. Unfairly good-looking, tall for a driver, and his biceps are visible even through his Nomex underwear.

‘Earth to Minnie! Interview him!’ barks the voice in my ear.

CHRIST! I’m gawping on live TV. ‘Jack! Do you have a minute?’

An easy smile spreads across his face. ‘Shoot.’

What were my questions again? Oh yes. ‘Testing suggested Pagari are set for yet another incredibly strong season, and yesterday’s qualifying confirmed it with a front row lock-out.

Is this how the rest of the season’s going to be?

Another year of Pagari dominance?’ Professional, knowledgeable, steady.

I really can do this. I’m interviewing this weekend’s most important driver, and I had to use my (very new) journalistic integrity to secure it. Not bad for a first attempt.

Jack’s laugh is breathy. ‘Ask me in November.’ He rubs the back of his neck, and I nod along gravely.

‘It’s obviously a new car, and we’re still learning about it, as all the teams are.

I’m not going to lie, we struggled more than we expected to in qualifying – we have long run pace but we have a fight with Martinelli in terms of race pace.

It’s definitely something we have to keep an eye on. ’

A thoughtful, detailed answer. I’m speechless. The petty part of me hopes Kurt and étienne are watching.

Jack’s standing with a cool towel around his neck like he has all the time. Like he isn’t about to race in one of the most dangerous sports in the world. Like he’s not under the most pressure of everyone on the grid.

Hang on, as if I got star-struck by a driver. Between their egos and sweat, not to mention those hulking necks, they’re walking icks.

That said, ego, sweat, and neck notwithstanding, it’s easy to see why the media brand Jack a heartbreaker.

Between the steady confidence, effortless charm, gorgeous face, and the small detail of him being one of the most decorated drivers in modern motorsport, girls must fall at his feet.

Not this girl, though. She’s here to do a job and that’s it.

‘How do you think you’ll handle the first sector with two heavyweights behind you – your teammate, and the Martinelli of étienne Blanchet?’ I say, relaxing into it. ‘Lest we forget, seven of the last ten winners here started from second.’

‘Yeah, but a P2 didn’t win last year, did they?’ Something wicked glints in his eyes and he blinks and it’s gone and did I imagine it? ‘Or the year before,’ he adds.

Did his voice darken?

And did my stomach flip?

Must be my lack of lunch. Three breadsticks and a squashed Babybel aren’t a meal, Minnie.

He opens his mouth to say something else but everyone’s drifting towards the start line for the Bahraini national anthem.

I don’t want to spend a second longer on here than I need to so I throw some parting words to the camera and make like Road Runner.

Thank fuck for that. I’m never volunteering for anything again. Ever.