Chapter 5
JACK
Ifeel like a fully grown driver as I take the media centre stairs two at a time.
Pagari have finally agreed to me doing press without a minder.
It’s pretty unheard of across the sport, but I’ve done more media training than pole starts, and there are six years of proof that I’m a safe pair of hands in front of the camera.
Does it have anything to do with the extraordinarily fit new member of their team? Who can say…
Chelsea girls are my kryptonite. She looks like she throws around words like ‘joyous’ and ‘compelling’, and is too posh to know what a chippy tea is.
She looks like Instagram’s her personality, and she does yoga with farm animals on weekends.
Oh yes, I know her type. There’s no explicit FIA regulation or team ban around sleeping with journalists, but it’s implied that drivers don’t.
That’s not to say I couldn’t make an exception for someone exceptional…
I peer through the glass panel of our designated room. There she is, back to the door, sorting out her things. Fucking hell she’s something. Tiny skirt, tanned legs, long blonde hair with a pink bow in it. I resist the urge to bite my fist.
Before I get too excited, I open the door and… she’s singing to herself.
‘Is that “Bitches and Marijuana”?’ I interrupt her mid-chorus. It’s taking every ounce of my restraint not to laugh.
Her delicious scent comes with her as she spins around. Floral, but not too sweet.
‘You’re early,’ she says like an accusation.
I walk deeper into the tiny room, happy to see it’s just us. ‘Was that a Chris Brown song?’
Her hand flies to her chest. ‘No!’
‘Sounded a lot like “Bitches and Marijuana” to me.’
‘That would be very unprofessional, on many levels.’ She smooths out her skirt and it takes herculean levels of willpower not to watch. ‘Chris Brown is highly problematic.’
Fuck me, she said ‘highly’. That’s in the same league as ‘joyous’.
She turns away to finish unpacking and, face glued away from me, mutters the end of the line so quietly I almost don’t catch it, ‘—got bitches and marijuana.’
I sing the next line and her gaping surprise has me creasing. ‘I knew it!’ I sink into the couch with a grin.
Looking at her properly, she reminds me of someone, but I can’t put my finger on who. It’s her facial features, her mannerisms, her posture, her accent. This is going to irritate me.
‘Well, you weren’t supposed to be ten minutes early,’ she bites back. ‘Don’t you have a tight schedule?’
I shrug. ‘I’m never late. To be late is to think your time is worth more than someone else’s.’
She thinks this over. ‘But—’
‘So,’ I cut her off, ‘we meet again. I never caught your name?’
‘Minnie.’ She perches daintily on the chair opposite me and crosses her legs, and don’t think I didn’t clock the way her skirt rides higher up her thighs.
‘Minnie…?’
A beat. ‘Like the mouse?’ Her hands jerk upward like she stops herself curling them into ears.
Can’t laugh. Can’t laugh. I purse my lips tight and look down. When that’s not enough, I squeeze my eyes shut. It does the trick. ‘Your surname?’ I choke out.
‘Oh.’ She bypasses blush and goes straight to burgundy. ‘Roberts.’
‘Roberts,’ I echo. That doesn’t give away much. I don’t know any Minnies, and Roberts is a common surname. Minnie Roberts. Do I know any Rober— Wait, I know one. Could it be…? Oh my god it is. Her face, her class – she’s the spitting image of his ex, Cara Macklin. ‘Like Cliff Roberts?’
No, please no. She can’t be my hero’s daughter. I can’t ravage Cliff’s darling girl, that wouldn’t be right. He’s been looking down on me from my bedroom wall since I was old enough to say ‘race’.
She’s definitely his daughter. It’s all coming back – a little blonde girl used to stand beside Cara in the Ackland garage.
Minnie Roberts. Well I never. There goes that dream.
It’s her turn to shrug. ‘Roberts is a common surname,’ she says lightly.
‘It is, but the more I think about it, the more you look like his ex-wife – and I mean that as a huge compliment…’ I trail off as the Channel 3 crew enter. They start, clearly not expecting me to be early, and mumble flustered greetings before ducking behind cameras.
Minnie picks up a giant pink ring binder like it’s totally normal for a presenter to be packing a hulking weapon. She skims her notes and makes to stash it away when my hand shoots out to stop her.
‘These are your notes for this season?’ I ask.
Her eyes meet mine and something not unpleasant ripples through me.
She shakes her head. ‘Of course not.’ Thank god. I settle back on the sofa. ‘These are my notes on the teams.’
My eyebrows shoot skyward. ‘You could bludgeon someone with that thing! You must know more about Pagari than I do.’
‘By failing to prepare, you prepare to fail.’
‘Hand it here. I’ll test you.’
She hugs it into her chest. ‘No!’
‘Give me the date Pagari announced its Formula 1 team.’
‘Sixth of October 1989.’ She gives me a hard stare that screams ‘case closed’.
‘What was the weather like? What did the office smell like? What did—’
‘Shut up!’ Her full lips twitch like they’re trying not to laugh. ‘I wasn’t born, and neither were you.’
I sit up straight. ‘Where was I born?’
‘Fuck off!’ she says through a laugh. It’s so beautiful, so lyrical, I have an overpowering urge to make her laugh again.
The cameraman clears his throat and she starts. I take a slow sip of water, unable to hide my amusement.
She swivels towards the crew. ‘Are we ready?’
They nod in various levels of minimal enthusiasm, and who can blame them? They’re squeezed into the quarter of the room not visible on camera. No doubt underpaid too.
When I look back at Minnie, she’s watching me. I could flatter myself and think she’s checking me out, but the realist in me knows she’s taking in Media Jack. I’m sitting more upright, my expression the polite side of friendly. I don’t lie, I sanitise.
I’m a role model, a charity spokesperson and an ambassador for global brands.
Being the reigning champion makes me the face of the sport.
Other drivers can caricature themselves – Tiago’s playboy, étienne’s firecracker, Ross’ ‘charming’ jokester, Eilo’s mute (and personality-less) dark horse – but not me.
I have to be confident but not cocky. Competitive but not ruthless.
Likeable but not bland. And at the heart of it all: investment-worthy.
‘Ready?’ Minnie asks.
I smile.
‘We’re two races into the season and you’ve won both. Not a shabby start,’ she begins.
‘Not at all.’
‘How are you feeling going into race three?’
‘I’m feeling good. We managed to straighten out our biggest issues in pre-season testing and the car’s in great shape.’
‘You’ve spoken a lot about Martinelli’s race pace being something you guys are watching. Is that still a cause for concern? The Albert Park Circuit doesn’t take any prisoners.’
My lips twitch. ‘I’d never go so far as to say it was a cause for concern.’ She really underestimates Pagari’s arrogance. And mine. ‘But we’re pleased with how the car’s developed over the last couple of races. As for Albert Park, it’s one of the fastest tracks in the calendar—’
‘Four DRS zones will do that,’ she chips in.
Those notes weren’t just for show, hey? Being impressed would be ridiculous – her dad’s one of the greatest drivers in motorsport, and every F1 journalist knows the tracks back to front. Even so, it’s pretty hot. Makes a change from girls being like, ‘Is your car the black one?’
‘Right,’ I say. ‘Its high-speed corners and long straights really play to our strengths, so we’re feeling confident going into qualifying.’
‘Let’s talk about your mindset more generally: two world titles; sixty-one wins. What do you say to those speculating that you’re becoming…’ she roots around for the word, ‘complacent?’
My eyes widen. ‘Complacent?’ Yes, I know all media outlets are saying the same thing, but it stings more coming from her. I think it’s the bow. It’s so adorable it’s messing with my head.
‘It’s understandable if you are. It must get a bit boring not being challenged. It’s not really racing if you’re just driving for fifty-eight laps.’
‘Some might say it’s more boring not getting the opportunity to fight for a win,’ I counter smoothly. Pagari’s comms team will be so proud of my expert fielding.
‘That’s also true.’
‘I’m as ambitious as when I first started. My motivation’s changed – it’s all about making the gap bigger and staying on top. The challenges are different but they’re still there.’
‘Good answer. Now, we’d be remiss to go this whole interview and not mention your teammate.’
Here we go. ‘We would indeed.’
‘Everyone knows a driver’s biggest enemy is his teammate, and Micah looked more competitive than ever in Bahrain and Saudi Arabia. Do you feel like he could be a real threat this year?’
I want to give her what she wants – I want to give her a lot of things – but, in this sport, there’s one cardinal rule: the team is king. I leave a swollen, loaded pause which she’s smart enough to read like a book. ‘Our fight’s with Martinelli this weekend. Who knows after that.’
She shrugs like it was worth a try. What a cheeky minx.
‘Finally, to finish off, I have some quick-fire questions for you,’ she says, those beautiful blue eyes sparkling.
Why do I have a feeling this wasn’t in her excessive notes? I rest my arm along the back of the sofa. ‘Hit me.’
She swipes her flicky side bang back with the gentlest touch. ‘Night out or night in?’
‘These days, night in.’
‘Manual or automatic?’
‘Manual, obviously.’
‘Full English or avocado on toast?’
I scrunch my face up. ‘Who in the world would choose avocado on toast?’
A pause. ‘Some people.’
‘Would you?’
‘Sometimes.’
‘You don’t deserve to be British.’
‘At least I live in Britain. Where do you live, Jack?’
‘No, no, no, this isn’t about living situations, this is about identity. I bet you don’t even like Yorkshire Pudding.’
‘I…’ she trails off. ‘I’m supposed to be interviewing you!’
‘Knew it.’
‘Toy Story or Monsters Inc?’
I regard her blandly. ‘I just know you’d choose Monsters Inc.’
‘I don’t like either but that doesn’t matter because it’s not about me.’
I lean forward. ‘How can you not like Toy Story?’
‘It’s boring.’
‘Boring? What, like my driving?’
‘I never said that!’ she squeaks.
‘Why wouldn’t you want your toys to come alive?’
‘It’s sad. Jessie’s storyline was heartbreaking. I don’t need that kind of pain from a kids’ movie.’
‘But she got her happy ending,’ I argue.
‘I don’t care, The Incredibles beats Toy Story every time.’
‘I’m sorry, are there four Incredibles movies? And a spin-off with Chris Evans?’
She clenches her jaw. ‘Does Toy Story have Edna, the single greatest character ever written?’
‘Does—’
‘Thank you so much for taking the time to speak to me, Jack. It’s so appreciated.’ She’s rounding off the interview. ‘Even if you do have terrible taste in films.’
I throw my head back with a, ‘Hah!’
I see what she’s done. Media Jack with his diplomatic answers and team-first spirit has been shaved thin. She’s trying to pull out the ‘real’ me, and she did a decent job.
‘Good luck out there tomorrow. I can’t wait to watch,’ she says sweetly like she’s not a manipulative mastermind.
‘Thanks Minnie.’
I run my tongue across my front teeth. She thinks this is over, but it’s far from it.