Chapter 13
MINNIE
‘Take a seat, guys. I just need ten minutes and then we can all go home. It’s been a long day,’ says Greg, gesturing to a table in the far corner of the media centre café, well distanced from photographers editing photos and journalists typing up qualifying reports.
I’m the first to sit, mainly because I need a little extra time getting down. I overstretched this morning and my range of motion has been diminishing with worrying speed. By bedtime, I’ll only be able to lie and stand. Drop my sleeping mask? Forget it.
Yesterday I gave Greg my big ‘we need a new format; I’m being underutilised’ speech, and it seemed to go down well (i.e. there was lots of nodding). He asked for a day to talk it over with his boss and said he’d get back to me. It looks like this impromptu team meeting is him getting back to me.
Brian and Krunal follow suit with less zeal. Greg fiddles with a wooden stirrer someone’s left on the table. When he accidently cracks it in two, he starts brushing away the muffin crumbs in his place setting one by one, until Brian clears his throat.
‘We’re going to make some very slight changes to the show,’ Greg begins, purposefully not looking at Brian, who’s regarding Greg like he’s trying to teach us the basics of aerodynamics.
‘At the moment, we each have our areas of responsibility.’ You can say that again.
‘In the interests of keeping things fresh, we’d like to mix it up a bit.
For example, more of Minnie talking about the cars—’
‘Now hang on a minute,’ interrupts Brian.
‘—and maybe Krunal in the comms box!’
Oh Greg.
‘What?’ Krunal and Brian cry in unison.
‘I know fuck all about commentating!’
Our producer wafts his hand vaguely. ‘These are just examples.’
‘What’s going on? Why are there suddenly stipulations on what we can and can’t do? There’s never been a problem before,’ Brian says, looking squarely in my direction. I shrink as much as my muscles will let me.
The corners of Greg’s lips curve down and he shakes his head. ‘It doesn’t matter—’
‘It does, actually,’ snaps Brian.
This is torture. The point of the conversation’s slipping away, taking any glimmers of improvement along with it.
I’m itching to step in but nothing good would come from it.
I’m the newbie. The silly blonde. The woman.
It needs to come from someone in authority, even though said someone should never have been given authority over even distributing biscuits at break time.
I can’t believe I’m missing the Eurovision Grand Final for this.
‘We’re responding to feedback that we need to freshen things up a bit,’ says Greg, quieter.
Brian arches a bushy eyebrow. ‘Feedback? From whom?’
‘From…’ The last of Greg’s gumption seems to have evaporated. ‘Social media,’ he finishes faintly.
‘Social media?’ Brian echoes. ‘Heavens, is this what it’s come to? Taking advice from a bunch of keyboard warriors!’
I can’t silently watch this car crash any longer. This is my job, my future. I deserve a say. I don’t care if it makes things worse – like it could get any worse. ‘They’re viewers, the same as any other,’ I argue. ‘Monitoring social media is a valuable source of pulse checking.’
‘I should’ve known the millennial was behind this.
’ A fleck of spit flies from Brian’s mouth and lands halfway between us on the table.
I can’t stop staring at it. ‘Shall we all do one of those TikTok dances? Maybe that’ll increase viewing figures.
And what’s next? Asking lollipop ladies to shape school curriculums? ’
It takes all I have to hold myself back from outlining, in painstaking detail, what a shitshow Miami was. ‘Our viewers are telling us they’d like more discussion,’ I explain calmly. ‘They—’
‘I’ll discuss a race when I’m partnered with someone who understands this sport.’
Excuse you?
‘Brian!’ yelps Greg.
‘Bruv!’ Krunal recoils.
Brian ignores them. ‘Don’t kid yourself that you’re here because of anything other than nepotism, sweetheart.’
Greg’s eyes bulge. ‘Brian!’
‘You don’t even have a strong claim – your father left your family a long time ago. You haven’t been to a racetrack this decade. You’re nothing but a—’
Krunal leaps up and slams his hand on the table. ‘ENOUGH!’
I don’t feel angry. I don’t even feel upset. I feel… suspended. The media centre’s low murmur reduces to nothing. It’s like we’re the only people here.
When I come to, Krunal’s talking over Greg, who’s suggesting Brian apologise, who’s throwing his head from side to side, arms folded tightly across his chest.
‘There’s no need,’ I say, getting to my feet and smoothing out my skirt. He wouldn’t mean an apology, plus he’s not telling me anything I don’t already know. His opinion was clear the very first time I met him. ‘At least I conduct myself professionally, Brian, which is more than I can say for you.’
And with that I walk away before something slips out that I’ll regret. I’m not sure where I’d start, but I’d end with: flaming stick up your arse!
Thinking up creative one-liners keeps me going while I wait for my taxi. Cursing Greg’s cowardice consumes most of the ride back to Bologna. When we reach the city, I notice my hands are shaking. I tell myself it’s an adrenaline hangover and sit on them.
But when the door opens and my taxi driver regards me with undiluted horror, I know Brian’s words have burrowed deep. I stuff some euros in his hand and make for the hotel.
No, wait. I need a walk.
I turn in the direction we’ve just driven and thunder down the colonnade, passing endless shops and late-night customers. It’s too busy, too hot, too—
‘Roberts!’ I can’t find the voice at first, then I notice an Alfa Romeo cruising on the other side of the road, and Jack leaning through its open window. ‘Hotel’s that way!’
I keep my eyes fixed ahead. I’m in no mood for him or his playfulness or whatever sexual tension thing went on this morning. It feels like a lifetime ago. ‘I need a walk.’
‘Rob—Minnie, hold on.’
I don’t. I don’t want to talk amiably; I don’t want to sit still; I don’t want to lock myself in my room; I don’t want to think about what happened in the media centre. I want to walk.
Tyres screech to a halt, a door slams and a couple of seconds later, a hand grips my arm.
‘Minnie, stop.’
I’m too wired to focus on his face, which is right in front of me, trying to meet my gaze.
‘What happened?’ His tone’s grave.
‘I just… need a walk.’
His expression doesn’t waver. ‘What happened?’
‘It’s fine,’ I murmur.
‘It might be, but you’re not.’
‘I—’
He releases me, and I didn’t know I felt steadied until it’s taken away from me. I shove my trembling hands behind my back. Seconds tick by in strained silence.
‘When I’m having a bad day, I go for a drive,’ he says quietly.
What a stupid thing to say. ‘I don’t have a—’
He holds his keys up by the keyring.
It takes longer than it should for his gesture to compute. ‘I can’t—’
‘C’mon, Roberts. Nothing quietens the mind like a little high-octane adventure.’
We lock eyes for a long moment, suspended in the possibility.
I snatch the keys and make for the car. He says nothing as he slips into the passenger side, nor when we lurch into motion and career down the avenue.
I don’t know Bologna and he doesn’t offer directions, except for the occasional quiet ‘one way’ when I try to turn down a prohibited street.
If he’s worried about his life or his rental, it doesn’t show.
Soon streetlights disappear, the landscape greens, and industrial buildings turn into sporadic houses.
Passing cars dwindle to nothing. The quiet doesn’t make me feel free.
I’ve never felt more exposed, like I’m the only one for miles.
My erratic heartbeat clangs through me as my foot sinks deeper on the throttle.
Jack stirs, reminding me he’s still there. He’s staring ahead, hands loosely clasped in his lap. As I return my eyes to the road, a tear breaks loose.
I jerk to a stop in an empty lookout point and cut the ignition. Hands on the wheel as if we’re still moving, I say, ‘I’m a total failure.’