Chapter 19
JACK
‘There’s a fire at Mirabeau Haute!’ Georgie yells.
I stumble over my feet. ‘What?!’
‘Finally, he’s listening.’
‘I am— Don’t do that, there are people everywhere,’ I hiss, pulling my unbranded white baseball cap down tighter and motioning for Georgie to keep her voice low.
A group of girls pass, eyeing us carefully to figure out which team are doing a track walk – so rarely seen at Monaco because the public are allowed on the track before races. If we get spotted, I’m spending the next three hours signing autographs and we can kiss goodbye to doing anything useful.
‘You’re always great at quali here. What are you worried about?’ Georgie whispers.
‘I’m not worried.’
Cue her trademark eyebrow lift. I guess I deserve that.
‘I’m not worried about quali. I’m… My head’s busy, that’s all.’
A long pause. ‘Do you need a pregnancy test?’
I fight a snigger and lose. ‘You can fuck right off.’
‘Note the fresh tarmac over here,’ my race engineer calls from behind, alongside our photographer and press officer. I give him a thumbs up over my shoulder. Fresh tarmac means a different level of grip to the neighbouring sections. They can be jarring when you’re tearing over them at 300kph.
‘Do you know…’ I’m going to regret this. Hell, I regret it already, ‘…Minnie Roberts?’
‘Sir Cliff Roberts’ daughter who presents for Channel 3? Yes, I don’t work in a silo like you,’ says Georgie.
‘Ouch.’ I note my racing line as we walk around Turn 6. I fucked it up on lap twenty-one last year, allowing a space just big enough for a Martinelli to squeak through.
Georgie tilts her matching hat a tiny bit to wipe sweat off her forehead. Her afro curly hair means it’s precariously balanced on top. I saw her smoothing a whole can of mousse on this morning but it doesn’t look like it’s made her life much easier. ‘Watch your braking point here.’
‘Yes, I know,’ I mutter.
‘You fucked it up last year and let étienne Blanchet bag P1.’
‘I know.’ Like I could forget. In my defence, it was one of only three races I didn’t win.
‘Think about your racing line here,’ chimes in my race engineer obliviously.
‘Yup, cheers!’
Georgie huffs a laugh as we continue downhill. ‘Does Minnie Roberts need a pregnancy test?’
‘Course not! I just… I think I overshared, George.’
Now she’s taking me seriously. Deadly serious. ‘What did you tell her?’
‘Nothing about the team, don’t worry. I’m not that thick. I… brought up Luca.’
She baulks and blows out a low whistle. ‘Why?’
‘We were sharing shit. I don’t know.’
‘Did you tell her about Ted too?’
I give her a shove. ‘Get off it.’ Minnie would have to be my wife before I opened up about Ted. What a thought. ‘It’s just… I’ll probably see her doing press later and I’m freaking out a little. Just a little. I told her about my grandad too.’
‘How good was the sex?!’
‘We didn’t—’ I nod at the ground. ‘New sausage kerb.’
‘Ha! Fitting.’ Her grin annoys me.
‘Not fitting! We didn’t even have sex.’ A lightbulb goes off in my head. ‘But maybe if we did, I’d feel better.’
Georgie’s staring up at me like I’ve grown a third eye. ‘Honestly I despair. You’re such a guy sometimes.’
‘Er…’
‘Why any woman would choose a man is beyond me, and I count you as a pretty emotionally intelligent one.’
‘Thank you?’
She drops her head to the side. ‘Wouldn’t sleeping with her break your one-night rule?’
‘I haven’t properly slept with her so it doesn’t count.’
‘Sure.’ Her eyes narrow and I don’t like what she’s implying.
‘If you want to run this kerb, we’ll need that roll bar,’ calls my race engineer and I nod.
‘Are you worried she’ll tell the press?’ Georgie asks.
‘Not at all; she would’ve done it already. It happened two weeks ago.’
‘What are you worried about then?’
‘What if she… thinks it meant something. What if she becomes clingy? What if she wants—’
‘Hold your horses. Does she have your number?’
‘Yes.’
‘Has she followed up? Has she messaged you? It’s been two weeks, have you heard from her?’
She already knows the answer. ‘No,’ I mumble.
‘Did anything she said indicate that she’s clingy, or that she wants something more with you?’
It was actually the opposite. Again, Georgie knows. I don’t know how, but she does. ‘No.’
‘So what would give you that impression?’
Annoying all-knowing being. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Might we have invented this scenario in our head?’
‘Maybe.’
‘Might Minnie be minding her own business, bossing her work, and not solely focused on trying to trap you?’
When she puts it like that. ‘Fine, I get it. I’m being an idiot.’
Now I feel bad. Minnie doesn’t deserve me making her into some possessive lunatic. This weekend’s hard enough for her. I can’t imagine what it’s like to face your past like that. She’s brave as shit returning to F1, seeing everyone from her childhood, reliving all those painful memories.
‘Thank you,’ says Georgie smugly. ‘Do you know your button sequences between Turns 7 and 8?’
‘Yeah.’ Time to get her back. ‘Hey, did you watch the Arsenal W.F.C. match against Villa?’
‘Did I. Alessia Russo’s on fire at the moment.’
‘They really are a banging side this season,’ I agree.
‘Yeah, they— Hang on, you never compliment Arsenal. What’s the catch?’
‘No catch, they’re crushing the League. It’s a fact.’
‘I’m not buying it. You’re a Chelsea boy through and through.’
I tongue the roof of my mouth. ‘If only they were this good when you played for them. Whey!’
She rams into my side over the sound of me cracking myself up. ‘You’re so predictable. And I didn’t play for them; I was their first mixed-race captain, excuse you.’
‘My mistake.’ I hold my hands up. ‘On a serious note, what was it like playing for your team?’
She eyes me carefully. ‘This isn’t just another Arsenal wind up?’
‘No, for real. Was it a dream come true?’
‘What, you planning to give this all up and play for Chelsea? You’d take a hell of a pay cut.’
I push her. ‘Cut it out.’
‘You know the answer.’ She smiles at the tarmac. ‘Other squads are all fine and well, but there’s something different about your team. I can’t describe when I first put that strip on. There isn’t a feeling like it in the whole world.’
I imagine myself dressed in Ackland overalls like I used to when I was a kid. They’re not as slick as Pagari’s, granted, but there’s something so classically British about them. The look of the most legendary constructor of all time.
‘Is that Jack Bowden?’ says a voice from inside a troupe of Pagari-branded fans coming out of the tunnel.
Oh shit, here we go.