Chapter 24
MINNIE
It’s still dark when I stir. It takes me a minute to place the unfamiliar bedside table, the paperback of Never Finished with a furious-looking man-mountain on the front, the enormous bedroom wreathed in shadow, and the arm slung across my waist. Jack’s deep breath brushes the top of my neck.
Suddenly I’m wide awake.
I snatch my phone off charge, do my best to slide out without waking him, seize yesterday’s pants off the floor, and scurry out of the bedroom.
Even in a panicked frenzy and with blurry eyesight, I can see his living area’s impressive.
Triple the size of étienne’s, with sweeping views of the harbour that confirm we’re in Fontvieille, one of Monaco’s most exclusive districts.
Enough dawdling. I grab my top and bag off the floor and lunge for the main bathroom. Yesterday’s memories are threatening to pour out the floodgates but I hold them back. First, we freshen up, then we fall into a pit of humiliation.
Hands planted either side of the basin, I take stock of what I look like. Smudged mascara, sex hair and dry eyes from wearing contacts for too long. My back up glasses add more shit to the already steaming cess pit.
With vision returned and teeth freshly clean from my handy travel refresher pack (you learn quickly when your job necessitates flying around the globe), I feel semi-human again. Time to face yesterday.
I met my dad again.
And I had sex with Jack Bowden.
I shudder. I never want to think about those two back-to-back ever again.
I told him about my intimacy issues. Why did I do that?
Why do I always feel like I have to be honest with him?
I don’t. In fact, it would benefit me to keep everything to myself.
We have to work together after this. It’ll be hard enough interviewing him whilst trying not to think about the way his tongue undid me.
Now I know every time he looks at me, I might as well have ‘DADDY ISSUES’ scrawled across my forehead in lipstick.
I let out a long, aggrieved exhale to give me the strength to put on some semblance of clothing and resurrect my phone. I just need ten minutes to sort myself out then I’ll call a cab. Yes. Plan.
Why are there white bars in here like a disabled toilet? Unusual to see in an able-bodied person’s flat. I don’t have time to ponder because the deluge of messages are pinging so fast I can’t read any of them. Self-pity returns with a vengeance when I see who most of them are from.
Mum: Call me when you can. We need to talk about what happened on the show. Hope you’re ok lol x
Mum: As if he thinks it’s fine to just walk over and start chatting to Brian sodding O’Connell!! That’s so like him. He barely acknowledged you!!! I’m spitting feathers lol x
Mum: He looks old. Good.
Mum: Minnie Macklin Roberts, call your mother you ungrateful child!
Mum: Why are his teeth so white? You can see them from space.
Mum: Do you think he still has the same secretary? I have half a mind to call her and tell her EXACTLY what I think lol x
Mum: CALL ME RIGHT NOW!!!!!!
I can’t deal with her yet. My WhatsApp’s flooded with friends who saw the show and want to know how I am, with the sole exception of étienne who’s wondering where I’m staying and do I also have a dodgy stomach.
Apparently Kurt’s been complaining that it was the salade nicoise, but étienne’s sent me a long voice note in rapid-fire French explaining why that couldn’t possibly be the case.
Instagram’s similarly clogged. My attention’s piqued by the handle @sircroberts1974 requesting to send me a message. I click into his profile but it’s private. To prove to myself it can’t be, I humour the account and click into the message.
Hi Minnie, it’s Dad.
I’m so shocked I sink onto the toilet lid.
It was lovely to see you today. It wasn’t how I pictured our reunion but I’m very pleased we bumped into each other.
You look well. I’d like to meet for coffee tomorrow, or Monday if you’re staying in Monaco?
We have quite a lot to talk about. Let me know when you’re free and I’ll have Valérie send you the time and place. Dad.
What the hell?
My dad has Instagram? The man who taught Mum lol means lots of love?
And he wants me to arrange to see him with his secretary? The cheek of the man. He hasn’t changed at all. I’m not a business meeting.
I can’t face this now either. The Monaco Grand Prix show starts in seven hours and I stink and feel gross and my stomach’s about to eat itself and I’m way overtired and quite sore and why is Chris Brown playing in the kitchen?
I creep out to find a shirtless Jack rooting around in the fridge. I have to admit it’s a very enjoyable sight. His muscled back ripples as he reaches for ingredients. His arms are toned but not heavy, with a hint of a tan.
He starts when he sees me like he forgot I was here. But he can’t have – there are two empty mugs on the counter.
‘Coffee or tea?’ His voice sounds gravelly and he clears his throat. ‘I have Earl Grey shipped in?’
‘Coffee please,’ I say in a small voice. He’s really cooking me breakfast. After a one-night stand. Who does that?
He turns to his Nespresso machine. ‘There’s a shirt on my bed if you want it.’
I do, but first: ‘Why are you up so early?’
‘It’s race day?’ he says like that’s not why I’m here too.
‘But you’re not needed for hours.’
‘We have to drive you to étienne’s to get you some clean clothes. As much as I’d love you to present in a Pagari polo, I don’t think it’d go down well.’
My heart tugs a little. ‘I can get a cab, you know.’
‘Denied. Now go and get dressed, it’s almost breakfast. I can’t concentrate when your arse is on show.’
Do I do as he says? Yes. But do I sashay my hips on the way? Maybe. As I swap my top for his, I conclude this is the sweetest thing any man has ever done for me. I mean, the bar’s not very high. It’s practically on the floor. But still.
‘Nice glasses,’ he murmurs with a soft smile when I return, eyes locked on the pan.
I touch them. ‘Yeah, sorry, they’re old.’
‘Do not apologise.’ Still refusing to look at me. Funny boy.
‘So what’s on the menu, Chef?’ I hop on a high stool as he turns a pancake with a slotted turner. Oh, my bad. It’s pretty obvious from this angle.
‘Lemon protein pancakes with chia blueberry compote,’ he states proudly.
I give an impressed Ooo. He can cook too? Seriously, this man?
‘Don’t get too excited,’ he says. ‘Georgie made it. She dropped off the batter yesterday.’
‘I think she’s secretly in love with you, you know.’ No woman cooks for a man out of the goodness of her heart. I don’t care that she’s his performance coach, nowhere in her job description would it say ‘personal chef’.
Jack laughs so hard he starts coughing. ‘No chance of that,’ he rasps into the back of his hand.
‘She just knows I’ll eat Frosties if something healthier’s not easy to reach.
’ He flips the two pancakes with impressive smoothness, and beams at himself.
‘Did you see? That was Clooney shit right there.’ And… he ruined it.
‘I’m serious!’ I counter. ‘That level of care goes way beyond her pay grade.’
‘What can I say? She’s devoted to her job. And to me not getting diabetes.’
‘Jack—’
‘We have one major thing in common,’ he says, and I arch an eyebrow. ‘We both like women.’
‘Oh. Oh.’ She really is devoted to her job then – even more than me and my binder. ‘Do you have the same type?’
He divides the pancakes between the two plates. ‘Nope.’
‘The opposite?’
‘Put it this way,’ he pushes a plate towards me, ‘you’re not her type.’
My stomach lurches and I shut it up by shovelling pancake in my mouth.
‘The papers are right about you,’ I say as he settles beside me and dollops compote in the middle of his breakfast, the next two pancakes starting to gently sizzle in the pan.
‘In what way?’
‘You are a heartbreaker.’
He smiles at his plate and starts to eat. ‘Nah.’
‘What’s your defence?’
He side-eyes me, looking up from beneath his brows. ‘Roberts, you have to be close to someone to break their heart.’
Not a bad answer. It’s refreshing how open he is. There are no games with Jack, no bullshit. My gaze catches on a photo of him and Luca on the wall. They’re about sixteen, in Pagari race suits, doubled over in fits of laughter.
Jack might not mean to be a heartbreaker, but he definitely is.
A ridiculously hot man (and a very wealthy, motorsport dominating one at that) can’t go around saying beautiful things about his deceased friend and win Championships for him and show refreshing honesty and cook delicious breakfasts and not expect girls to fall head over heels for him.
I’m a tough nut with a cold husk for a heart, and even I think too much time around him could be dangerous.
Good thing in an hour’s time this short chapter will be shut.
I look back at him, humming along to ‘Questions’ while he eats. There’s no tension in the air; he’s perfectly at ease. A strange sight for a driver on a Sunday morning.
‘You’re very calm for someone who’s racing later. Especially considering you’re on pole,’ I observe. Yesterday, étienne and Kurt were wired from the moment they woke up. I caught étienne doing reaction-time drills like a madman while Kurt furiously did a headstand.
Jack shrugs and gets up to turn the pancakes over.
‘I like your confidence,’ I say.
‘Oh don’t mistake cockiness for confidence. I’m an arrogant motherfucker in the car.’
I grin around my mouthful.
Throughout the pre-show and grid walk, I manage to avoid my dad. It helps that he’s not visible anywhere – probably hasn’t left Ackland hospitality. Predictable, but predictability and his love of fine whisky are my twin saving graces today.
His DM makes my phone feel like lead in my pocket. I’m not going to answer it; he doesn’t deserve a response for the tone alone. But it doesn’t stop me feverishly scanning the crowd whenever the camera pans away.
Relief washes over me as soon as I’m safely inside the media centre.
The desks I choose for Krunal and me are well positioned beneath a bank of TVs showing the formation lap.
There aren’t many to choose from – to be expected this late in the day – and we’re beside Tenzing’s communications team.
I unpack my laptop and notepad as journalists stream in to claim their spots before the race starts.
‘Pre-show wasn’t too bad,’ says Krunal, joining me. ‘Brian wasn’t a total wasteman.’
‘No, he was fine.’ He did cut me off twice and spend five minutes discussing how the V8, V10 and V12 engines sound different in the tunnel, but I still had plenty of airtime and he didn’t beckon my dad over, so I count it as a good pre-show.
Krunal opens his laptop. ‘Think Jack’ll win?’
I watch the DFK Racing car pull into P17, bringing the lap to a close. ‘I think so, unless he messes up Turn 6 like he did last year.’
‘Facts,’ he agrees. ‘So unlike him.’
I think he says something else but I’m too absorbed by the screen.
Jack’s on pole; Micah’s P2; Eilo’s P3; étienne’s P4.
I’m kind of wishing Jack hadn’t told me about Micah now.
The first corner’s chaos in Monaco, and I’m sweating at the thought of someone being vengeful towards Jack out there.
He looks so vulnerable in his carbon-fibre car. If you blew on it, it might splinter.
The lights go out and the pack jet off the line. I force myself not to close my eyes. My hands are too slick I can’t even hold my pen. Who knows how I’m going to manage seventy-eight laps of this.
Micah immediately swerves towards Jack but is forced to pull back when Jack squeezes him out of the first corner. Eilo’s overtaken Micah! I release a breath. Better a rookie than a nemesis.
The congestion continues through Massenet but there’s been no contact yet.
My leg bounces of its own volition. The camera lingers on one of the RaceXs which is slowing to a stop – a front left puncture.
It’s a shame and all but Jack’s probably almost finished his first lap by now.
Anything could have happened in that time.
Yellow flag. We’re back watching the front. My pen falls to the floor when I see Eilo stationary in the Nouvelle Chicane. The commentary confirms: suspension failure. No! Not The Green Finn! Bloody unreliable Ackland.
Krunal nudges me and I take my earphones out. ‘Shame we won’t be hearing the Finnish national anthem. It’s a jaunty one.’
How could this happen? I know how, but also how?
When normal racing resumes, all eighteen remaining drivers are bunched up – with Micah back in second, and on fresh tyres. It takes three agonising laps for Jack to establish a comfortable lead and I can finally sit back in my chair.
‘Guess we’ll be hearing our national anthem,’ grumbles Krunal around the end of his pen. ‘It’s bare drone-y.’
‘Jack could still mess it up mid-race.’ But fuck I hope he doesn’t.
‘He won’t. The reason we all talk about Turn 6 is because it’s so rare. He’s won Monaco now.’
I’m not biased, but I do a tiny victory punch under the table.