Chapter 25
MINNIE
MONTREAL
Iwish I wasn’t wearing my press pass as I enter Pagari’s Team Hub (the pretentious name for their hospitality unit). I text Jack.
Me: Everyone’s staring
He’s replied by the time I reach the circular staircase, which is exactly where he said it’d be.
Jack: no they’re not
Me: Yes, they are
Jack: stop being so fit then
I shake my head. The man who just passed me on the stairs definitely scrutinised my pass.
I bring my excuse to the tip of my tongue in case I’m ambushed: I interviewed Jack earlier this morning, and we accidently left with each other’s phones.
I’m merely here to swap them back. It’s not a total lie, I did come here for something.
Two things, in fact. It’s just one’s my dignity.
Premium Italian coffee floods my senses as I reach the hospitality suite.
It’s empty of guests. Only suspicious Italians in Pagari uniform are here so early, peering at me over their Macs, empty espresso cups by their sides.
What I would give for an espresso right now.
Yet again I’m faced with another media centre that thinks filter coffee is enough to get a legion of journalists, videographers and photographers through sixteen-hour days.
Me: Do they need so many photos of you? I think I’ve counted 14 so far
Jack: what can I say #numerouno
Me: You shouldn’t be replying so quickly, you’re supposed to be doing meet-and-greets
Jack: i’m a good multitasker
Jack’s driver room is singularly unglamorous for someone Pagari pays eight figures.
There’s a small sofa, wardrobe, TV, tiny desk stacked with merchandise presumably for him to sign – the sharpie on top’s a dead giveaway – and a sink flanked by Italian soaps.
The label says they’re made in a monastery in Cascia.
I ladle some lotion on my hands and sniff. Heavenly.
My lacy bra’s easy to spot on the sofa. I can’t believe I left it in his flat, and his bloody cleaner found it.
In my defence, in the moment, Jack had flung it behind a sideboard.
No wonder in my haste to get back to étienne’s it was nowhere to be found.
Still, I’m a moron. I snap a photo of myself with only the strap showing and ping it to Jack. Not slutty – mildly suggestive.
Now my task is complete, I don’t see any harm in having a little snoop. He’s not coming back anytime soon if the schedule on the wall’s anything to go by. Not that there’s a lot to see; the floor space is about the size of a toilet cubicle.
The wardrobe houses six identical laundered race suits – presumably one for each session. I pause at the bottom drawer on the right: Jack’s underwear. They’re clean, probably new, and hardly sexy being covered in sponsors’ logos and finishing down his calves, but it’s enough.
I’ve been like a dog in heat for the last two weeks.
Every time he messages, every time I think about his team, every time I hear someone speak his name, every time I get a whiff of petrol – I have to squeeze my damn thighs together.
Being in this room, I can’t even smell Jack, but the thought that I could is sending me into overdrive.
I don’t know what’s wrong with me.
It’s probably due to being a chaste nun for so long. I can’t even remember the last time I had sex before him. God that’s sad. It’s not easy bringing guys back to the house you share with your mum, and six furry tattle-tails ensure sneaking in isn’t an option.
My phone vibrates.
Jack: someone been snooping in my draws?
I don’t know if he meant the wrong spelling of ‘drawers’, but the possibility that he did has me fanning myself with my bra. The clip whacks me in the face and I’m brought back to Earth. I need to get out of here before I do something worse.
As I close the door behind me, the waft of Italian coffee once again blindsides me. Everyone in here is consumed by their laptops. Surely no one would notice if I got a cheeky to-go cup? I’d pay triple.
The barista’s, of course, Italian and only too eager to serve me. While he’s preparing my latte, I send Jack a photo of the barista’s back accompanied by an unsociable number of coffee emojis.
‘Hi, Minnie.’
My grin falls flat when I look up and see Micah. My stomach clenches, and I clamp my teeth together to keep my jaw from falling open. Micah doesn’t speak to journalists, ever. Not even Brian. Not even off-camera.
I loathe him for what he’s doing to Jack (though not as much as I loathe Brian period). From what he’s told me, Micah’s petty, selfish and hazardous, but while I don’t feel like talking to him, I’m compelled to be professional. ‘Hi, Micah.’
‘How are you?’
It’s not a strange question and yet it feels strange coming from him. The aloof driver who distances himself from everyone in the paddock and turns monosyllabic in press conferences.
‘Good, yeah,’ I reply.
He has startling presence for someone with such boyish features and a height of, well, me. I get the impression when he talks, people listen. He doesn’t sound like I thought he would – very well-spoken, with an exceptionally deep voice. Silken, really.
Could he be talking to me because of Jack? No, of course not. How would he know? He wasn’t here when I went in or out of Jack’s driver room. Neither of us have told anyone about that night, not even Kurt and especially not étienne.
My original excuse now feels ridiculous.
‘I’m doing a piece on Pagari,’ I blurt out, vehemently hoping none of the comms team are within earshot.
‘A behind-the-scenes look at the Canadian Grand Prix from inside the top constructor.’ I’d totally watch that.
Why didn’t I think of it in the first place?
Please don’t question it, Micah. The lie’s flimsy at best, and it’ll buckle if I have to explain why I’m here when my camera crew is not. Oh but they just love the view from the roof. In the rain. With all their equipment. And without their presenter.
‘If you interview Lorenzo,’ Pagari’s team principal, ‘see if you can get me a raise,’ Micah says, straight-faced.
What?
I’m about to mumble something about not having the authority when amusement glints in his eyes.
Was that… Was that a joke? At last he cracks a smile, and a hesitant laugh escapes my lips.
He’s funny. I’ve never heard him be funny.
I’ve never even seen him smile – not in podium photos or the corner of TikTok dedicated to the grid’s most ‘mysterious’ driver.
‘Will do.’ I nod like he’s my commanding officer.
‘I like your interview style,’ he continues as the barista sets my coffee in front of me.
‘I saw your interview with étienne in Miami, and Tiago in Monaco. You don’t ask the usual inane questions: What’s your strategy?
How’s the car?’ He mimics a high voice but it’s still deeper than mine.
‘You’re natural and informal, but also get to the core of what we do and why. ’
I’m not blushing. I would have every right to, but it doesn’t matter because I’m not.
‘Thank you,’ I say, bringing the coffee to my lips.
‘You can interview me, if you want.’
I so nearly do a spit-take, and instead collapse into violent coughing. He looks on, entertained.
‘Me,’ I croak, hand on my chest. ‘Interview you?’
‘Is that ok?’
Time to get real. If he’s seriously posing this, I have a duty to interrogate his motives before I whip my team into a bunch of excited schoolchildren.
If Micah goes through with the interview, this could do wonders for my career, but if he cancels at the last minute, the damage would be irreparable.
More than just Brian will think I made the whole thing up.
I put my coffee down and cross my arms. ‘Are you being serious? You’ve only done one interview in the two years you’ve driven for Pagari, and it was for my competitor. Why now? Why Channel 3? Why me?’
‘All great questions,’ he says evenly. ‘To be a World Champion nowadays, you need more than racing prowess. You need to be a personality. You need a fandom.’
‘You’re plenty popular doing absolutely nothing for fans. You’re the second most searched-for driver on social media.’
‘They’re intrigued by me; they’re not fans.’
Interesting. I think the post-race montages of him sweaty, dressed only in his underwear, would suggest differently.
‘It’s time to show the real me, and I think you’re the perfect broadcaster to do it with. You’ve even made étienne likeable,’ he says.
‘étienne is— Good point.’
‘So will you?’
This is surreal. Micah Adetunji wants something from me. I didn’t think I’d ever speak to him, let alone work with him.
‘Have you ever done a hot lap?’ he adds.
‘No…’
‘Then you’ve never done a hot lap at Silverstone in a Pagari Aetheria.’
My eyes widen. That would unbelievable. A once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. His home race. The most elite of supercars. And I’d get paid to do it. How could I say no?
‘I’m in,’ I say, reaching out to shake his hand.
He takes it with a smile. His skin’s buttery soft like he’s a zealous user of those monasterial lotions. ‘I’ll set it up.’
As he walks away, I’m struck by how utterly bonkers that exchange was. Greg’s going to lose his mind. No outlet in the world’s secured airtime with Micah since he was a rookie, and Channel 3 has exclusive access. The head of the network’s going to find out. Maybe I’ll get promoted.
And it’s 100% down to my integrity.
Until now, I worried that the current work dynamic is the best it’s ever going to be.
Sure, Krunal (mostly successfully) manages to shepherd the conversation between Brian, me, and whatever guest we have on, and sure I get airtime, but I’m still treated like the magician’s assistant.
Brian doesn’t even pretend to respect my opinion.
The network clearly agree with him since they don’t pull him up on anything.
This is what I need to prove to everyone that I’m a valuable member of this team, and I can bring opportunities my colleagues can’t. Micah likes me and my interview style. He thinks I’m good at my job. I could squeal but there are confused-looking Italians in my vicinity so I bottle it.
I look down at my phone and Jack’s name lights up my screen.
Jack: look whos stealthy now, blagging a coffee from marco
Jack: so I’ve been thinking
Jack: my place tonight?
Jack: i never was very good at maths
Jack: ps bring your glasses