Chapter 46
MINNIE
I’m really trying to stop replaying the crash in my head, but it doesn’t help when every time Krunal opens his mouth to ask a question in our post-race segment, we’re getting closer and closer to him broaching the Pagari incident.
Jack’s ok – he called before the press conference – but that doesn’t mean it wasn’t excruciating to watch. I knew something was going to happen. Micah had been a knob with everyone the whole race, but I didn’t know it would come to a head with Jack.
It seemed to happen in slow motion. Micah set up the dummy, Jack fell for it.
Micah dove into the open space, Jack blocked a millisecond late.
Micah ploughed into the back of him, sending Jack spinning into the barrier while Micah’s steering locked up and he cruised to a halt in a spray of sparks.
The contact was obviously an accident on Micah’s part, but that didn’t make it any less horrifying.
I thought I was going to pass out in the middle of the media centre when the camera lingered on the two Pagaris, and Micah’s helmet moved and Jack’s didn’t.
As crashes go, it was pretty tame, but there was still ample room for neck damage or concussion.
Christ do I wish I could get a massage during races like Mum used to do.
‘We’ve spoken about the winners today, but how about the losers,’ Krunal says, breaking my train of thought. My stomach drops ten storeys. Why can’t we still be in our We Don’t Talk About Pagari era?! ‘Where to begin! Never have I seen such a dominant team be so humbled. Whose fault even was it?’
Wait, what? How is that a question? Micah ran into the back of Jack. There’s nothing he could’ve done!
‘Great question,’ says Brian. ‘It was a risky move from Micah that didn’t pay off, and Jack was too late defending. The FIA officially ruled it a racing incident, but that’s debateable.’
A racing incident suggests both parties are to blame which, despite the FIA ruling, is categorically untrue.
‘They didn’t give each other space,’ agreed Krunal.
I can’t listen to this ridiculousness any longer. ‘From where I’m sitting, the blame lies solely with Micah. He misjudged how much space he had and ran right into Jack. It’s no racing incident,’ I say.
Brian bristles. ‘Jack gave him no choice. You probably don’t know this, but Jack moved under braking, which is—’
‘—an FIA regulation,’ I finish. Surprise, I know the rules of F1. ‘But no penalty was issued for that so the stewards clearly don’t count it as a large enough infringement.’
Brian’s eyes narrow to little slits. Yes, I know you don’t like being argued with, but neither do I.
‘Jack broke the rules,’ he says with such pronounced simplicity that I want to ram my microphone on his balding head, ‘causing Micah to lose all front downforce and lock up. Jack knew that. Micah was at the point of no return.’
‘But—’
‘Let’s take personal biases out of this; we all know you want your boyfriend to win.’
My mouth gapes. I know I’m on live TV, I know I’m at work, I know I shouldn’t listen to a single word that comes out of his puce-coloured mouth, but I can’t help it. I can’t believe what he just said.
‘…chance that Micah could lose his seat over this, which is entirely unfair,’ Brian’s rabbiting on.
I can’t pull myself together. My skin’s prickling all over. Mortification is so acute it’s morphed into numbness.
‘It’s time for our last break,’ Krunal’s saying, ‘but straight after, we’ll cover whether Jack’s Championship chances are scuppered, and what the heck happened to Maxim Performance? See you in a mo.’
‘Cut,’ says Greg wearily, itching his eye. ‘Brian, what did we talk—’
‘I quit.’ The words are out of my mouth before they’ve even formed in my brain.
Everyone swivels to me, looking as shocked as I am.
I don’t regret it. I’m actually struck by how right it sounds out loud.
I’m through being embarrassed. They don’t take me seriously and they never will.
Jack’s team support him unequivocally; my team don’t trust me to say my own name at the beginning of each show.
I’d rather be unemployed than subject myself to degradation every week.
It doesn’t matter how much I love being back in F1, or how proud I am at having fostered a new skill, or how hard I’ve worked to get this far – nothing is worth this.
The mid-afternoon paddock’s alive with chatter, but all eight of us are mute.
Am I projecting or does Greg look relieved? He steps towards me. ‘Minnie—’
‘I’m done.’ I point to Brian: ‘You’re a bully.’ Greg: ‘You’re pathetic.’ Krunal: ‘I like you, but you’re an enabler. None of you can preach growth and inclusion if you’re closed-minded to start with. I’m better than this, and I’m going home.’
‘Thirty seconds,’ says a small voice at the back.
My heart instinctively skips at having to pull it together in the remaining ad break, but then I remember: I just quit. I shove my microphone and earpiece in Greg’s hands and start walking to the media centre to collect my things.
It pains me that I’ve stooped this low. I’m the person who loves work. Give me Mondays, give me homework, give me thorny problems. Dreading opening my notes and forcing my feet to the paddock isn’t me. I need to feel passion again.
No more short skirts, no more plastic smiles, no more fighting for airtime, no more jet lag. Oh my god my bed. My dogs. My oven. My towels. Holy shit, I have to permanently move back in with—
‘Minnie, hold up!’ It’s Krunal, his tall quiff impressively rigid as he jogs up to me. For the second time in my life, I see he’s nervous. ‘I’m… really sorry, fam. You’re bang on.’
I square my shoulders. ‘Yes, I am.’
‘I’m cutting end of the year as well. Think I’ll go back to kids TV.’
‘Krunal!’ calls Greg.
His fist lightly pounds my arm. ‘Stay winning. You’re a sick presenter, Min. Don’t let Channel 3 take that away from you.’
I try for a smile and watch him jog back. As they congregate for the last segment of the show, a swell of emotion bubbles up. For everything I hoped it would be, and everything it wasn’t.
I ring Jack before tears start forming.
‘I just quit my job,’ I blurt as I hurry to the media centre. I need to get out of this paddock. Out of this climate. Out of this country.
‘What?’
My laugh’s shaky and god-dammit I’m crying. ‘It was a long time coming.’
‘What happened?’
I push back the hair sticking to my hot face. ‘The usual. Brian made a shitty comment and I decided enough is enough.’
‘What did he say?’
I suddenly realise I can’t tell him. The boyfriend topic isn’t exactly a welcome one. ‘We were arguing about you and Micah, and whose fault it was, and he referenced that I’d have bias. On air, I might add.’
He doesn’t say anything immediately.
‘Jack? Are you there?’
‘So you quit your job because of me?’ he says slowly.
‘No! Because of how my team treat me. The comment was just the catalyst.’
‘But if that photo had never got out, they wouldn’t—’
‘They were like this from the beginning. It’s partly their fault, partly my fault – they thought they hired a round peg for a round hole, and I’m a square peg.’
‘Eh? Is that journalist jargon?’
‘No, I just…’ I let out a breathy laugh. What a day. How am I now talking about shapes? ‘It wasn’t the right fit from the beginning.’
‘That’s the frustration talking. You love your job, and you’re incredible at it, and I—’
‘The job, not the company,’ I point out. ‘It’ll be ok. I’ll go home, take Christmas off and start looking for something new in January. Everything will be fine.’
‘Will that something be in F1?’ He sounds a little… afraid. He knows as well as I do that broadcasting jobs don’t grow on trees. Only two UK networks cover F1, and the other one has a full roster of World Champions from multiple motorsports.
I can’t see myself trying something new like social media management or team communications just to stay on the circuit with Jack. Especially when he’s not even my man.
‘I don’t know,’ I admit.
The optimistic part of me hopes he’s worried about us. I am. It’s not smooth sailing when we work side-by-side; how am I supposed to convince a chronic commitment-phobe to try anything resembling long-distance?
That’s not today’s problem. Today, I need my body weight in brigadeiro and a flight back to London.
‘You’re still coming to Vegas, right?’ he asks.
‘I’m not sure I’ll be ready to come back in three weeks,’ I mumble, hating that I’m letting him down. Also, lay people don’t have a spare ￡1k to drop on an American race weekend.
‘Right. Qatar? I can fly you out, and you can watch the race from the garage.’
‘We’ll see. I need to sort the next twenty-four hours first.’
‘Come to mine in Monaco for a few days to cool off before going back to your mum’s. Let’s sort one issue at a time.’
I smile, liking the way he says let’s. ‘It’s a plan.’