‘Well, you weren’t supposed to beten minutesearly,’ she bites back. ‘Don’t you have a tight schedule?’
I shrug. ‘I’m never late. To be late is to think your time is worth more than someone else’s.’
She thinks this over. ‘But?—’
‘So,’ I cut her off, ‘we meet again. I never caught your name?’
‘Minnie.’ She perches daintily on the chair opposite me and crosses her legs, and don’t think I didn’t clock the way her skirt rides higher up her thighs.
‘Minnie…?’
A beat. ‘Like the mouse?’ Her hands jerk upward like she stops herself curling them into ears.
Can’t laugh.Can’t laugh.I purse my lips tight and look down. When that’s not enough, I squeeze my eyes shut. It does the trick. ‘Your surname?’ I choke out.
‘Oh.’ She bypasses blush and goes straight to burgundy. ‘Roberts.’
‘Roberts,’ I echo. That doesn’t give away much. I don’t know any Minnies, and Roberts is a common surname. Minnie Roberts. Do I know any Rober— Wait, I know one. Could it be…?Oh my godit is. Her face, her class – she’s the spitting image of his ex, Cara Macklin. ‘LikeCliffRoberts?’
No, please no. She can’t be my hero’s daughter. I can’t ravage Cliff’s darling girl, that wouldn’t be right. He’s been looking down on me from my bedroom wall since I was old enough to say ‘race’.
She’s definitely his daughter. It’s all coming back – a little blonde girl used to stand beside Cara in the Ackland garage.
Minnie Roberts. Well I never. There goes that dream.
It’s her turn to shrug. ‘Roberts is a common surname,’ she says lightly.
‘It is, but the more I think about it, the more you look like his ex-wife – and I mean that as ahugecompliment…’ I trail off as the Channel 3 crew enter. They start, clearly not expecting me to be early, and mumble flustered greetings before ducking behind cameras.
Minnie picks up a giant pink ring binder like it’s totally normal for a presenter to be packing a hulking weapon. She skims her notes and makes to stash it away when my hand shoots out to stop her.
‘These are your notes forthisseason?’ I ask.
Her eyes meet mine and something not unpleasant ripples through me.
She shakes her head. ‘Of course not.’ Thank god. I settle back on the sofa. ‘These are my notes on the teams.’
My eyebrows shoot skyward. ‘You could bludgeon someone with that thing! You must know more about Pagari than I do.’
‘By failing to prepare, you prepare to fail.’
‘Hand it here. I’ll test you.’
She hugs it into her chest. ‘No!’
‘Give me the date Pagari announced its Formula 1 team.’
‘Sixth of October 1989.’ She gives me a hard stare that screams ‘case closed’.
‘What was the weather like? What did the office smell like? What did?—’
‘Shut up!’ Her full lips twitch like they’re trying not to laugh. ‘I wasn’t born, and neither were you.’
I sit up straight. ‘Where was I born?’
‘Fuck off!’ she says through a laugh. It’s so beautiful, so lyrical, I have an overpowering urge to make her laugh again.
The cameraman clears his throat and she starts. I take a slow sip of water, unable to hide my amusement.
