MINNIE
SURREY, ENGLAND
It feels disloyal but I’ve switched on Sky’s coverage. I don’t want to hear Brian’s voice for four hours, and I especially don’t want to be distracted by their new presenter who looks like a mirror image of me but, I’m pleased to see, knows about 70% less about F1 than I do. She also pronounces Volare like ‘Volar’ instead of the Italian way, and it’s off-putting.
But today’s not about Channel 3, it’s about Jack’s Championship bid. My heart jolts when Martin Brundle bumps into him during his grid walk. I’m not concentrating on what he’s saying, I just let his voice wash over me. It’s pitiful and makes me even more bereft once Martin’s moved on, but for those twenty seconds, I feel less like I’m drowning.
‘Minnie,’Mum says in the living room doorway, and the dogs and I jump. ‘What are youdoing? You’re torturing yourself!’
I gesture to Martin talking to a rapper I’ve never heard of in a peculiarly bright shirt. ‘I can’t miss this.’
She rolls her eyes. ‘Well then do it properly – with excellent snacks and a litre of booze.’ With that, she disappears and two dogs follow.
Martin approaches Étienne, who’s standing with a cooling towel around his neck even though it’s a night race. They lookboiling. Gustaf’s already pink. I wrap my dressing gown tighter around me and pull the blanket up higher.
It’s so strange seeing them all on screen and not being there. It doesn’t seem as busy as the other races, or maybe that’s just how it looks on TV.
‘Popcorn, fruit pastilles, cashews and grapes,’ Mum announces, laying the four bowls neatly on the coffee table. ‘How do we feel about margs?’
I release a breath I didn’t know I’d been holding. ‘It’s winter.’
‘It’s not in Doha.’
Fair point. ‘A winter-adjacent marg then, like red berry.’
She nods once. ‘I’ll make a jug.’
I lose another dog, but thankfully three are too lazy. Maggie’s snoring so loudly I can barely hear Eilo saying meaningless things about Ackland’s race strategy.
It’s a shame I didn’t get to work the whole season. I’ve never experienced the Qatar Grand Prix, although there are copious notes on it stashed uselessly under my bed. It’s one of the new races, dubbed a ‘money race’, and not super popular with the teams or fans as far as I can tell.
The circuit’s high speed with sweeping corners, encouraging drivers to flout track limits which has led to controversies in the past – not least surrounding Étienne. Also with few heavy braking zones and overtaking opportunities, it can get processional. But with Jack on pole, I doubt he minds.
‘Et voilà!’Mum says, returning with drinks to the sound of the Qatari national anthem.
By the time she’s poured, we’ve clinked glasses and debated whether an abaya is slimming, they’re onto the formation lap.
‘Who’s where?’ She squints at the screen.
‘Jack’s on pole, then Tom, then Étienne, then Eilo.’
‘Crikey, what a top three.’
I recoil. ‘Have you been watching it all season?’
‘Of course I have!’ She takes a wounded sip. ‘It’s your job.’
‘But—’ I quieten at the sight of the green flag: the last car has joined the back. In seconds the lights will go off and the biggest race of the season will begin.
Every car rockets off the line. Jack’s ahead of Tom but as they build to Turn 1, Tom’s got the better inside line and pushes in front. Étienne appears from nowhere, fighting on Tom’s inside. By the end of Turn 3, he’s slipped into second, and Jack’s lumbered with third.
Oh my god. If the race finished now, Jack would still clinch the Championship, but if he drops back further…
My shoulders, hands and jaw are all clenched tight. I swallow down a‘NO!’when the focus switches to a crash at the back of the grid taking out three cars, and triggering a yellow flag. Matteo D’Ambrosio’s getting a penalty for causing a collision.
When racing resumes at lap five, Tom, Étienne and Jack are back in view, wrestling to triumph over Turn 1.
‘You haven’t touched your marg. It’s going to get warm,’ Mum comments, sounding much less like her heart’s pulsing in her ears. On the upside, this is the hottest I’ve been all week.
