Lorenzo joins me on the podium, his face spotted with tears. We’re suspended above the track, and every square inch is chock-full of people in Martinelli navy, Ackland green, Tenzing ice blue, RaceX white, and Volare burgundy – but mostly, Pagari black and silver. Tom, Étienne, Lorenzo and I look down at them like rock stars at Cleveland. I try and spot Minnie and her mum, but the faces are too tiny. It means a lot that Cara came, and that she’s been wearing a Pagari baseball cap all weekend. She worked so hard to build her new family and I know it’s early days, but I love feeling tentatively part of it.
When we make it back to the garage, the whole team are in customised ‘World Constructors Champions’ t-shirts. I feel a little bit bad that Martinelli will have matching ones for their team which will never be worn, but not bad enough that I wish the situation were reversed.
Franciacorta and Peronis are doing the rounds. Everyone’s taking photos in front of the track. My heart soars as ‘CHAMPIONS’ and the years we’ve won are lasered across the sky. It’s crazy, this thing I call my job.
Tom Webber pops his head in and congratulates the team. Maybe I’m sweetened by the double win, but he’s a class act. A top racer on the track and a stand-up guy off it. I note Étienne’s nowhere to be seen. Typical.
Georgie hands me a Peroni. ‘Looks like someone came to their senses.’ Her lips are itching to smile.
‘I’m still watchingBreaking Badon the flight home.’
Her smile breaks out fully. ‘You’ll never learn.’
I bump her arm with my bottle. ‘We did it, pal.’
‘Youdid it, you big knucklehead.’ She hugs me tightly and I’m struck by how much I’ve missed her this past week. Through the ups and downs, there’s always been Georgie. She might be a stubborn know-it-all, but she’s the best friend a guy could ask for, even if she does support Arsenal.
I spot Minnie amongst the madness and excuse myself. There are cameras and press everywhere, and I have to fight my way to her through back pats, selfies and microphones thrust in my face.
‘Congratulazioni, campione!’Minnie shouts above the clamour, before letting out a strangled sound as I lift her and spin her around. It takes a minute to realise she’s in our matching team shirt, and even though it’s only a small thing, and the comms team probably forced her, it makes me feel even happier. Giddily, impossibly, unendingly happy.
‘I’m so glad you’re here,’ I say, putting her down.
‘I wouldn’t be anywhere else in the world.’
I can sense the cameras catching up to me but I don’t care. I kiss her in full view, holding her tight. I love this woman and don’t care who knows it. Her shock’s clear but she quickly getsover it, cradling my face and melting against me. We both come up for air grinning.
‘It’s done now. Ready to be front page news tomorrow?’ I ask.
She shrugs. ‘We’ll manage.’
That’s my girl.
Someone nudges Minnie’s arm and we both look round to see French journalist Celine Fournier. I didn’t know they knew each other, but I guess sports journalism’s a small world. They kiss on both cheeks and exchange a few words. I have to stop myself salivating at the sound of Minnie speaking effortless French. She needs to do that at home more often.
As Celine turns to go, she pinches my arm and says in English, ‘See you in March. You’ll have to brush up on your schoolboy French – you’re going to be on Sportif+a lot.’
I’m wondering what the hell she’s talking about when I turn to Minnie. She’s looking almost… expectant?
‘What was that all about?’ I say.
‘It was going to be a surprise but… I accepted a job at Sportif+.’ She tucks one ankle behind the other in that adorable nervous way of hers.
‘You’re… what?’ This is too good to be true.
She nods with pursed lips. ‘Yup.’
My eyes widen. ‘You’re coming back to F1?’
‘Yup.’
‘For real? All year, like?’
‘Yup.’
‘YES!’ I fling her round again and hold her as snug as I can without crushing her. What a day. No long-distance, no flying visits, no FaceTimes, no phone sex – Minnie’s going to work beside meall next year.
Bloody hell, I’m going to have to learn French.
