‘Er, sure. But we’d be remiss if we didn’t discuss Gustaf’s?—’
‘What would you say Étienne’s like behind closed doors?’
What has that got to do with today’s race? ‘He’s exactly what you see in the paddock.’ I try to keep the edge out of my voice but it’s hard when Brian’s firing questions at me like he’s Jeremy Kyle and I’m a dad who hasn’t paid child support.
‘He’s never rubbed you the wrong way?’ he probes.
‘No. Gustaf, though?—’
‘Yes, Gustaf,’ Brian says brightly.Finally.‘Krunal, what did you make of his retirement today? A real blow for RaceX.’
Krunal flashes a woeful smile. ‘Couldn’t have said it better myself, Bri.’
Of course you couldn’t, because you have absolutely no affiliation to F1! You also presented the Winter Olympics andThe Great Pottery Showdown.
I need to calm down. It’s not personal that Brian never asked my opinion during his Étienne vs Tom Iliad, and only consulted me when it came to base gossip. It’s probably coincidental that this is in line with yesterday’s qualifying show, and the whole Saudi Arabian weekend before that.
I can offer much more than he’s letting me, but it looks like I have to make space for myself. I have plans, and those plans don’t involve being a wallflower. With a smile plastered on myface, I tell myself I’m just finding my feet and the next races will be better. I’ll make sure of it.
Chapter 7
JACK
My performance coach, Georgie, chuckles into her pint glass. ‘Try and look like you wouldn’t rather be anywhere else.’
‘What?’ My head snaps up. ‘Don’t talk shite. I’m happy to be out with you.’
‘No you’re not, but don’t worry, I don’t take it personally anymore.’
‘I’m just tired. Pulling off a,’ I straighten my collar, ‘“near perfect performance”, as the gaffer put it, can really take it out of you, you know?’
She makes a show of rolling her eyes. ‘Stop being a cocky shit. It’s good for you to be seen at afterparties?—’
‘ButTenzing’safterparty? They’ve scored zero points so far this season.’
‘I know, but the FIA like drivers showing face, and they likeyousupporting the smaller teams even more.’
‘Did you become a publicist when I wasn’t looking?’
She ignores me. ‘What else would you be doing right now?’
‘Er… flying home, watchingBreaking Bad, eating salty plane food?—’
‘For the millionth time,there are other shows, Jack.’
‘You’re mistaken.’
She shakes her head.
When she doesn’t banter back, I say quietly, ‘I’m not lonely, George.’ It doesn’t come out as lightly as I want it to. The decibel doesn’t help.
I don’t know what made me say it. It’s not like I want a deep chat standing between a margarita ice fountain and vodka luge, collecting celebratory back slaps from strangers like I used to collect Pokémon cards. We’re not deep chat people, unless you count:‘Jack, tell me again why kale goes against your morals’.
I just feel like she worries about me, and she doesn’t need to. It’s been two and a half years, for Christ’s sake.
Georgie baulks. ‘I’m not—That’s… not what I was insinuating.’
‘You were.’
