I take a deep breath and rabbit about anything I can think of. How the track temperature’s the coolest of the weekend, which won’t suit Tenzing and Volare as they’re starting on soft tyres, which means blah, blah, blah. I’m word vomiting. It’s all I can do not to curl into a ball and sob into my infernal sleeves.
Everywhere I step, I’m in the way, or my cameraman’s in the way, or a foreign TV outlet’s securing a first-rate interview, or some dickhead’s grumbling about this being no place for women.
Amidst a sea of thobes and Martinelli boiler suits, I catch a swish of distinctive golden-brown hair. Logic would dictate that he’s grown up a lot since I last saw him in the flesh (to give him credit, he was nine) but I wasn’t expecting him to be so rangy. His Martinelli racing suit’s folded down, revealing the white branded base layer like every other driver, but on him it looks irrepressibly chic.
I sidle up beside him. ‘Étienne Blanchet, how are you feeling about the race?’
I thrust my microphone at him in time to hear, ‘Sorry, no— MinnieRoberts?C’est toi?’
‘Yes, it’s me. How?—’
‘Tu es présentatrice?’
‘Yes, I’m with Channel 3 airinglivein theUK.’ English, moron.
He curves his lips down in that vague way French people do. Sorry, not French:Monegasque. He’s very touchy about that. He’s corrected his interviewers in every piece of media I’ve seen him do.
‘Can you give me two words about what you’re expecting today?’ I press.Please, Étienne. Don’t be a knob.‘Just two.’ I stare so meaningfully at him I’m in danger of popping out a contact.
‘Itz impossible,Grosse Minnie.’
Humiliation pools somewhere already slick under my blazer. Probably where my nipple covers have got to. ‘You can’t call a woman “big”, it’s considered rude.’
He recoils like he’s the offended one. ‘Itznotrude, itza childhood nickname. You were big. In every way.’
‘It was puppy fat,’ I mutter.
His eyebrow lifts.‘Bien sûr.’
‘Wellyouwere?—’
‘Why are you wearing a coat?’ I’d think he’s staring at my boobs but his expression’s more akin to me having sprouted multi-coloured wind spinners.
‘It’s not a coat,’ I grit out, ‘it’s a blazer.’
‘It looks like a coat to me.’
I ready the kicker. ‘It’s a blazerdress.’
He flinches like I’ve pinched him.‘C’est quoi?!’
‘His English has always been ropey.’ I grin angelically at the camera. An elaborate snort erupts behind me.‘Bonne chance, Étienne!’
There are twenty drivers on this sodding grid,oneof them has to talk to me. The whole point of volunteering was to show off my rapport with the top dogs and demonstrate it’s not difficult to commandeer drivers if you’ve known them since they wet the bed. This is my chance to prove myself. I have the double-pronged burden of being both green and wildly unqualified for this job. I desperately need to show what I can bring to Channel 3.
I’m about to start prattling on about what the wing and engine specialists are doing on the cars when my back collides with something solid.
‘I’m so sorry!’ I turn, and my eyes meet?—
Holy shit, I’ve walked into Jack Bowden.
Pagari’s number one driver.
Two-time World Champion.
Today’s driver on pole.
His fluffy chestnut hair’s tousled like he removed his helmet and raked his fingers through it. TikTok montages don’t do him justice; the man’s a god. Unfairly good-looking, tall for a driver, and his biceps are visible even through his Nomex underwear.
