He flushes. ‘Absolutely. What—er—what brings you to Miami?’
‘I’m supporting my daughter, Minnie,’ she gestures to me, ‘who I’m sure you’re very well acquainted with already?’
He has the decency to look sheepish. ‘I’ve heard brilliant things about what you’re doing. Unfortunately, my schedule’s limited?—’
‘Limited?’ Mum lets the word linger on her tongue. ‘For two months?’ She takes a delicate sip of her drink.
‘Well, I… um…’
Poor man. Underneath my mother’s layers of charm and flattery is a dogged determination to get her own way. She’s a stubborn mule when she wants to be.
He turns to me with resolve. ‘Let’s set up a coffee in Italy in two weeks. I’d love to hear how it’s all going and if there’s any way I can help.’
Squee!I grin. ‘That would be?—’
‘What an inspired idea!’ Mum touches his arm, causing sweat to dribble down his forehead.
‘And you’ll both join us for our annual dinner tonight, won’t you?’ It’s the most singular use of ‘both’ I’ve ever heard, belied by his blatant staring at Mum’s chest.
Her smile’s coy as our eggs are delivered. ‘Thank you so much for the offer. We’ll have to check our schedules and let you know. You know howlimitingthey can be.’
Chapter 9
JACK
It’s standard for high-performance athletes to have rituals. It keeps us calm and gives us a feeling of control. Usain Bolt points to the sky before a sprint. Cristiano Ronaldo’s right foot steps on the grass before his left.
I get dressed in a specific order.
I’d argue I’m the calmest driver on the grid before a race. I can talk and laugh and think about other things. I don’t need theatrical focus time and I’m not a short-tempered wanker. But I do need this.
It goes: left sock, right sock, white long pants, white shirt, black race suit, left boot, right boot. Then, in the garage: balaclava, helmet, left glove, right glove, Head and Neck Support (HANS).
It’s partly functional – you can’t put your race suit on before your underwear – but over the years, the order’s become rigid. I once put my gloves on before my helmet, and on lap fourteen, I lost the back end and spun out.
Which is why I’m standing in my upturned driver room wearing only boxers. Qualifying’s in fifteen minutes, the Team Hub’s emptying, and I can’t find my motherfucking right sock.
‘Jack,’ my assistant’s saying, barrelling down the corridor, ‘shall I post that garage photo—WHY ARE YOU STILL IN YOUR PANTS?’ She throws herself back against the door to shut it.
I must look a sight. Hair spiking in a hundred directions, face white as a sheet, and on top of everything else, I feel a lawsuit coming on.
‘I can’t find my right sock,’ I almost whimper. I’m not proud but these are desperate times.
I squeeze my fingers into my eyes and when I reopen them, hers are the size of saucers. She knows what this means to me. Hell,Daily Mailreaders know what this means to me.
‘Ok, don’t panic,’ she says kind of like she’s panicking too.
‘Panic? We’re so far beyond panic; I’m on the verge of a breakdown!’
‘There must be another couple of pairs in your wardrobe?—’
I run both hands through my hair. ‘They’regone!’
‘Ok. Ok.’ She furiously scans the room. Like I can check the vent but I’m too stupid to think of the sofa cushion. ‘There are spares downstairs! Yes! We can swap out the whole set. You can wear both new socks. It’s completely fine.’
I roughly wipe the sweat streaming down my face. ‘It’s not fine! Nothing about this isfine. That’smysock.’ I point to my clothed left foot. ‘I need to wearmysocks.’ I know I sound like a petulant toddler but fuck it. This shit’s important.
‘Have you looked?—’
