Also Jack’s going to be on pole tomorrow. I don’t have a vested interest or anything, I just think he deserves it. His drive in qualifying was impeccable. I’ve never seen him so hungry. No one could’ve accused him of being complacent; it was like he had a point to prove.
The stadium’s steadily emptying, leaving journalists, stewards and cleaners alone in the eerily quiet behemoth. The evening air is just as sticky as the daytime. My hair seems permanently attached to the back of my neck, and I’ve applied so much powder I’m in danger of looking like Wednesday Addams.
As soon as I step onto the Astroturf and catch sight of Brian and the production team huddled outside Pagari’s unit, my good mood fizzles into nothing. Krunal’s nowhere to be seen. Since he’s the only one who ferries decent questions my way, our post-qualifying segment isn’t looking good. Not for me, at least.
No matter. I put on my imaginary big girl pants (all the way up, past my tummy button), flash them a broad smile, and start to change my trainers for heels. I’ll be surprised if they fit; my feet have doubled in size from all this damn walking.
‘Minnie, a word?’ says Greg.
I straighten up. ‘Sure.’
‘Um.’ He shifts from one foot to the other. ‘Your… trousers?’
He’s looking at them like they’re covered in expletives. I look down to make sure they’re not; they’re the same swear-free Zara pinstriped trousers I put on this morning. Smart, but not too smart. ‘What about them?’
He scratches the back of his head. ‘They’re lovely but, um, can we stick to skirts in future?’
I flinch. ‘Skirts?’
‘Yes, it’s a…’ he swallows, ‘diversity thing.’
‘Diversity,’ I reiterate slowly. I have a vagina, isn’t that diversity enough?
‘Yeah, you know. Brian’s in trousers, Krunal’s in trousers,’ he’s gaining momentum, like he’s convinced himself of his bullshit, ‘and?—’
‘Brian’s in shorts.’ I motion in his direction.
‘Yes, but, shorts are likeshorttrousers. Skirts break up the aesthetic. Makes for nice visuals.’
Oh it’s about visuals all right.
‘And dresses? Are dresses ok?’ I’m surprised by how calm I’m being.
‘Yes!’ Greg beams so widely his face is in danger of cracking in two. ‘Dresses are great. Very diverse.’
He walks away with a little bounce in his step, and I resume putting on my heels. What the hell was that? Clearly a directive from the big boss in London or he would’ve said something this morning.
Maybe it’s not so bad. I’ve been wearing skirts and dresses for the past two months, I could?—
Wait, no. You know what, how dare they? Natalie Pinkham wears trousers. Danica Patrick wears trousers. Susie Wolff wears trousers. Celine Fournier wears trousers – I can see her now by Martinelli’s unit with the rest of the Sportif+ team. An all-female broadcasting team, expressing their identities in different ways. I watch them laughing on air and feel a pang of envy. I’ve never laughed on air. They’re serious, strong, knowledgeable, professional women. It’s clear Channel 3 doesn’t think the same about me.
‘We’re on in one minute, Minnie,’ Greg calls.
As I drag my feet over to them, I consider taking a sip of water to moisten my throat, but I won’t be allowed to speak so what’s the point.
‘Afternoon, Minnie,’ says Brian. The way he says my name sounds like he’s saying Malibu Barbie. Urgh, I’m being paranoid.
‘Afternoon,’ I echo, chipper. I can be civil. I want to kick him in his ill-fitting shorts and scream ‘DIVERSITY!’, but we can’t all get what we want. In the liminal space between desire and saving for my own flat, there’s civility. ‘Good quali, hm?’
‘Good for some in the nice air-conditioned media centre,’ is his reply, accompanied by a patronising head dip.
Oh good god. You were in the comms box, you thumby-looking moron, and it was also inside.
‘On in fifteen seconds,’ Greg pipes up.
I shuffle next to Brian even though I’d rather go to a Taylor Swift concert wearing an ‘I heart Joe Alwyn’ t-shirt. ‘Shall we quickly go through our talking points for the segment?’ I ask.
‘No need.’ Brian stretches and I hear his shoulders click. ‘It’s all up here.’ He taps the side of his head.
