‘But—’
Greg raises his hand – five seconds to go.
Oh why do I even bother.
‘What a day we’ve had at the Miami Grand Prix,’ Brian begins, and I stare vacuously into the lens like the dolly-brained bimbo he thinks I am. ‘We’re at the heart of it all in the Hard Rock Stadium. Let’s get straight into it, shall we? As you can see from the Pagari suite behind me, first up it’s Jack Bowden, who once again takes pole tomorrow – striking ahead by two-tenths of a second.’
I feel so stupid. Krunal’s presence diffuses the tension as he’s also a mute smiler, but without him, I’m a lone spare part in front of hundreds of thousands of viewers. I can’t do this for much longer.
When Brian pauses for breath outside RaceX’s unit, I seize my chance. ‘Sharing the front row with Jack is RaceX’s Gustaf Henriksson.’
Brian makes no effort to hide his offense. ‘Yes,’ he bristles, ‘he?—’
‘Miami’s track has a powerful drag reduction system?—’
He scoffs. ‘Our viewers know what DRS is,Minnie.’ I’m definitely not imagining the Malibu Barbie thing.
I speak quickly to mitigate the possibility of him butting in. ‘Yes, but my point is: if Gustaf can stay within a second of Jack tomorrow, the race is still up for grabs.’ Greg catches my eye behind the camera and is violently miming for me to stop. I block him out. ‘But if he drops back too much, he’ll get the worst of both worlds – the dirty air from Jack’s car in front, plus he won’t be able to use his moveable rear wing flap to cut his own drag. That means?—’
Brian’s cruel laugh curls my stomach. ‘Let’s leave shop talk to the professionals, shall we, Minnie?’
I freeze my face in something vaguely pleasant while I spiral.
Whatthe actualfuck?
He just bulldozed me during our live show.
My gaze drifts to the cameraman, who shrugs helplessly as if to say, ‘you made your bed.’
Brian’s oblivious to what he’s done, wandering over to Martinelli monologuing about their internal politics. He thinks this is case closed.
Like hell it is.
‘It’s a certainty: Jones will leave by the end of the season,’ Brian’s wonking on. ‘Without him, Martinelli will be in the dust. The man’s a kingmaker. Glock, Taylor, Logan, Clarke, they’ll all follow him, and the team will be torn apart. They’ll?—’
‘I disagree,’ I say.
I’m not being a prick – he’s talking crap. I would’ve disagreed anyway because I feel like being a prick, but it makes life easier not having to fabricate an argument.
It doubly pisses me off that he’s listing surnames that 99.9% of our viewers won’t have a clue about. He’s not in the F1 Old White Man’s Club here – he’s working on national TV, and it’s his job to entertain as well as inform. No one watches TV to feel condescended to.
Brian turns to me and blinks. ‘There is no disagreeing. I stated a fact.’
‘I agree Nick Jones,Martinelli’s Chief Technology Officer, is hugely frustrated with the ongoing factions within the team, and will very likely leave by the end of the year. However, I don’t think – and this is purely my opinion – that all Martinelli’s top technical directors and race engineers and aerodynamicists under him will jump ship too. They’ve been working in his shadow for years; now they can finally have an impact and shape the team’s future.’
Brian looks at me like I’ve just declared the Volkswagen Beetle is the best car, like, ever. He then glares at Greg for back-up. There’s not even a pretence of professionality.
I take his stunned silence as an invitation to continue. ‘Let’s bring it back to this weekend, and speaking of Martinelli: Étienne Blanchet saw great progress in qualifying. What did you make of his Q3, Brian?’ See? Civil.
Brian takes up the mantle with stuttering reluctance, eyebrows knitted together.
I don’t care if you don’t like it – welcome to the new format, bitch.
Chapter 11
MINNIE
‘Do you want to talk about it?’ Mum asks in the car, looking ever the model in a rented floor-length gown and her most glittering jewellery.
