‘Talk about what?’ I ask, trying to sound like I don’t have a care in the world and can’t imagine what could she be referring to because I’m totally fine.
She slides me a pointed look. ‘You know exactly what. Brian O’Connell’s a tosser. Always has been.’
I itch my ear. ‘It was just… passionate discussion. That’s what TV’s like.’
‘It looked like bullying to me.’
‘You don’t understand, we’re encouraged to back-and-forth.’ If I were Pinocchio, my nose would be tickling the driver’s ear right now.
‘Well I don’t like it.’
That makes two of us, but obviously I can’t tell her that. Greg gave me a giant bollocking after we wrapped the qualifying show earlier. Brian’s the expert; I misunderstood my research. Our viewers know far more about the sport than I assumed and they like feeling on Brian’s level. I should stick to what I’m good at:bantering with the drivers. After all, I’m accessing people Brian and Krunal can’t even access and blah blah blah.
‘It’s fine,’ I say with a hard full stop.
Mum has only just made peace with me having this job. Mere hours ago, she said she was proud of me. I haven’t done anything to be worthy of her pride in a long time. Sure, I’ve shared selected small niggles with her – the teams aren’t engaging with me, the coffee in the media centre’s revolting – but big cracks? Brian thinks I’m a moron; my bosses hired me for sex appeal; I’ll probably never make it as a serious F1 journalist; my big sparkly career change is a dud. It’s impossible. I just can’t.
Say I quit, what would I do with my life? It’d be like last year all over again. Lying in bed, watching reality TV, wearing holey sweatpants, eating M&Ms for breakfast, sobbing into dog floof, constantly feeling like my future is a gaping black hole.
Once again, I’m a failure. A manicured, blow-dried, fake tanned, spanx-suctioned failure in a very beautiful dress, but still a failure.
Our car pulls into a white mansion on Star Island, one of the most coveted neighbourhoods in Miami Beach. It’s all French windows and intricate balconies and palm trees, and its magnificence goes some way to pulling me out of my funk. Just some, because, you know, the black hole thing.
We’re led around the back to a red bougainvillea-lined garden that faces the bay and glittering Miami skyline beyond. My breath catches in my chest. Yachts drift by and a Royal Caribbean cruise ship struggles into motion in the harbour.
Catering’s set up around the pool and guests are milling at the far end, gazing out at the view. Ackland’s trademark British Racing Green washes the umbrellas, tablecloths and cushions. We might be in Miami, but the sparkling wine is Nyetimber and Scottish smoked salmon tops the canapes. Influencers in their side-booby dresses all speak with crystal-clear ReceivedPronunciation. It’d make me homesick if Brian didn’t speak with it too.
We applaud the entrance of Ackland’s two drivers, Kurt and Eilo, and sit down to dinner at round tables illuminated by candlelight, waves softly lapping in the background.
‘I’m surprised to see you here,’ I remark as Kurt takes the chair beside me. ‘Do you know how many hot girls are partying just over the water?’
He looks genuinely anguished. ‘Don’t remind me.’
‘I thought if there was anywhere you’d pull a Micah, it’d be here.’
‘Trust me, I thought about it. If the race wasn’t tomorrow, I’d be heading to South Beach straight after this.’
‘There’s always tomorrow night,’ I remind him as our asparagus starters are placed in front of us.
‘Oh win or lose, you’ll find me on South Beach when the clock strikes midnight.’
‘I’ll join you,’ I mumble into my glass. It must have come out gloomier than I meant because concern passes over his face.
‘What’s up? Is it work?’
I check to make sure Mum’s safely in conversation with Mrs Hatten-Meyer.
‘It’s awful,’ I confess. ‘I think they’ve put me in a box – the blonde one, the bantering one, the comedic foil to Brian’s straight-talking expertise and Krunal’s smooth-talking host.’
‘I wouldn’t take Brian O’Connell personally. You know what drivers from that era are like. My dad’s like that; your dad’s like that; Étienne’s dad’s worse now he’s a team principal. They’re narcissists. I’m surprised Brian even knows your name.’
Fair point. ‘I wish it was just Brian; it’s my whole team. My bosses. My producer.’
He chews thoughtfully and swallows. ‘How do you want your role to look?’
‘I want to prove myself as a serious presenter. Sure, I love chatting to you guys, but I also want to discuss races and have my opinion taken seriously.’
‘That doesn’t sound unreasonable.’
