‘Social media?’Brian echoes. ‘Heavens, is this what it’s come to? Taking advice from a bunch of keyboard warriors!’
I can’t silently watch this car crash any longer. This is my job, my future. I deserve a say. I don’t care if it makes things worse – like it could get any worse. ‘They’re viewers, the same as any other,’ I argue. ‘Monitoring social media is a valuable source of pulse checking.’
‘I should’ve known themillennialwas behind this.’ A fleck of spit flies from Brian’s mouth and lands halfway between us on the table. I can’t stop staring at it. ‘Shall we all do one of those TikTok dances? Maybe that’ll increase viewing figures. And what’s next? Asking lollipop ladies to shape school curriculums?’
It takes all I have to hold myself back from outlining, in painstaking detail, what a shitshow Miami was. ‘Our viewers are telling us they’d like more discussion,’ I explain calmly. ‘They?—’
‘I’ll discuss a race when I’m partnered with someone who understands this sport.’
Excuseyou?
‘Brian!’ yelps Greg.
‘Bruv!’ Krunal recoils.
Brian ignores them. ‘Don’t kid yourself that you’re here because of anything other than nepotism, sweetheart.’
Greg’s eyes bulge.‘Brian!’
‘You don’t even have a strong claim – your father left your family a long time ago. You haven’t been to a racetrack this decade. You’re nothing but a?—’
Krunal leaps up and slams his hand on the table. ‘ENOUGH!’
I don’t feel angry. I don’t even feel upset. I feel… suspended. The media centre’s low murmur reduces to nothing. It’s like we’re the only people here.
When I come to, Krunal’s talking over Greg, who’s suggesting Brian apologise, who’s throwing his head from side to side, arms folded tightly across his chest.
‘There’s no need,’ I say, getting to my feet and smoothing out my skirt. He wouldn’t mean an apology, plus he’s not telling meanything I don’t already know. His opinion was clear the very first time I met him. ‘At least I conduct myself professionally, Brian, which is more than I can say for you.’
And with that I walk away before something slips out that I’ll regret. I’m not sure where I’d start, but I’d end with:flaming stick up your arse!
Thinking up creative one-liners keeps me going while I wait for my taxi. Cursing Greg’s cowardice consumes most of the ride back to Bologna. When we reach the city, I notice my hands are shaking. I tell myself it’s an adrenaline hangover and sit on them.
But when the door opens and my taxi driver regards me with undiluted horror, I know Brian’s words have burrowed deep. I stuff some euros in his hand and make for the hotel.
No, wait. I need a walk.
I turn in the direction we’ve just driven and thunder down the colonnade, passing endless shops and late-night customers. It’s too busy, too hot, too?—
‘Roberts!’ I can’t find the voice at first, then I notice an Alfa Romeo cruising on the other side of the road, and Jack leaning through its open window. ‘Hotel’s that way!’
I keep my eyes fixed ahead. I’m in no mood for him or his playfulness or whatever sexual tension thing went on this morning. It feels like a lifetime ago. ‘I need a walk.’
‘Rob—Minnie, hold on.’
I don’t. I don’t want to talk amiably; I don’t want to sit still; I don’t want to lock myself in my room; I don’t want to think about what happened in the media centre. I want to walk.
Tyres screech to a halt, a door slams and a couple of seconds later, a hand grips my arm.
‘Minnie, stop.’
I’m too wired to focus on his face, which is right in front of me, trying to meet my gaze.
‘What happened?’ His tone’s grave.
‘I just… need a walk.’
His expression doesn’t waver. ‘What happened?’
