But he can’t beat me on speed alone. He’s a thinker, and racing isn’t about thinking. Humans can’t process things in three-tenths of a second, which are the margins F1 runs on. Thinking also makes you question your instincts, and instincts are everything. Visibility is so limited in the cockpit, sometimes it’s all you have to go on.
Yes, you’ve got to have a head for strategy, but there are about fifteen other key traits, the most important being something – fortunately for me – I was born with. Look at the billionaires’ sons at the back of the grid. You can’t buy talent, which suits this working-class Essex lad just fine.
Don’t get me wrong, Micah’s a sick driver – Pagari wouldn’t have hired him if he wasn’t – but can he beat me? He’ll certainly try. Bring it on, pal. I’ve never shied away from a challenge and I’m not about to start.
When I take the final corner and glance in my mirror, it pains me that I can’t spot an Ackland. My grandad and I used to do our annual pilgrimage to Silverstone dressed head-to-toe in British Racing Green. Ackland meant sophistication, heritage, and good old-fashioned English craftsmanship. It produced World Champions like Herb Asquith, Antonio Mancini, and my hero, Sir Cliff Roberts. Now? They’ll be lucky if they can go a whole race without power unit implosion. I know they’re a competitor, but it hurts my soul to see them struggling through Bahrain’s qualifying after barely squeaking into the top five constructors last year.
I finish my burnouts and stop in my spot. What was it that fit presenter asked? Something about managing the first sector with Micah and Étienne starting on my tail. There’s an old saying: you can’t win a race on the first corner, but you can lose it.
I need a strong, clean start to set me up for that beast of a first corner – a ninety-degree right-hander. That’s where I’ll block Micah. He’s as fast as me on the straight so I want Étienne to overtake him, buying me time. From there, it’s all about traction where, if I play it right, I can lose Étienne. It’ll be less than fifteen seconds and can decide the outcome of the whole race.
‘Forza, mate,’ says my race engineer, and I let the word rush through me as I do at the start of every race. It’s so charged, with a hundred different meanings, but for now I let it fire me up. Every muscle, every nerve, every tendon.
The world softens into white noise as I look up at the lights. It’s the calmest moment of the whole weekend. No media, no photos, no crowds, no meetings. Just me and the car, the way it’s supposed to be.
It’s lights out and away we go.
I’m quick off the line, but I’m not the only one. Micah appears in my periphery. He’s on the dirty side of the track and lacks the traction and grip I have to power up the straight. Étienne’s close behind me, ready to overtake when I commit to a racing line around Turn 1.
I edge to the right, squeezing Micah behind. As predicted, Étienne shoots to my outside and we head into Turn 1 side-by-side. He’s young, it’s early in the season, he’s probably feeling rusty. I’m banking on him losing his nerve and backing off. My heart thunders in my chest as I wait. We hit the apex and he chickens out, and I thank the racing gods.
He’ll be too shaken to try anything in Turns 2 and 3 – he’ll wait for the straight, forgetting Pagaris have supreme straight-line pace. As the track flattens into the distance, unsurprisingly, he swerves on my inside. I go full throttle and watch him recede in a cloud of exhaust fumes. I’m grinning from ear to ear. There’s nothing like the power at my fingertips. As much as it’ll gall him, Étienne will have to switch focus and defend; Micah will beat his tyres to a pulp trying to overtake. Meanwhile I’ll soar ahead, watching the gap widen and widen.
Fuck, I’ve missed this.
Chapter 3
MINNIE
As I spritz perfume on my neck, I say the words out loud: ‘They liked it. They really liked it.’ Maybe if I repeat it enough times it’ll sink in.
What did my bosses like most: me constantly being told to move, or apologising on loop for eight minutes flat? Or how about when almost every driver told me to fuck off?
Except one, that is.
My producer said my ‘banter’ with the drivers was hilarious. What banter? Kurt rejected me; Étienne called me fat; Matteo D’Ambrosio shook his head with such hostility, you’d have thought I’d offered to braid his hair with sparkly beads.
My phone buzzes and I cease mumbling to myself. Taxi’s here.
Butterflies are rioting in my stomach on the drive to the bar. It’s been a long time since I was anywhere super glamorous, and the first time I’ve been invited to an F1 afterparty period (surprisingly, pre-teens aren’t allowed on guestlists). But when we turn down a dusty side street and the taxi abruptly stops, the butterflies meet an anticlimactic end. Surely this can’t be it? Tanbuildings, air con boxes and a sandwich shop? It seems the cost-of-living crisis has even hit F1. That was a plot twist I never saw coming.
My driver’s pointing enthusiastically to a closed door. I get out slowly, praying he doesn’t drive off and leave me stranded in this nondescript part of Manama. To my horror, he jets off quicker than Jack did this afternoon.
I’m going to die. My face will be plastered on BBC News as the stupid tourist who was lured into a kidnapper’s den by the promise of free booze and?—
The door opens revealing a man with a clipboard, and I’ve never been so relieved.
F1, in fact, has not been blighted by the cost-of-living crisis. The lift doors open to a gorgeous rooftop lounge with soft orange lighting, green foliage and expansive views of the city. Every inch is packed. Models, celebrities, oligarchs and, of course, drivers. Kurt’s flirting with a blonde towering over him like the Burj Khalifa; Étienne’s beckoning me aggressively from the far side.
‘Enfin!’he exclaims over the music, getting up to kiss me on both cheeks. I’m ashamed to admit it’s the most a man’s touched me in months. ‘’Ow long do you take to get ready?Assieds-toi.’ He gestures to a free seat.
It’s on the tip of my tongue to explain that, unlike him, my hotel isn’t a ten-minute drive from the track. But I don’t feel like making things toe-curlingly awkward, so I smile and pull out the chair, only to find a jacket neatly folded in the middle. ‘Is this someone’s?’ I ask. Who’d bring a jacket? It’s a million degrees out here.
‘Minnie, iznot a jacket.’ Étienne sips his wine. ‘Iz my dress.’
‘Ohhar har.’ He always was an annoying little shit.
I hop up on the stool and greet the rest of the table, a mixture of semi-familiar drivers, performance coaches andother paddock faces, and less familiar scantily clad women who make me feel like a dumpy potato. Joy.
