Oh shit, here we go.
Chapter 20
MINNIE
‘MGU-KandMGU-H problems, so it’ll be an interesting weekend indeed,’ Brian finishes, satisfied his monologue’s confused even the race marshals standing near us.
‘Thanks Bri. And Minnie, what do you think? What does Monaco mean to you?’ Krunal says, helpfully repeating his question because I forgot it about eight minutes ago.
I wouldn’t say anything as extreme as the show’s structure haschanged, but Krunal does now cut Brian off sometimes, and Brian has deferred to me a grand total of twice so far this weekend. Things are definitely looking up. I’m allowed to say my piece without withering glances or patronising put-downs, and that’s a big win in my book.
The paddock’s the most heaving I’ve ever seen it, which isn’t helped by the empty media pen taking up a sizeable portion ready for later. The late-afternoon sun has yet to cool down, with clouds having threatened to drift over all day but chickened out at the last minute. I swear it’s singed off the top layer of my eyes, but we’re not allowed to wear sunglasses as we have to ‘connect with the viewer’.
Monaco feels different from any other Grand Prix. The anticipation building is nothing short of electric. Every sense is on fire. It’s difficult to put my finger on why – the storied history, the extravagant wealth, the unparalleled risk, the astonishing location. Celebrities are milling around everywhere, even more than Miami. Sure, the race is processional and wildly unfit for modern cars, but who cares? It’s Monaco.
‘To me,’ I begin, ‘Monaco means heritage, glamour, and pace. The average speed around the track is 105mph in quali; 98-ish in the race itself. That’s pretty damn fast given how narrow and twisty it is. It’s also characterised by danger and precision. The tight corners and elevation changes mean there isn’t a slight margin for error.
‘And what does Monaco mean for the drivers?’ I go on – if Brian can hog ten minutes then I can have two. ‘Potentially pole position for Jack – Pagari were looking really strong in practice earlier this afternoon.’
Speak of the devil – his head pokes above the throng en route to the pits, his performance coach and press officer following close behind. My stomach clenches. Only a tiny bit. No big deal.
He slides me a wink, which feels less flirty and more… encouraging. He knows what this weekend means for me, he said so in his WhatsApp this morning. Oh yeah, we WhatsApp now. Nothing to set the tabloids alight. It’s mainly him trolling me aboutToy Story.The cheek of the man.
‘Sir Cliff Roberts, how are you, pal? It’s been too long!’ Brian’s jarring use of ‘pal’ yanks me from my head.
Belatedly, the rest of what he said sinks in.
My heart stills.
It can’t be.
He wouldn’t do that.
Then I remind myself this is Brian – he absolutely fucking would.
A greying coif catches my eye, and I stop breathing.
He’s here.
He’s walking over.
Mayday.
MAYDAY!!!
I whip hair over my face, hoping the camera’s busy with him. Vomit roils northwards. I lay a hand on my stomach like it might spill out the front.
‘Brian O’Connell, what a pleasure, old boy.’
Finally, I turn to face him. He hasn’t changed. The same bronzed skin, the same sun-bleached hair, the same luminous teeth, the same Fred Perry shirt/chinos/sockless/boat shoes combo he thinks is fashionable – it wasn’t then and it isn’t now.
He doesn’t start at the sight of me like I thought he might. I’ve imagined this hundreds of ways and in none of them was I studying him through a gap in my hair. I thought he might be… sorry, or sad, or surprised, or even excited, but he takes me in with level grace. Must be all those years of media training. Nice for some. I adjust my hair because, you know, I have to maintain some level of professionality, even if it’s a millimetre above rock bottom.
‘Minnie,’ is all he says, smiling warmly like we had breakfast together this morning.
For once, Brian’s one-man show suits me perfectly. ‘Ackland still keeping you busy?’ Fortunately, his obsession with F1 trumps his spite.
My stomach’s calming but my head’s eddying. I feel weightless, a third party looking in. This can’t be happening. The first time I reconnect with my father after twelve years cannot be at work. Onlive television. My mouth tastes acrid. I swallow hard and try to tune into what he’s saying: ‘Ackland… points… Monaco.’ Oh what’s the point, I can’t focus on a damn thing.
