He side-eyes me, looking up from beneath his brows. ‘Roberts, you have to be close to someone to break their heart.’
Not a bad answer. It’s refreshing how open he is. There are no games with Jack, no bullshit. My gaze catches on a photo of him and Luca on the wall. They’re about sixteen, in Pagari race suits, doubled over in fits of laughter.
Jack might not mean to be a heartbreaker, but he definitely is. A ridiculously hot man (and a very wealthy, motorsport dominating one at that) can’t go around saying beautiful thingsabout his deceased friend and win Championships for him and show refreshing honesty and cook delicious breakfasts and not expect girls to fall head over heels for him. I’m a tough nut with a cold husk for a heart, and even I think too much time around him could be dangerous. Good thing in an hour’s time this short chapter will be shut.
I look back at him, humming along to ‘Questions’ while he eats. There’s no tension in the air; he’s perfectly at ease. A strange sight for a driver on a Sunday morning.
‘You’re very calm for someone who’s racing later. Especially considering you’re on pole,’ I observe. Yesterday, Étienne and Kurt were wired from the moment they woke up. I caught Étienne doing reaction-time drills like a madman while Kurt furiously did a headstand.
Jack shrugs and gets up to turn the pancakes over.
‘I like your confidence,’ I say.
‘Oh don’t mistake cockiness for confidence. I’m an arrogant motherfucker in the car.’
I grin around my mouthful.
Throughout the pre-show and grid walk, I manage to avoid my dad. It helps that he’s not visible anywhere – probably hasn’t left Ackland hospitality. Predictable, but predictability and his love of fine whisky are my twin saving graces today.
His DM makes my phone feel like lead in my pocket. I’m not going to answer it; he doesn’t deserve a response for the tone alone. But it doesn’t stop me feverishly scanning the crowd whenever the camera pans away.
Relief washes over me as soon as I’m safely inside the media centre. The desks I choose for Krunal and me are well positioned beneath a bank of TVs showing the formation lap. There aren’t many to choose from – to be expected this late in the day –and we’re beside Tenzing’s communications team. I unpack my laptop and notepad as journalists stream in to claim their spots before the race starts.
‘Pre-show wasn’t too bad,’ says Krunal, joining me. ‘Brian wasn’t a total wasteman.’
‘No, he was fine.’ He did cut me off twice and spend five minutes discussing how the V8, V10 and V12 engines sound different in the tunnel, but I still had plenty of airtime and he didn’t beckon my dad over, so I count it as a good pre-show.
Krunal opens his laptop. ‘Think Jack’ll win?’
I watch the DFK Racing car pull into P17, bringing the lap to a close. ‘I think so, unless he messes up Turn 6 like he did last year.’
‘Facts,’ he agrees. ‘So unlike him.’
I think he says something else but I’m too absorbed by the screen. Jack’s on pole; Micah’s P2; Eilo’s P3; Étienne’s P4. I’m kind of wishing Jack hadn’t told me about Micah now. The first corner’s chaos in Monaco, and I’m sweating at the thought of someone being vengeful towards Jack out there. He looks so vulnerable in his carbon-fibre car. If you blew on it, it might splinter.
The lights go out and the pack jet off the line. I force myself not to close my eyes. My hands are too slick I can’t even hold my pen. Who knows how I’m going to manage seventy-eight laps of this.
Micah immediately swerves towards Jack but is forced to pull back when Jack squeezes him out of the first corner. Eilo’s overtaken Micah! I release a breath. Better a rookie than a nemesis.
The congestion continues through Massenet but there’s been no contact yet. My leg bounces of its own volition. The camera lingers on one of the RaceXs which is slowing to a stop – a front left puncture. It’s a shame and all but Jack’s probably almostfinished his first lap by now. Anything could have happened in that time.
Yellow flag. We’re back watching the front. My pen falls to the floor when I see Eilo stationary in the Nouvelle Chicane. The commentary confirms: suspension failure. No! Not The Green Finn! Bloody unreliable Ackland.
Krunal nudges me and I take my earphones out. ‘Shame we won’t be hearing the Finnish national anthem. It’s a jaunty one.’
How could this happen? I know how, but alsohow?
When normal racing resumes, all eighteen remaining drivers are bunched up – with Micah back in second, and on fresh tyres. It takes three agonising laps for Jack to establish a comfortable lead and I can finally sit back in my chair.
‘Guess we’ll be hearing our national anthem,’ grumbles Krunal around the end of his pen. ‘It’s bare drone-y.’
‘Jack could still mess it up mid-race.’ But fuck I hope he doesn’t.
‘He won’t. The reason we all talk about Turn 6 is because it’s so rare. He’s won Monaco now.’
I’m not biased, but I do a tiny victory punch under the table.
Chapter 25
