MINNIE
MONTREAL
Iwish I wasn’t wearing my press pass as I enter Pagari’s Team Hub (the pretentious name for their hospitality unit). I text Jack.
Me: Everyone’s staring
He’s replied by the time I reach the circular staircase, which is exactly where he said it’d be.
Jack: no they’re not
Me: Yes, they are
Jack: stop being so fit then
I shake my head. The man who just passed me on the stairsdefinitelyscrutinised my pass. I bring my excuse to the tip of my tongue in case I’m ambushed: I interviewed Jack earlier this morning, and we accidently left with each other’s phones. I’m merely here to swap them back. It’s not a total lie, I did come here for something. Two things, in fact. It’s just one’s my dignity.
Premium Italian coffee floods my senses as I reach the hospitality suite. It’s empty of guests. Only suspicious Italians in Pagari uniform are here so early, peering at me over theirMacs, empty espresso cups by their sides. What I would give for an espresso right now. Yet again I’m faced with another media centre that thinks filter coffee is enough to get a legion of journalists, videographers and photographers through sixteen-hour days.
Me: Do they need so many photos of you? I think I’ve counted 14 so far
Jack: what can I say #numerouno
Me: You shouldn’t be replying so quickly, you’re supposed to be doing meet-and-greets
Jack: i’m a good multitasker
Jack’s driver room is singularly unglamorous for someone Pagari pays eight figures. There’s a small sofa, wardrobe, TV, tiny desk stacked with merchandise presumably for him to sign – the sharpie on top’s a dead giveaway – and a sink flanked by Italian soaps. The label says they’re made in a monastery in Cascia. I ladle some lotion on my hands and sniff.Heavenly.
My lacy bra’s easy to spot on the sofa. I can’t believe I left it in his flat, and his bloodycleanerfound it. In my defence, in the moment, Jack had flung it behind a sideboard. No wonder in my haste to get back to Étienne’s it was nowhere to be found. Still, I’m a moron. I snap a photo of myself with only the strap showing and ping it to Jack. Not slutty – mildly suggestive.
Now my task is complete, I don’t see any harm in having a little snoop. He’s not coming back anytime soon if the schedule on the wall’s anything to go by. Not that there’s a lot to see; the floor space is about the size of a toilet cubicle.
The wardrobe houses six identical laundered race suits – presumably one for each session. I pause at the bottom drawer on the right: Jack’s underwear. They’re clean, probably new, andhardly sexy being covered in sponsors’ logos and finishing down his calves, but it’s enough.
I’ve been like a dog in heat for the last two weeks. Every time he messages, every time I think about his team, every time I hear someone speak his name, every time I get a whiff of petrol – I have to squeeze my damn thighs together. Being in this room, I can’t even smell Jack, but the thought that I could is sending me into overdrive.
I don’t know what’s wrong with me.
It’s probably due to being a chaste nun for so long. I can’t even remember the last time I had sex before him. God that’s sad. It’s not easy bringing guys back to the house you share with your mum, and six furry tattle-tails ensure sneaking in isn’t an option.
My phone vibrates.
Jack: someone been snooping in my draws?
I don’t know if he meant the wrong spelling of ‘drawers’, but the possibility that he did has me fanning myself with my bra. The clip whacks me in the face and I’m brought back to Earth. I need to get out of here before I do something worse.
As I close the door behind me, the waft of Italian coffee once again blindsides me. Everyone in here is consumed by their laptops. Surely no one would notice if I got a cheeky to-go cup? I’d pay triple.
The barista’s, of course, Italian and only too eager to serve me. While he’s preparing my latte, I send Jack a photo of the barista’s back accompanied by an unsociable number of coffee emojis.
‘Hi, Minnie.’
My grin falls flat when I look up and see Micah. My stomach clenches, and I clamp my teeth together to keep my jaw fromfalling open. Micah doesn’t speak to journalists, ever. Not even Brian. Not even off-camera.
I loathe him for what he’s doing to Jack (though not as much as I loathe Brian period). From what he’s told me, Micah’s petty, selfish and hazardous, but while I don’t feel like talking to him, I’m compelled to be professional. ‘Hi, Micah.’
‘How are you?’
