My eyes widen. That would unbelievable. A once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. His home race. The most elite of supercars. And I’d get paid to do it. How could I say no?
‘I’m in,’ I say, reaching out to shake his hand.
He takes it with a smile. His skin’s buttery soft like he’s a zealous user of those monasterial lotions. ‘I’ll set it up.’
As he walks away, I’m struck by how utterly bonkers that exchange was. Greg’s going to lose his mind. No outlet in the world’s secured airtime with Micah since he was a rookie, and Channel 3 has exclusive access. The head of the network’s going to find out. Maybe I’ll get promoted.
And it’s 100% down to my integrity.
Until now, I worried that the current work dynamic is the best it’s ever going to be. Sure, Krunal (mostly successfully)manages to shepherd the conversation between Brian, me, and whatever guest we have on, and sure I get airtime, but I’m still treated like the magician’s assistant. Brian doesn’t even pretend to respect my opinion. The network clearly agree with him since they don’t pull him up on anything.
This is what I need to prove to everyone that I’m a valuable member of this team, and I can bring opportunities my colleagues can’t. Micah likes me and my interview style. He thinks I’m good at my job. I could squeal but there are confused-looking Italians in my vicinity so I bottle it.
I look down at my phone and Jack’s name lights up my screen.
Jack: look whos stealthy now, blagging a coffee from marco
Jack: so I’ve been thinking
Jack: my place tonight?
Jack: i never was very good at maths
Jack: ps bring your glasses
Chapter 26
JACK
LONDON
My socks can’t grip my sandals and they make slapping noises against the marble as I head into the kitchen. I’m fishing around in the cupboard for whey protein when I hear Minnie come in. I flex my bicep as I bring it out – lifting a small tub requires muscle, you know.
‘My back’s killing,’ she moans.
I can take credit for a lot of soreness this morning, but not that. I make a mental note to massage her tonight. ‘Tell me you don’t take your binder with you every day,’ I throw over my shoulder.
She doesn’t answer immediately. ‘No, that would be stupid.’
She so does. What a nerd.
It’s been a month since we started this secret friends-with-benefits thing and it’s suiting both of us perfectly. No explaining to the press, no jealousy, no strategising how to go public, no soft or hard launches, no long-term planning, no meeting the parents, no tracking my whereabouts, no curated social posts, no dry vanilla sex, no‘where was my good morning text?’, no coordinated outfits, no his and hers matching luggage – just fun. And it is fucking fun.
I’m expecting her in one of my shirts but when I turn around, she’s looking unreal in a pink flowery dress and denim jacket, her hair falling over it curly and loose. I spoon protein powder without looking, and when I look down, I’ve missed my bottle by a foot.
‘How do I look?’ she says, cleaning up her lipstick in the mirror.
Perfect is the answer. You can tell she was born rich. It’s in the way she holds herself. She could be wearing a brown paper bag and make it look worth a million quid.
I search for creatine in the cupboard. ‘You look better without it.’
‘Without what? The jacket?’ She starts taking it off.
I smile. ‘All of it.’
She rights it with a huff, mumbling something that sounds like ‘Brian wouldlovethat’. I want to follow it up but stop myself. We agreed two ground rules in Montreal: honesty, and no work talk. I can’t risk revealing something embargoed. She may look like a drop-dead-gorgeous Victoria’s Secret model, but she’s press, and she’s paid to learn whatever she can about the teams and share it with the world.
She’s still looking away from me when she says, ‘I texted my dad back, by the way.’
