There’s not much I can help with besides paying for Piccolinos to send over enough premium pasta to feed half of Italy. Fixing up an F1 car’s a little different to fixing up my grandad’s 1976 Lotus Esprit. I’ve already described how I sawthe incident to the crew, so I’m stuck with fetching coffees and trying not to judge how much they play old school Kylie Minogue. We’ve had ‘Spinning Around’ at least five times. But I’m here, and it’s only partly because I don’t want to see Minnie.
After hours (and hours and hours) of reflection, I’ve decided she has nothing to do with this, not even indirectly. This is all me and Micah. I wouldn’t have cared so much if Tom was driving her; I wouldn’t even have watched from the stands. For months I’ve been anticipating Micah doing something to spite me at Silverstone, and when he did, I blew it a hundred times bigger than it was.
I worried about Minnie in that Aetheria the same as I would for Georgie. Does that mean I’m whipped for her too? Course not.
I do feel bad about blaming Minnie and accusing her of distracting me, but not bad enough to go home and sleep beside her. It’s still too raw. She has no idea, obviously. I’ll catch her tomorrow before I startfrom the pit lane. Yes, I was right, the damage is so extensive we have to rebuild the chassis and fit a new gearbox. Wahey. It’s going to be a shitshow. Just like today.
Chapter 29
JACK
Finally I spot Minnie tottering through the paddock. I tell rather than ask my minders to excuse me for five minutes, and manage to catch her eye and motion to the small gap between the Pirelli and Maxim Performance motorhomes.
After three hours of patchy sleep sitting in my main mechanic’s chair, boy did I miss lying beside her. Curling against her body, smelling her hair, listening to her soft breaths. Beats waking up to someone dropping a case of brake materials. The first thoughts that flashed in my head were: is she ok? How’s her neck? Did she have nightmares about careering around Silverstone with a lunatic?
I really want us to go back to normal, and I’m aware it was only me who thought anything was different. The urge to kiss her to say sorry almost knocks me sideways, but I can’t. Someone might walk past. She looks ten times fresher than me, and I feel a bolt of pride that she used my flat to do it. If only I wasn’t being such a goon I could’ve been there too.
‘Tell me about yesterday,’ I whisper, allowing myself the small luxury of brushing her fingers before shoving my hands in my pockets.
‘Tell me aboutqualifying,’ she retorts, incredulous. ‘How are you now starting from the pits?!’
Don’t remind me. ‘I oversteered,’ I mutter. ‘Micah first.’
‘Not Micah first! You crashed into the barrier. Are you even ok?’
‘I’m fine.’
‘That’s not like you. And I heard something abouttwenty-twoparts wrecked?’
‘Twenty-three,’ I correct. ‘I don’t know what to tell you. It was wet. I lost the car.’
‘You didn’t come back last night,’ she adds softly.
‘I was up with the mechanics until three. It didn’t make sense to drive two hours home.’ A truth, just not the whole truth.
‘Are you really ok?’ She looks so worried. I feel a fresh stab of guilt.
I need to get my rivalry with Micah in check. He’s going to keep messing with my head – why wouldn’t he? It’s working a treat. It’s up to me to shut him out.
‘Yeah,’ I say through an out-breath. ‘Today’s going to be… what it will be.’ Micah will bag his beloved win, if he doesn’t let his good fortune go to his head. They’re predicting P12 for me. I haven’t scored outside the points in two years, and even that was a gearbox DNF. ‘Now Micah. How was it?’
‘He was…’ she roots around for the right word, looking annoyingly not like she hates him as much as I do, ‘charming.’
‘Surprise, surprise,’ I mutter.
‘It wasn’t put on. We had a really nice chat, actually, and the footage was incredible. He was open and receptive; he gave thoughtful answers. He was even nice about you.’
I don’t want to rain on her parade like yesterday so I raise my eyebrows. ‘Oh really?’
‘You were right about his dad, though. What a domineering momager.’
‘But I saw the hot lap?—’
‘Ok, the hot lap wasn’t my favourite,’ she admits. ‘It made good TV, though. I don’t know how you do what you do.’
The difference is I don’t try to make someone black out. ‘It takes training, all right,’ I offer weakly.
‘But the interview’s what my team are most excited about. He was brilliant, Jack. I can’t wait for you to watch it. He was so vulnerable. He told me he’s British when he does well, and Nigerian when he does badly. How crazy is that?’ She’s looking at me expectantly, like I’m supposed to buy this bullshit. I guess this is where my good guy act comes to an end.
