‘His mum’s a hedge fund manager. He’s the most decorated number two on the grid. Boo-hoo, poor Micah, racing for the best team in F1 with Nike brand sponsorship and a mansion in South London.’ I pretend to search around me. ‘WheredidI put my violin?’
Minnie’s gone very still. ‘You think racism’s a joke?’
Oh so we’re having this argument. ‘You think I don’t understand discrimination? There’s a reason you grew up with half the drivers on this grid, Minnie.’
She jerks back like I’ve physically stung her. ‘How can you equate class to race?’
‘Where you come from iseverythingin this sport!’
‘He’s the only Black driver on the grid, Jack.’
‘Black yes, but not the only person of colour. Tiago’s?—’
‘Minnie?’
We both look up at the mouth of the alleyway, and there stands Minnie’s mum. I’d know her anywhere, even if I didn’t know Minnie. Fifteen years ago, if you loved Cliff or Ackland, you’d heard of Cara Macklin. She had a radiance the press couldn’t get enough of. I can see it now, even though she’s glowering at me.
‘You said to meet outside Maxim, and I heard your voice,’ Cara says cautiously, eyes trained on me like she can tell I shagged her daughter in the early hours of yesterday morning. ‘Did I interrupt something?’
‘No!’ Minnie sings. ‘Mum, meet my friend Jack.’
She glides towards us, fancy bag in the crook of her arm. ‘Cara,’ she says. I’ve never heard a word so icy.
I feel the impulse to call her ma’am, but it’s not like she’s my mother-in-law so I settle for a ‘hi’.
‘We’re in the same friendship group with Kurt and Étienne,’ Minnie explains too cheerily.
I almost do a double-take. The idea that I’m mates with that French aerosol can is hysterical.
‘It’s a small paddock,’ I hear myself say.
Now I get why Minnie doesn’t want us getting back to her mum. Cara’s staring at me like I’m her ex. She hates drivers, that much is clear. Or maybe she just hates me, what with my dashing good looks and the groundless heartbreaker label that seems to follow me from season to season.
If it’s the former, who can blame her? Cliff was the bastard to end all bastards, but that doesn’t mean we all are. If it’s the latter, she doesn’t know me. You can’t hate someone you don’t know.
‘On va prendre un café, Minnie?’Cara says. Switching to French is a dick move but I let it slide. It’s nothing personal. She thinks it is, but I don’t see it that way. Still wish I’d paid more attention to languages at school, though.
Minnie hoists her bag higher. ‘Yes, let’s.’
Disappointment flashes through me at my ultra-limited time with Minnie being cut short, but maybe it’s for the best. That argument wasn’t headed anywhere good anyway.
‘It was lovely to meet you,’ I call after them.
Cara looks me up and down over her shoulder. ‘Goodbye Jack.’
I start strong, managing to nip around both DFKs without pushing hard. The track’s much drier than yesterday and though the sky’s dark, it’s not forecast to rain so I’m planning for a clean run. It’s going to be a long slog but if I can manage fuel and tyre degradation perfectly, I think we can do better than the predicted twelfth. Finishing twelfth in a Pagari is plain pathetic. I know this car better than I know my hometown. Her limits, her shortcomings and, most importantly, her virtues are singed into me, and at the top of those virtues is her straight-line speed.
I sail past a Leone on the Wellington Straight. He puts up a feeble fight but I swerve on his inside and he’s shrinking in my wingmirror before he can say ‘downforce’. Next up, it’s the Alpha Prime I didn’t wipe out.
A handful of laps later, I meet my first big team competitor: the Ackland of Eilo Mäkinen. He had power unit failure in Q1 so started P19 but has since climbed to P15. He wants to travel up the grid as much as I do, and he’s one tough defender. There’s no point playing chicken, he’s ballsier on the brakes than me. But I’m not worried. I have two things in my favour: a better car, and much more experience of this track.
Eilo follows a defensive racing line into Club corner, wasting time and tyre wear. I linger in his dirty air, conserving and waiting, coasting along while he farts about ‘anticipating’ my overtake. Could I eclipse him on the straight? Yes, I could – Ackland don’t have Pagari’s aerodynamic efficiency, amongst other things. But would that hype the crowd up as much as tricking him on a corner? Hell no.
I don’t have to wait long. The pressure gets to him and he runs wide at the exit of Turn 2 – admittedly a difficult section ifyou don’t know it like I do – and the stands go nuts as I slither around him into Turn 3.
Adrenaline like I haven’t felt in months surges through me. This is real racing. This is what I was put on this earth to do. I’m not a show pony, I don’t care about the easy wins, I don’t relish driving a car that’s head and shoulders above everyone else. I’m here to compete. My heart’s thumping so loudly I’d be surprised if it’s not picked up by the radio.
The first wave of cars begin pitting – the two-stop strategy boys. That was my plan too, before I saw more of the pits than I ever wanted to this weekend. The car feels good under me, making me feel like maybe our strategy gamble might pay off. If we can go all the way on a one-stop, that’s at least twenty seconds I’ll have over these guys. In a sport where a hundredth of a second matters, I might actually have a chance of placing somewhere decent.
