‘It’s a genetic condition. I won’t bore you with the details, but to give you an idea of what it looks like, he was initially diagnosed with cerebral palsy.’
‘Right.’
‘He’s the best. He’s such a gas; he finds everything funny. Everything.’ Even with his eyes shielded I can see Jack brightening. ‘And he’s the hardest worker I know. It might take him half an hour to get in his pyjamas, but he’ll do it. I always say everyone should be more like Ted.’
‘He sounds brilliant.’
‘Yeah, he is. You’d like him. He’d definitely like you.’
‘You think?’
‘I mean, he’s a Bowden. You’re quite popular with them so far.’ He slides me a side look that sets my pulse racing. ‘He’d give you one of his famous hugs. He’s abighugger.’
‘What a sweetheart.’ We cross the road onto another empty stretch. ‘So your parents had to prioritise his care over supporting your racing?’
‘I wouldn’t have had it any other way. Ted needed a lot of help, especially when he was little. He didn’t sleep much, he couldn’t walk, he couldn’t talk, he was hyperactive, and he had these horrific seizures. Dozens and dozens and dozens of them. He was in hospital sometimes three or four times a week. So yeah, it was mostly me and my grandad.’
I remember when he said his grandad saw racing as ‘a way to make sure I didn’t get lost’. That phrase takes on a new meaning now I have a window into his home life. My heart breaks for him.
‘So you didn’t get much attention?’ I probe.
His response is somewhere between a laugh and a snort. ‘My parents shouldn’t have been parents. They’re too selfish, and frankly they couldn’t afford it. Taking care of your sick kid shouldn’t be a burden, and it shouldn’t be a weapon you use against your other kid. But it’s the same for millions of familieswith disabled children. The disabled child is never the problem; it’s always the adults.’
I take him in carefully. ‘He’s so lucky to have a brother like you.’
He shrugs. ‘Sure, I pay for fulltime care and set them up in a nice house, but I can’t see him much, and that’s all he cares about.’
‘You love and protect him, and that’s worth so much more than you give yourself credit for.’
He screws his face up like he doesn’t believe me.
We’ve almost reached town. The church bell tower rises above the pastel villas and palm trees. I can hear distant voices and cars.
Jack really trusts me. He’s told me so many deeply personal things, some of which could have big ramifications if we go south and I was a vindictive witch. I don’t know what this means for us, but I do know I like feeling close to him and being the only romantic partner he’s shared this with. I mean, I’m guessing, but if he’s usually having one-night stands, he’s not exactly going to relive his painful childhood.
We reach the main street through Forte dei Marmi and I angle my wide-brim sun hat down, channelling my inner Sophia Loren. You can never be too careful when you’re with one of the most famous drivers on the planet.
It’s all bakeries and restaurants, designer shops and bougainvillea-lined houses, with a grand piazza in the centre chock-full of people. I dip my hat lower. Part of me wishes we could join them having Aperol spritzes in the late afternoon sun, but it’s too risky.
We head into the small supermarket and pick up groceries for the next couple of days. It’s hard not to marvel at the fresh bread and cheeses, and how cheap the wine is. Jack speaks to thecashier in the strangest mix of Essex-tinted and native-sounding Italian. I can’t judge, my Italian’s limited to car parts.
Feeling more adventurous, we take the seaside promenade back home with our ice creams. Hotels, restaurants and beachgoers clinging onto the last few hours of sun run along on one side; Vespas and supercars run along the other. Luca’s 8C wouldn’t look out of place at all. No one bothers Jack. He’s pretty obscured behind his baseball cap and sunglasses, and I guess they’re used to celebrities here.
This is nice. Really, really nice. I don’t want to admit to myself exactly how nice in case I make it into something it’s not. In case I want more holidays like this, more walks like this, talking about nothing and everything. This is all we’ll ever be. I should savour it while it lasts.
My carefree mood sputters in the evening when Jack goes to the toilet and I scroll mindlessly through X. A photo of him stops me dead, and I sit up.
It was taken today.
Jack’s laughing in front of the piazza – and I’m right beside him. It’s the back of my head but you can see my hair reaching down my back and the jewellery I usually wear. An F1 gossip channel’s posted it, along with the heading:
‘Jack Bowden spotted on vacation in Italy with mystery woman’
‘What’s up?’ he says, coming back into the living room.
I thrust the screen at him. ‘We werespotted!’
I wait with bated breath as his eyes skim the post. ‘Ah, it’s alright. You can’t see it’s you. You can barely see you’re blonde, your hat’s so big.’
