My mind goes blank. Team? What team? Has Jack signed us up to a charity event? ‘Yes?’
‘He smiles more, he’s more engaged, he’s fallen back in love with driving again. I’m on your team. You’re really good for him.’
I nod. I don’t know what else to do. I can’t unpack all this information now. Should I thank her?
‘Is this the part where you tell me if I hurt him, you’ll beat me up?’ I say in a rush of confidence. She definitely could. She’s built but lean, like she could bench and outrun me, probably at the same time.
Georgie’s smile reaches her eyes. ‘No, you’re safe. You’re not the one I worry about.’
What doesthatmean?
‘Just mind him, alright? He’s not like other guys. He’s softer than you think,’ she says.
She looks like she wants to say more but Jack’s returned with a waiter carrying even more drinks. I can’t get too drunk because I want to overanalyse this conversation tomorrow. Mind him?What does she mean?
I’m still turning it over several glasses deep when we start dancing. My main conclusion is she likes us together, which I interpret as a vote of confidence, not least because she’s hellishly intimidating. The only person who knows about us sees us as an ‘us’, and I surprisingly don’t feel like running for the hills. More than that, I feel bolstered. And this isn’t just the alcohol talking. Well, not completely.
Maybe there could be a next level to our relationship after all. I mean, we’ve been exclusive for almost two months. There hasn’t been a race weekend we’ve slept apart. We even went on holiday together! I’m no seasoned girlfriend but this feels pretty relationshipy to me. The thought of a label’s cringe but if the only thing that changes is we name it, where’s the issue? I like this, whatever ‘this’ is, and I’d like more of it, whatever thatmight look like.Obviouslynothing public, but… an official date, maybe? Some intention?
This isn’t me completely overcoming my commitment phobia, though. I’m not 100% certain I won’t one day get the crushing urge to jump ship before he can. Georgie’s not entirely right in thinking Jack’s the one to worry about. But I’ll never forgive myself if I hurt him like my dad hurt my mum. And so far he’s made me feel safe. As long as that doesn’t change, we might have a good thing.
It probably helps me that there’s an expiry date. If word gets out, if staying private grows tiresome, if lying to everyone becomes too much – it’s over. We can never have a future unless one of us leaves F1. But I’m not thinking about that now. For now, a little acknowledgement is all I need.
A WAG,me? What a bizarre thought. F1 WAGs aren’t like football WAGs. These women are far from plumped-up silicone dolls; they’re natural embodiments of perfection. Gustaf, Matteo, Eilo – by all accounts not beautiful men, but their partners? Gustaf’s is the current Miss Brazil; Matteo’s is a Portuguese model; Eilo’s is a fashion influencer who looks like the baby of Chris Hemsworth and Raquel Welch. I wonder what she sees in a pale, scrawny, thick-necked, pubes-for-a-beard, multi-millionaire racing driver. I don’t struggle with self-confidence but these women could make Beyoncé check herself. And they seemingly have nothing better to do than tow after their men from one continent to the next.
That’s not me. I don’t tow.
Jack’s the World Champion, plus he’s the sexiest man on the grid – objectively speaking. By extension, his girlfriend should be the most stunning, most glamorous, most accomplished?—
‘Hey pretty girl,’ says a husky voice in my ear, ‘what’s going on in that beautiful head of yours?’
I smother the instinct to wrap my arms around his neck. He’s even sexier when he’s talking to me illicitly, hair all mussed like he’s run his hands through it, an easy grin like he’s on top of the world. He really is a good dancer, moving to the beat like it’s breathing to him.
‘I’m a terrible dancer,’ I confess, rolling my hips in a shallow sway. Nothing adventurous. A tried and tested move.
‘You’re not terrible at anything.’ His fingers curl around my waist and he pulls me flush against him. I can feel him straining against his jeans.
I purse my lips to keep from grinning. ‘Remember Italy.’
‘It was nothing.’
But it could so easily have been.
I want to kiss him so much it’s a physical need. I imagine running my tongue along his lower lip, feeling his heartrate shoot up as I drag my nails down the back of his neck.
‘No one can see us. It’s packed,’ he murmurs.
My resolve’s crumbling with disturbing velocity. I blame that last glass of champagne. ‘You’re playing with fire, Jack Bowden.’
‘I really want to kiss you right now.’
‘You can’t.’ I don’t even sound certain to myself.
‘And I want to peel this tiny dress off.’
I bite my lip.
‘And I want to spend hours pulling you apart piece by piece,’ his voice is rough, ‘and take just as long putting you back together.’
