I’ve contributed less in yesterday’s qualifying show and this pre-race segment than my worst early shows, yet I’m still grateful. Grateful to have a job, grateful to be here in Azerbaijan instead of the London office, and grateful to be presenting instead of relegated to research. Sure, Brian’s made three quips about Jack, and Greg gives me warning looks every time I open my mouth, but it’s about the bigger picture, and the bigger picture is one of gratitude.
‘Minnie, what’s your take on Volare finding their feet in this second half of the season?’ Krunal asks.
Wow, my turn. ‘They’re doing phenomenally well. Those upgrades we first saw at Silverstone gave them some blinding pace. In qualifying yesterday, they were even outpacing—’ I stop myself blurting He Who Must Not Be Named. Greg’s death glare confirms I made the right choice. ‘—other drivers, in some sectors,’ I peter off.
Krunal smoothly turns to Brian, his microphone resting thoughtfully on his chin. ‘Brian, let’s look at the third row…’
That was close. It’s been two weeks since Monza and both Pagari and Martinelli have rescinded their restrictions, and Micah’s dad has dropped his baseless legal threat, but we’re still walking on eggshells. Social media hasn’t forgotten that photo as easily as the paddock – which has thankfully moved on to a photo of Tiago Cabrera with three naked belly dancers.
I’m not allowed to do the grid walk or the media pen or accompany Brian to press conferences. Currently my job includes standing, smiling, and making one-line comments about inoffensive teams. It’s shit, but I deserve shit.
At the sound of Brian talking about Micah, I tune back in. ‘—strong suit’s not managing his tyres.’ I don’t have to look at Greg to know his eyes are popping out of their sockets. Brian carries on, blissfully ignorant. ‘He was strong in quali as he usually is, but that doesn’t win Baku. He’ll need to learn from his mistakes last year – or even his teammate.’
‘Brian,’Greg seethes once we’ve cut to a feature. ‘Whatdid IsayaboutMicah?’
Brian’s looking at him like he couldn’t possibly fathom what he’s referring to. ‘What?’
‘You have to be positive!’
Brian crosses his arms. ‘So I can’t even talk about his tyre degradation now?’
Greg presses his fingers into his eyes. ‘You compared him toJack.’
‘Jack isgoodat managing tyre degradation.’ He really has no clue. It’d be sad to watch if I wasn’t busy looking for a drain to crawl into.
‘Yes, I know, but we can’t point out Micah’s flaws. At least not until the dust’s settled. His team were on the warpath until Thursday. It’s still very fresh.’
Brian hoists his folded arms higher. ‘Well that’s notmyfault.’
‘It’s not my fault either, but we have to make it work,’ presses Greg, with more than a hint of acidity.
I know whose fault it is. The stewards rushing past know whose fault it is. The birds in that tree know whose fault it is.
‘I’m going to the bathroom,’ I mumble and speed-walk away before anyone can object.
This is hideous. I’m still grateful, of course, so grateful, but that doesn’t stop my skin from crawling and my head from pounding and my limbs feeling like they’re clamped with weights. It’ll get better, though. It has to. I can’t live like a piñata forever. It’s only the race after Monza, these things take time. I just wish time would hurry the fuck up.
I think I hear someone murmur my name, but it’s probably my tuckered brain, so I ignore it. I hear it again, louder, and glance at the gap between the RaceX and Volare units to see an arm in a Pagari race suit poking from behind a bin, holding a matching coffee cup.
‘What are you doing here?’ I hiss, crouching beside Jack. ‘You should be warming up!’
‘It’s fine, I’m warm. I wanted to see how you were before the race, and give you this.’ He offers me the cup.
‘They’ll get suspicious if I go back with a new coffee, let alone aPagaricoffee.’
‘I know. I thought you could have a couple of sips while you tell me how your morning was.’
Oh why does he make it so hard? I asked for space to think but he’s being so damn sweet all the time. Good morning texts, motivational GIFs, sweet treats, coffees, winks in the paddock. Of course, he doesn’t know the real reason I want space is to think about whether I can stay in this situationship, or whatever the hell it is. He just thinks work’s a shitshow and my reputation’s in the toilet for something we’re equally culpable for.
I take the coffee and drink. Dear god, that Marco’s a magician.
‘Romantic, innit,’ Jack adds with a wicked grin.
My poor, aching heart.
I wrinkle my nose. ‘Smells like sewage down here.’
He nudges me. ‘Get off it, woman.’
