He holds up a finger. ‘Let’s start here. I’m eternally sorry I hurt you and your mother. It was never how I imagined ourseparation playing out. You deserved far, far more. Now, we’ll leave that sorry there if you don’t want to talk about it, but know it’s there and it’ll keep being there.
‘I say you’re your mother’s daughter as a compliment. You’re nothing like me; you never were.’ He gently tucks some hair behind my ear and it feels traitorously comforting. ‘She’s the strongest, smartest, feistiest, most incredible woman I’ve ever met. There’s not one ounce of her that’s selfish or impulsive; the same can’t be said for your dear old dad. She’s not broken, and neither are you.
‘I think you could do with being a little more selfish,’ he considers as he gets to his feet. ‘It certainly would’ve helped your business.’
I can’t believe he brought that up. I can’t believe he knows. And I’m crying again.
‘I know you’d never have accepted my help – or anyone’s help. You’ve always been an independent thing,’ he goes on, looking down at me. ‘But just know you could have. You always can. I’ll forever be your father, Minnie, and that doesn’t change because your mother gave me an ultimatum.’
Even though I’m not a hugger, something comes over me that has me launching myself at him. I keep my face turned away to avoid smearing mascara on his nice cream jumper.
‘I love you, my darling girl,’ he whispers, squeezing me slightly, ‘and I never meant to make things difficult for you.’
I can’t say those three words back – probably never will – but I accept them with a tiny nod.
Sure, it feels like I’ve reopened a giant old wound and mortally embarrassed myself in front of half of London’s young elite, but I also feel something quieter, something smothered by relief that feels a bit like… progress.
Chapter 42
JACK
SINGAPORE
We’re coming to the stage of the season where a hot mix of desperation and exhaustion causes nothing but carnage on track. Who doesn’t like carnage? The driver at the top of the leaderboard. That would be me.
I want nice, smooth races. Races without restarts; races without safety cars; races without everyone around me making stupid mistakes on the first corner. I’m not here for an easy ride but this late in the season, the costs are staggering and the pressure’s even worse. To be within touching distance of the Championship and lose it in on the home straight would live with a driver forever.
With a measly seven races to go and Martinelli too close for comfort, I’m not ashamed to say I’m bricking it. The only driver I’m not supposed to worry about is my teammate. He’s been given strict orders to defend me and put Pagari first. You know, teammate shit.
Tell that to the racing line he’s just taken, almost clipping my rear wing. I’ve been doing my best to ignore him for the last forty-six laps – if he jeopardises anything, and I do meananything, he’ll get his balls handed to him by Lorenzo – but he’s way too close for comfort. He’s running on fresh tyres andhas been tearing them up lap after lap, hitting times to rival qualifying. And now with one lap to go, he’s clogging up my rear mirror as if he’s going to overtake on the straight. Yeah, right. Like Lorenzo would let that?—
He’s making a move. Fucking hell, he’s using DRS to level with me.
‘Yo!’ I bark down the radio. ‘What the actual?—’
‘I don’t know what he’s doing.’ My race engineer sounds panicked.
There’s not much I can do without getting my elbows out, and that’s far too risky. Marina Bay’s an uber-tight street circuit with hardly any run-off areas. The smallest mistake would guarantee both Pagaris are DNFs and Martinelli are scooping up our points. My tyres are on their last legs. I can’t do anything. I didn’t even think I needed to because HE’S MY FUCKING TEAMMATE.
‘Mayday!Mayday!’ I holler.
But he’s already in front. The finish line’s around the next corner. I couldn’t take the position back even if I had factory-fresh tyres. He’s won. He’s won the Singapore Grand Prix.
‘I don’t know, Jack. I don’t know.’
Why the fuck was I so complacent? This is Micah Adetunji. Why did I think he’d bow down to team orders? He technically didn’t jeopardise my race, but he wasn’t meant tosteal my pointseither. He’s supposed todefend. I’m the number one driver. I’ve beaten him fair and square in twelve of the fourteen races Pagari have won this year.
I’m the number one driver for a god-damn reason. He can’t outqualify me; he can’t overtake like me; he can’t manage his tyres like me; he can’t defend like me – but he can take advantage of my complacency. I’m such anidiot. I just sat there like a duck!
‘Jack,’ says a different voice over the static. ‘It’s Lorenzo. We’ll talk to him, don’t worry.’
I remind myself every single thing I say will be beaming live across the world, and no one likes a sore loser. ‘What a result for the team,’ I say through gritted teeth.
The crowd are going ballistic as I stop behind the number two spot and hop up onto the chassis. I’m one big ball of sweat; the humidity here’s horrific. I raise my arms in celebration even though the last thing I feel like doing is celebrating – more like smacking him over the head with the champagne bottle. I have to take the higher ground. One thing I’ll always have on him is public perception. Volare’s Tiago Cabrera pulls up in third place and his raw delight at making the podium for the first time makes me feel like an ungrateful prick.
After brief interviews, we file into the cool-down room, cameras clocking our every move. I’m a mask of quiet confidence even though inside I’m writhing. An almost three-time World Champion doesn’t worry about one near miss. He’s not threatened by his teammate. Me, on the other hand – I want to chuck a brick through his window. You couldn’t tell who’s won by appearances alone. Tiago can’t stop beaming, Micah’s his usual expressionless self, and I’m towelling off so roughly it’s exfoliating.
I take my place on the podium and watch as Micah flashes a closed-lipped smile to the crowd and waves. It takes all my restraint not to plug my ears during our national anthem and throw my bottle of Moet on the floor.
