He does a double take. Literally. Like a cartoon.‘Quoi?’
‘I—’
‘You want to speak to myteammate?’ He says ‘teammate’ like an expletive. ‘But—but?—!’
‘Étienne, calm down,’ snaps Minnie.
‘Tom?TOM?’ The sound comes from the back of Étienne’s throat, like Tom’s a furball.
‘Keep your voice down,’ I hiss, quieter, trying to ignore everyone around us turning to look. I can hear the music with disturbing clarity. My skin’s prickling all over.
‘I heard my name,’ says an Australian voice.
Jesus Christ.Wonderfultiming.
We lock eyes and he gives a fleeting smile before Étienne booms, ‘There ’e is! I’m surprised you’re still awake, Grandpa. It’s past your bedtime.’
I have to keep my jaw from hinging open.
‘Nah, this old boy’s got some mileage in him yet.’ Tom brushes him off with an easy laugh before turning to us. ‘Hiya Minnie.’
It takes my mortified brain a second to catch up. They know each other from work,obviously.
I will not have this opportunity blown by?—
‘Jules, right?’ Tom’s looking at me.
Thank fuck.
I open my mouth to answer but a French-tinged eruption takes its place. ‘There’s no point talking to ’im,Zhoohl, ’e’ll probably forget whatever you say.’ Étienne draws circles by his temple. ‘Dementia.’
‘Étienne!’ Minnie barks, eyes blown to the size of planets.
I note Tom’s absence of a temper, and refusal to take the bait. If the rumours Minnie told me are true, that’s quite outof character. Then again, he does have a reputation for being deceptive.
Étienne, meanwhile, looks like a singing teapot.
‘Mr Calm, Mr Reliable, Mr Consistent,’ Étienne spouts. ‘Maybe if you took a risk once in a while, you’d be worth talking about!’
Tom smiles indulgently. ‘You’re talking about me right now.’
‘Come with me,’Minnie says through gritted teeth, yanking Étienne away by the sleeve.
‘Yes, but—’ Étienne jolts as Minnie gives him a sharp tug, ‘I’m doing it onpurpose. No one—Hé!Lâche-moi!’
‘I don’t know how you were so calm,’ I admit when he’s finally out of sight.
There’s a glint in Tom’s eye. ‘I save it for the track.’
I’m almost too relieved to clock we’re alone. It feels somewhat like a victory – I’ve earned this, for Pete’s sake – and yet the hangover of rage and humiliation’s still sitting on my chest. There’s nothing I hate more than a scene, except for maybe Colombian-American F1 drivers.
‘He really shows his age being so hot-headed like that,’ I remark.
Tom rubs the back of his neck. ‘He’s just mad about free practice earlier. He can say what he wants; I don’t give a shit what people think about me. It’s like water off a duck’s back. If it makes him feel better, what the hell.’
I don’t give a shit what people think about me.
This is a baffling development. What does that mean? How can you be a professional sportsman and not care what people think? There are a thousand wannabees who could take your seat in a heartbeat. Team principals, viewers, advertising execs, your career is completely bound with what they think. The minute no one cares in elite-level sport, you’re done.
