It’s where Tiago said he’d meet me.
Twenty minutes ago.
He’s not picking up his bloody phone, which is a wonder for someone who’s constantly on it.
If there’s one thing I hate, it’s lateness. I’m never, ever late. I leave half an hour earlier than I need to, meticulously check my journey, and have at least three backup routes to hand.
I might be less nervy if I thought I was allowed to be here. I’m not like him; I don’t feel zen rocking up to places and hoping for the best. What if the FIA bans me? Where would our plans be then? That woman in a headset just looked at me suspiciously. This is definitely not in my head. I’m going to kill that?—
‘Jules?’
Oh my god, it’s Tom.
He smells like sun cream, and looks slightly less dapper in his team shirt and shorts than his development teammate. I push that unsettling thought away.
‘Hi,’ I say, breathlessly.
‘Whatcha doing out here?’
‘Tiago said I could join his track walk…’ and merge it with yours. I raise my GoPro by way of explanation. ‘Vlog.’
‘I see. No sign of him yet?’
‘No,’ I say primly. ‘He’s late.’
‘Figures, it’s still pretty early. I’m usually the only driver out at this time.’ He scratches the back of his neck. ‘I mean, we’re about to start. You can join… if you want. I’m sure we’ll see him out there.’
Has this possibly workedeven betterthan we’d planned?
I hoist my tote higher, smothering every scrap of eagerness. ‘If you don’t mind.’
‘What’ve you got in there? It looks like it weighs a ton.’
‘Oh, just the usual.’ I do my best to shrug with one shoulder anchored down. ‘Camera, iPad, mic, gimbal, spare SD cards, water bottle, protein bars…’ He seemed amenable to my job when Tiago and I had lunch with him so I might as well be honest.
He pulls a face. ‘…Hazmat suit, snow gear, rain poncho, swimming cossie.’
Despite myself and my numb shoulder, I laugh.
The pit lane’s half-built as we pass through it, with stacks of tyres, cable reels, and mechanics unpacking their equipment. I film Tom listening as his engineers talk in code. I’ve assured them my vlog won’t air until after the weekend and I’ll overlay this part with music, but they’re extra careful, and I don’t blame them. There’s too much riding on this race.
It isn’t long before we’re hiking uphill, climbing high above the yachts sparkling in the morning sunlight. I linger behindto capture the marina and when I look back, Tom’s watching, amused. He corrects his engineer’s measurement mid-sentence and they carry on.
‘See that dent in the wall?’ he asks.
I nod.
‘In ’06, Christophe Blanchet tried overtaking Cliff Roberts here. He clipped him and went into the wall.’
Cliff Roberts – Minnie’s miscreant father who left her and her mum when she was a tween. I hate him with the fire of a thousand suns, even though it forced them to move back to England where she met little old me.
‘Oh wow. Was Christophe ok?’ I say, doing a heroic job of feigning concern for both of them.
Tom chuckles under his breath. ‘Yeah. He threw a tizzy and marched home.’
I adjust my sunglasses. ‘Sounds like his son.’
‘Doesn’t it?’
