MONZA
‘Have a good race, Tiago.’
‘Thanks, Minnie.’
‘And cut,’ calls the producer.
That was sick. The Italian Grand Prix is Martinelli and Leone’s home race, and the biggest sports broadcaster in France chose me – over TomandÉtienne – to feature. Sure, it helps the presenter is Jules’ best friend, but hopefully few people will make the connection.
Minnie’s a great journalist, asking insightful questions about Leone and how smoothly we’re climbing the leaderboard (sixth place, baby!) Jules looks proud as hell from the far corner of Martinelli’s hospitality suite. It’s a good look on her.
My team have turned up in force, from Leone’s principal to Martinelli board members, but do you know who’s not here? My brother. You know, my manager, my head of finance, the architect of my career. I know we’re in a fight and all but he’s still on my payroll. If he doesn’t want to work for me then why’d he take a free trip to Italy? Asshole.
‘Great interview,’ Isa remarks as I de-mic. ‘Also, not to burst your bubble but Espy and Marcela called me halfway through.’
‘Tell them to mind their fucking business.’
‘They say turn your phone on.’ She throws her hands up in surrender. ‘I’m just relaying the message.’
I run my fingers through my hair.‘Ay, no.’
My family have realised I’ve muted their WhatsApp chats so are stooping to new lows. Next, I’ll be flattened by an army of carrier pigeons. I wonder if JC’s being bombarded too.
The paddock’s a wholehearted celebration of Italy with so much vivid patriotism they rival Mexicans at their own grand prix. It feels like a national holiday. Flags hang from balconies and faces are painted in tricolore. Martinelli’s in the very fabric of this race, and a win isn’t just a team win, but an Italian victory.
As I’m leaving Martinelli’s hospitality suite, someone calls my name. A short, thickly spectacled man with greying chin-length hair swept back. It takes me a minute to recognise him as Volare’s Sporting Director. He looks different without his official team apparel. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him in jeans.
‘C-Carmine,’ I stammer.
‘Santiago, funny running into you like this. How are you?’
‘Er… good.’ Better when I know why you’re chilling outside a rival’s motorhome.
‘Excellent. Let’s catch up. Walk with me?’
I had hoped to get some sim time in before Belgian media in a couple of hours, but this feels premeditated and important so I don’t argue. The paddock’s pretty quiet, even for a Thursday, but I’m still balls deep in sweat, and it has nothing to do with the afternoon heat. What if someone from Leone catches me speaking with my old team? I mean, he doesn’t look part of Volare, and the general public don’t know who he is, but my team principal sure does. And I’m not exactly subtle in my bright orange polo.
Martinelli aren’t the only home team here – Volare are too, but you wouldn’t know that by looking around. Even Leone’s in the mix, with more orange shirts and smoke flares than I’ve everseen. Volare purple’s barely visible. Impossibly quiet. It’s sad, really. I don’t know if I’m noticing it because I’m not part of the team anymore, but they’ve never had this kind of reception before. Like their fans are embarrassed.
We talk pleasantries as we head into the park attached to the circuit. It’s beautiful – a crazy contrast to the paddock behind us. Chatter and engines give over to cicadas and rustling leaves.
‘Let’s get down to it,’ Carmine says as a runner passes by like there’s not some multi-million-dollar car race going on fifty metres away. ‘Us parting ways was for reasons out of both of our control. A great shame, of course, but inevitable. It was the wrong fit.’ He adds something vague about ‘commercial pressures’ and ‘a question of timing’ that didn’t make sense last December and still don’t make sense now.
‘But we’ve been watching you closely at Leone,’ he goes on.
Theyhave? Really?
Wait.
Do they…?
Could they…?
Is he…?
‘That’s very good to hear, sir,’ I say, mouth going dry.
‘Your feedback is very technical; you’re polished to the press; your driving has reached new heights – even though I don’t know how in that rusty old Leone.’ He scoffs a laugh, but I don’t. ‘You drive with passion and ferocity. You bring energy and identity. You’re an asset to any Formula 1 team.’
