We pass the car Tom won his latest Championship in four years ago, and I strangely feel a pang of sadness. I really rooted for him, a veteran driver up against two lightning-fast up-and-comers in Jack Bowden and Luca Zanetti. Crazy to think how things have changed.
We move on to the factory, gleaming white and filled with world-class designers, engineers, technicians, and support staff. Everything is honed to perfection, trying to find that millisecond in the race that could be the difference between beating Pagari or not. When everyone talks about F1 pushing the boundaries of technology, they sure as hell aren’t talking about all the teams equally. They’re talking about this monolith right here.
I have to remind myself this tour will likely come to nothing – they’re probably keeping me sweet so I’ll continue fighting hard for their development team. They have a full roster of top drivers. Last I checked being a French fart wasn’t a fireable offence so Étienne’s not going anywhere. And Tom… there’s talk about his age, sure, but he’s fitter than half the guys on this grid, and he’s consistently scoring more points than his teammate.
There isn’t a place for me. I’d rather race every weekend with Leone than be a reserve driver for Martinelli, anxiously waiting in the wings and doing press like a show pony.
I’m trying not to think of this as a giant – but cool – waste of time, when time really is of the essence, but then their simulator comes into view. There’s an exact replica of Tom’s current cockpit circled by almost 360-degree screens. The control room’s like Space Shuttle Mission Control with computers, switches and dials on every bench.
I sneak a look at my phone as we filter back into the corridor. Nothing. Still nothing, just like the other ninety-nine times I’ve checked today. Coldness prickles all over. I send Jules yet another quick message that’ll probably go unanswered too. I haven’t heard from her since Miami. The hard knot of tension in my gut tightens even more.
Please be ok.
Just a little while longer, baby.
Finally, it’s the garage, which I hate to say I’m a little disappointed by since it’s not so different to what they bring to races, and then I spot what’s parked in it.
Walter Hatten-Meyer’s 1984 car.
My breath catches in my throat. It gleams in its Marlboro livery, a piece of history, frozen in time, never to be repeated. It’s thicker and smaller than I expected, the cockpit even tighter than it is now.
Someone clears their throat and I look up to see one of my chaperones’ arms outstretched, a helmet dangling on the end.
You’vegotto be kidding me.
‘You’ve represented our development programme well,’ states their Sporting Director, whose Texan accent goes some way to calming me in this ominously big boardroom. I’m not aboardroom kind of guy. It makes me sit up straight and speak with a stuffy, formal twang, like I’m from Connecticut. I can feel JC’s confused gaze boring into the side of my head.
There are only five of us: Martinelli’s Sporting Director, Technical Director and a senior engineer I recognise from race weekends, JC, and me.
‘Thank you, sir,’ I say.
‘But we’re not interested in potential anymore,’ he goes on. ‘We’re interested in readiness. The purpose of a development team is to nurture talent for Martinelli, which is exactly what you’ve done.’
I’m trying to concentrate, really I am, but my head’s all over the place. Between Jules (whostillhasn’t messaged me back) and the hot lap of dreams, I don’t know what to think. I couldn’t sleep last night and my head feels like it’s filled with candy floss. Now I’m sitting beside all these important guys in a branded jacket so soft I could sleep on it. What the hell is happening?
Focus, Tiago. This is important shit. I’m holding a branded pen and everything.
‘Confidentially, Tom Webber is retiring at the end of this season,’ he says, and my ears instantly prick up. ‘We’re in the market for a new driver, and we’d like to offer that seat to you.’
Holy.
Fucking.
Shit.
My pulse thrums in my ears.
Me? Drive forMartinelli? Taking Tom’s seat?
Tom’sretiring?
What theFUCK?
Wouldn’t that be weird if I took his seat after everything with Jules? Wait, that can’t be why he’s retiring, can it?
‘Just wait a minute,’ JC says. Shut up shut upshut up. ‘Before you make an offer, I’d like to see some?—’
The Technical Director slides an embossed folder across the table. I keep my hands at my sides so they can’t see I’m shaking, and JC does the honours of opening it. It’s a framework – expectations, standards, alignment. What they can offer me. Even I notice there are no numbers, but it’s legit. This isn’t a negotiation, but it feels much cleaner than Volare. Martinelli mean business. They have all my current data; they know what I can do. They can see what this partnership could be.
