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Outside, the afternoon sun is shining. There’s the same bustle of activity—crews walking up and down the service road between all the portable buildings.
I smile a little bit to myself. I’m in Germany and just spent the morning on the pit wall of an F1 track, and now I’m meeting with the Director of an international manufacturing company.
Besides that one little winking incident, there’s been no embarrassing moments. No mental breakdowns. I did not die. I think it’s okay to pat myself on the back a little.
Olivier leads us into a Concordia motorhome along the row of team buildings and holds the door open for me. It’s every bit as posh as the Imperium motorhome, but not as young and hip. This is more timeless with cream leather sofas and gold accent pieces.
“Have a seat, I’ll fetch us coffee. Americano for you, I assume?” Olivier directs me to a sofa in the main room.
“Depends, do you have a fancy coffee machine in here, too?”
“Of course, complete with a barista. We are a French company, after all, Emily,” Olivier smiles.
“In that case, a flat white, please.”
Olivier nods, and I take in my surroundings while he’s gone.
I know that Formula 1 is perhaps the most wealthy sport in all of the world. Each of these motorhomes cost nearly ten million dollars to construct, each car can cost fifteen or twenty-million to build, but seeing it in person is quite different from reading about it or seeing it on TV.
I learned a lot about racing and motorsports through Cole when he was karting in high school, and that alone was ridiculously expensive, but nothing like this.
This is like Russian oligarch money. If history is any lesson, no good comes from this much concentrated wealth.
“Mon cher,” Olivier hands me my coffee on a dainty saucer, and I let out a laugh when I look at the microfoam floating on top. It’s a cute little race car. I’d love to take a photo for Klara, but I don’t want to embarrass myself by acting like such a rookie.
Because cool things like this happen to me every day.
Olivier takes a seat next to me on the sofa. As I take a sip of my coffee, I can’t help notice that he’s staring at me.
“So, I’ve spent a lot of time talking to Edmund about the tire performance issues, and I’d like to jump in and learn as much as I can right away,” I blurt out to avoid this staring-thing that’s happening.
“Ha, plenty of time for that. Tell me about yourself, Emily.”
Olivier is turned towards me. He’s sitting on one leg, has one hand over the back of the couch, and while I know the French tend to be a bit more… relaxed than Americans, this is not a work pose I’m familiar with. This feels like he’s at a lounge choosing women for the evening.
“Umm, well, I graduated from the University of Cambridge earlier this year, and, as you know, my thesis was in tire…”
“No. Tell me about yourself, Emily. What do you do for fun? What brings you joy?” Olivier interrupts me.
Brings me joy? What kind of Oprah Magazine bullshit is that?
“Oh. Well, I love to read. I spent a lot of time at the beach when I lived in Florida and in California. Umm, I’ve recently really gotten into cooking. I want to look into cheesemaking, in fact.”
Olivier lets out a burst of laughter and interrupts my rambling stream of gibberish, “Cooking and cheesemaking?”
“Yeah, it’s kind of…” I pause. I don’t want to tell Olivier, this suave wealthy guy, that something about creating a finished product out of raw ingredients and the science that goes into baking, particularly, appeals to me. Or that I like it when the thing I just made gets eaten and makes someone happy. “It’s just relaxing.”
It’s something simple, fun, and the worst consequence of failing at it means a full trash bin and no one but me knows.
“Well, then you must come to France. Best food and cheese in the world.”
I nod and tuck a strand of hair behind my ear nervously, ?
?Next year, for sure. I just missed the France Grand Prix.”
Olivier goes back to his staring. I feel awkward, and I’m pretty sure he was making fun of me when I brought up the damn cheese.
As I do in these situations, I divert right back to my comfort zone, “I haven’t been able to find the materials data for Concordia’s F1 tire line. Is that something you can get for me?”
