The look on the mechanic’s face was a picture. He may not have recognised me by sight, but hecertainlyknew me by name. He floundered, lost for words before glancing down at his filthy hands.
“It’s okay,” I said, gesturing to mine where I still held it out to him. “I can wash them later.”
He laughed nervously but shook my hand. I took in the impressive workshop, eager to see what the team had been working on since their return from summer break.
“Can you show me around?” I asked.
McLaren was one of the biggest names on the F1 circuit and it showed. Their office was vast and state of the art, with over eight hundred personnel on their books. I was rather excited to be a part of such an impressive team. The cars were beauties, and I was pleased to see little that needed improvement in terms of their performance. It was a shame the same could not be said for the wider team.
Whilst the engineers were top notch, headed up by their world class technical director, Carlos Muinez, the mechanics were rudderless. There was a rather impotent chief at the helm, but it was my first day on the job and I didn’t want to make any rash decisions until I’d seen the team in action.
I’d commandeered a notebook and a pencil from one of the offices and it was already half full of my notes. I flicked through it absentmindedly as I made my way back towards the car park. Though it was late, already gone 10PM, I would type all of this up once I got home and get it into some semblance of order before deciding what to tackle first. Frank’s PA had provided me with a company phone, already preloaded with the names and numbers of the whole team, and I created a group chat on WhatsApp.
KRISTIAN: I’d like for us all to meet first thing tomorrow morning. Meet me at the McLaren building at 8AM.
I watched three dots appear and disappear as the recipients typed their responses.
SOPHIA: I’ll be there.
BIANCA: I can’t. I have press responsibilities I’ve already agreed to. Will be in after lunch.
I immediately opened the team calendar. All three of us had a press conference booked in for 10AM, not just Bianca. My lips quirked in annoyance. Curious, I hadn’t expected the older, more experienced driver to be the one to cause me the headache. I tapped out my reply swiftly.
KRISTIAN: 8AM or don’t bother coming in at all.
Perhaps it was harsh – I hadn’t even met my drivers face to face yet – but I knew how this was going to play out. The drivers were by far the most challenging members of any racing team. They were the ego, the face of the company and the ones who put their lives on the line to race those rocket ships on four wheels around the track for our profit and amusement. They were vital members, but contrary to their overinflated opinion of themselves, they were not irreplaceable. Like all celebrities, Formula One drivers tended to get a bit big for their boots, and I wanted to swiftly nip any insubordination in the bud.
BIANCA: 8AM it is.
Good. I smirked, locking my phone and sliding it into my trouser pocket. I’d never worked with a female driver before, and now I had two of them to contend with. I didn’t plan on treating them any differently to the male drivers, and I hoped that strategy wouldn’t end up biting me in the arse at a later date.
I unlocked my car and climbed inside, heading out of the car park towards the new, rather expensive studio flat I now rented just a few miles away. I wanted to be close to the action at all times, and since my salary had received a healthy bump by agreeing to come to McLaren, I figured it was worth the outlay of funds.
I pinched the bridge of my nose, eyes stinging. I was exhausted. It had been a whirlwind couple of weeks and now thesecond half of the season was due to begin in a matter of days and I felt like I had so many things I needed to achieve in such a small space of time. I was stressed, but quietly confident. I had faith in my abilities and soon the rest of the McLaren team would too – I hoped.
By 7AM the next morning I was at my desk, breakfast muffin and superfood smoothie in hand. I ate swiftly, sifting through the mountain of paperwork that had been sorely neglected by Harold Warner before his termination. I could already feel the beginnings of a stress headache at the base of my neck, muscles bunching and burning. It was going to be a long day. I was so engrossed I barely heard the knock at my door.
“Come in,” I called, scrawling notes as I glanced back and forth between the papers.
“Mr Wright.”
I glanced up, surprised to see a disgruntled Bianca Rossi stood in the doorway. I turned my hand to check my wristwatch – 7:46AM.
“You’re early,” I said.
“Would you rather I be late?” she snapped.
Oh, yes. I had my work cut out with this one alright. I ignored her insolence and simply gestured to one of the two chairs I had laid out before my desk. The Italian closed the door behind her, making a show of sitting heavily. She whipped out her phone, her fingernails tapping loudly against the glass screen of the device. I felt a muscle twitch in my cheek.
Giving up all hope of being able to think clearly, I threw my pen down on the desk and sat back in my chair. Bianca kept herattention glued to her phone and I was able to quietly observe her.
Of course I had seen Miss Rossi thousands of times on TV, in magazines, even on promotional posters plastered all over the race tracks we attended, but she was startlingly beautiful in the flesh. I didn’t much care for her attitude, but I couldn’t deny she was rather pleasant to look at. If it wasn’t for my desire to remain professional and the hugely inappropriate age gap between us, I might have been tempted to admit she was my type. I cleared my throat, resisting a smirk when her dark eyes glanced up over the top of her phone.
“It’s nice to finally meet you. I’m sure formal introduction is not needed, but I will do so regardless – Kristian Wright.” I sat forward in my chair and held out my hand.
Bianca hesitated just long enough to get my blood pressure to rise a few points before dropping her phone into her lap and taking my hand, shaking it firmly.
“Bianca Rossi."
