Driven (42 page)

S
abatino breathed deeply. Two more laps. Less than six miles. Could she really
be
it? Was she
really
about to be World Champion?

Only two laps to go.

Then one lap to go.

Could she hold this together?

Sabatino forced herself to concentrate on the road, and on making no mistakes.

She crossed the finish line once again. This was it, now – the last lap.

She tried not to think about it. Less than three miles to run.

After the twenty rounds of Grands Prix this year – the hundreds of laps – the pressure – the distances flown – all the sabotage bollocks from Massarella. Was it all about to pay off?

Round Turn Five.

Through the succession of corners through Six to Twelve.

Keep it on the road.
Keep
it on the road.

S
he didn’t know what had happened until she’d rounded Junção, Turn Twelve.

She wasn’t told immediately.

Up ahead, on the outside of Turn Thirteen, she could see a yellow flag being waved. An obstacle of some kind. Something blocking the circuit.

What could it be?

Who
could it be?

She rounded Turn Fourteen – and saw the reason. There was a Ferrari on the inside of the track. Stationary. A Ferrari. But whose?

Wasn’t that the race leader?

‘Andy, Andy? What’s happened to the race leader?’

Sabatino knew instantly from Backhouse’s tone. ‘Looks like he’s out – we think he’s run out of fuel, half a lap from the finish.’

‘So I’m third? P3?’

‘Yep.’

‘That’s good, isn’t it?’

There was an ominous pause on the radio.

‘
That’s good, isn’t it?
’ she repeated.

Sabatino screamed into the end of the start/finish straight.

Up ahead, the chequered flag was being waved. The race was over. Hadn’t she won the Championship?

Why wasn’t the radio going mad?

‘What’s wrong?’ she called. ‘Aston wins. I’m P3?’

‘Correct.’

There was silence over the air.

‘Oh no! NO! Fucking
no
!’

‘Afraid so.’

‘Aston wins – ten points – to my six?’

‘
Remy
…’

‘I’ve missed it by one point? One fucking point.’

Sabatino screamed to herself in the cockpit. ‘All that way,
all
that success. And we miss it by …
one … fucking … point
.’

S
abatino ambled round the circuit on her in-lap. Her frustration was stratospheric. One point. That was all. She thought about what might have been – had the saboteur not destroyed her Qualifying run in Spa, had she not taken Luciano off in Monza, had she not flat spotted the front right in China causing that unscheduled pit stop, had she not lost her gearbox here in Brazil. An absence of any one of those incidents could have given her the damn title. How could she have come so tantalizingly close? As a thwarted competitor, her instinctive soul-searching was now starting in earnest.

But all that was about to be blown away.

It started as soon as she came to a stop.

She heard it the moment her engine powered down.

There was cheering. Triumphal cheering.

Sabatino pulled the steering wheel towards her, removed it, and climbed out of her car.

As she straightened up, and looked around, there was an immediate disconnect. All that cheering was focused on her – and not just from her own team. From everyone, everywhere.

Sabatino scanned the other cars and drivers in Parc Fermé.

What?

Aston’s Lambourn wasn’t even there.

It took some time to sink in. This adulation was for
her
. It was Sabatino who was being hailed. Film crews appeared and trained their cameras on her. Even when Aston’s Lambourn eventually pulled in, the attention stayed on her.

This was weird.

In a breach of all press protocols, a female TV presenter scrambled over the barriers and came charging over, thrusting a microphone towards her. Sabatino hadn’t taken off her helmet yet – and wouldn’t
until she’d weighed in – but she still managed to catch some of the questions yelled at her over the noise of the crowd.

‘What does it feel like to be the most successful woman driver
ever
?’

Another journalist appeared.

‘How does it feel, as a woman, to have come that close to winning the World Championship?’

Whether she wanted it or not, Sabatino was being dragged out of her post-result sulk. She couldn’t believe it. These people – the TV, the press, the crowds – were projecting an entirely different outcome of the race – the season, even – from her own interpretation.

They were not saying: “You’ve been beaten”, “You came second”.

They were not commenting on the result at all.

T
his realization hit her even harder when she stepped out onto the podium. From two storeys up above the track, it offered her an extraordinary view. She looked out on a sea of faces stretching off for hundreds of yards up and down the Interlagos pit straight in each direction. It seemed as if every spectator from all round the circuit had congregated below. Even at that distance she couldn’t fail to get the message – it really couldn’t take long for it to dawn on her fully.

Paddy Aston may have won the race, and snuck the Championship from her at the very last minute, but the predominant colour over the heads of this massive Brazilian crowd was a clear surprise.

It was turquoise.

Turquoise!

For
her
.

Any vestige of doubt was then dispelled completely, as the crowd began a rhythmic chant: ‘
Re
my,
Re
my.’

She was given no chance to dwell on what might have been in this race or the Championship. This acclamation snapped her right out of that.

Sabatino’s standing in the sport was being hailed – unmistakably.

Moving to the front of the podium, she registered her appreciation
of the moment. She beamed a large smile – and gave the crowds a two-handed wave. A crescendo of support came back in return.

Paddy Aston, trying to revel in his triumph having achieved the pinnacle of any motor racing career, couldn’t miss the centre of gravity of this crowd. Not only that, he was aware of the iniquitous – even life-threatening – interference his principal rival had suffered during the season. He couldn’t – and wouldn’t – deny he had benefited unwittingly from Sabatino’s misfortune. Technically, with his tally of points, he was unquestionably this year’s winner but there was a part of him – articulated by the mood of this crowd – that felt his standing, even legitimacy, as World Champion was suspect.

Realizing these factors, Aston walked across the podium to Sabatino, offered his hand, and then raised their hands together above their heads. Aston shared the remaining moments of his triumph with an arm across her shoulders. He made her feel just as much a champion.

Perhaps, somewhere in the crowd, Dr Chen was watching and shaking his head, again, at his continued incomprehension of the English.

A
fter the race, Quartano and Straker were hosting Quartech’s and Mandarin Telecom’s guests within the Ptarmigan hospitality area in the paddock.

The room was crammed with people. Straker was able to catch glimpses of Quartano as he worked the room, introducing himself, introducing others, clearly buzzing with the possibilities of each conversation, each new relationship.

Straker gravitated towards Nazar, Backhouse and Treadwell – keen to enjoy their moment of triumph at the end of a remarkable season. To be Constructors’ Champion, when, a year earlier, the team had been in the hands of the receiver, was an achievement worthy of some celebration.

H
aving witnessed Quartano’s engagement with their guests, Straker was surprised the tycoon soon came looking for him. ‘Matt,’ he said
turning gently away as a cue for Straker to follow him. In a relatively quiet hole in the throng, he said: ‘Well done – truly. Another
outstanding
assignment. Without identifying, purging and eliminating the saboteur threat, Ptarmigan wouldn’t be Constructors’ Champion – and Remy wouldn’t be such a phenomenon. Worse,’ he said with a gesture around him, ‘we’d have lost this relationship with the Chinese. Three organizations here are looking to put a payload into space in the next six months, and I’m having the conversations. None of this breakthrough with the Chinese would be happening without your fiendish coup,’ he said and looked Straker directly in the eye to reinforce his compliment.

Straker was not sure what to say.

‘You saved this contract. And it’s turned out to be an even bigger opportunity than I hoped,’ added Quartano with a smile. ‘Ptarmigan’s new relationship is a case study in the extraordinary value of sponsorship’s “convening power”. This tie-up with Mandarin has
already
created opportunities I would have to price in the billions of dollars.’

‘Great news,’ agreed Straker.

‘It is,’ said Quartano instantly sounding serious, ‘which is why I need you – by Friday at the latest – at our satellite launch site in French Guiana. Something troubling has been going on in the Quartech space programme, and I need you there to investigate it. In the meantime, well done with all this,’ he said patting Straker on the shoulder before breaking off to interact with more of his guests.

T
he reception erupted when the Ptarmigan drivers appeared. Having been doused in champagne up on the podium, Sabatino had showered to wash the fizz out of her nut-brown hair and changed into one of her clean turquoise racing suits; now, she barely showed any sign of having been through a gruelling and emotionally draining last two hours.

She was fêted, and gushed at, as she made her way around all of the room, saying hello to everyone.

After a while she made her way into the Ptarmigan team gaggle where there was much hugging and emotion at the outcome of the season.

Sabatino soon spotted Straker watching her discreetly from a distance. She broke away to approach him.

He leant down to kiss her gently on the cheek. ‘Well done. I’m sorry you didn’t clinch it this time. One point, eh?’

She almost dismissed the condolence. Sabatino seemed to be buzzing. ‘I was
that
ready to go into the mother of all sulks,’ she said, ‘but how could I now? Did you
see
the crowds? The result of the race – or even the Championship – didn’t seem to matter to them, at all. This woman thing – and my status as some sort of “hero” – has completely hijacked the competition story.’

They both took a fresh flute of champagne offered by a waitress.

‘I’m mighty relieved you
did
get that big a reception,’ he said with a confessional smile and a chink of her glass. ‘The team and I could have made a case to persuade you to see the scale of your achievement this year, but you would undoubtedly have ignored us all. Not even you, though, can dismiss the views of two hundred thousand Brazilian fans. At only twenty-two, you’ve got ages to clinch the title many times, yet.’

Sabatino looked up into his eyes and smiled gratefully at his understanding. ‘If I’m being rational,’ she said, ‘I have no reason not to be upbeat: Ptarmigan is easily the best team, with – thanks to Mandarin Telecom – the biggest backing the sport has ever known. From an earnings potential, I own the media gold mine of being the only woman in the malest of sports. Double the usual TV audience tuned in to watch the first woman,
me
, try and win the Championship today? 800 million people! What could that be worth when I do win?’ she asked. ‘I know I shouldn’t get hung up about one point, really!’

‘Oh, you should
always
get hung up on one point,’ he admonished firmly, ‘otherwise you wouldn’t be a competitor. But … you should never let professional disappointment threaten your next step forward.’

Sabatino nodded emphatically. ‘And I
am
looking forward, I am. But then – because of today’s reaction – I get hung up about that too.’

Straker looked mildly disapproving.

‘I can’t help thinking that this whole “hero” thing, and my gold mine, makes me more vulnerable than ever – when I think of Van Der Vaal’s chauvinism.’

Straker was surprised how seriously she said this. He shook his head. ‘You should be sabotage-free, at least while Van Der Vaal’s in exile. Unless by some miracle he wins his appeal, I suppose.’

‘After all that’s happened, and has been written about me,’ she said with a shake of her head, ‘I can’t get away from the feeling that some people won’t like it: a celebrated woman in masculine Formula One? Standing to make a fortune? I dread the resentment it might create. At least say you’ll be there for my first race next season – just in case?’

Straker smiled trying to conceal his surprise. ‘When and where’s that?’

‘Melbourne, first weekend in April.’

Straker nodded and chinked her glass. ‘Of course I’ll be there.’

She smiled back, looking as if she was actually relieved. After taking a big gulp of champagne, she asked: ‘So what’s next for you, now?’

‘I wasn’t sure – until a few minutes ago. DQ’s just asked me to go to French Guiana and look into an incident on the Quartech space programme.’

‘Wow, that’s different.’

‘Certainly is.’

‘When do you go?’

‘Friday.’

‘You going home between times?’

‘Haven’t thought about it yet. I don’t think French Guiana’s that far from here, actually – just over Brazil’s northern border, isn’t it? Home would be a long way to go before flying straight back again.’

‘Mm,’ she said looking intently up into his eyes. ‘How about we stay local and I keep you company?’

‘Sounds like fun,’ he said unable to stop himself smiling at the idea. ‘What d’you have in mind?’

With a flash of her dark brown eyes she looked up into his and asked: ‘Ever been to Rio?’

The End