THE DRIVER’S WIFE

Keep an eye on his a*$e!

F1 Racing - - IN­SIDER -

I’m of­ten asked, “Adri, how do you man­age the de­mands of the in­ter­na­tional fash­ion cir­cuit and the For­mula 1 World Cham­pi­onship?” Well, it’s the age-old ques­tion: how do two global icons fit into one re­la­tion­ship?

I usu­ally tend to re­ply with an enig­matic smile, be­cause no one ever re­ally wants to hear me bitch about Amor’s sched­ule and all those end­less early nights. But last night, when I was he­li­copter­ing back into Monaco, I sud­denly came up with the an­swer. It’s like Amor and For­mula 1 are the Prin­ci­pal­ity and Me and Fash­ion are France. Each has its own boundaries and its own rules… Amor’s in charge of his lit­tle por­tion – and I’m in charge of the rest.

Take race week­ends for ex­am­ple: that’s Amor’s time. He gets pri­or­ity. It’s all about him. He gets what he wants, when he wants it. I am first and fore­most the loyal, sup­port­ive Driver’s Wife. But from mid­night on the Sun­day, the next ten days are my time. Mine. Amor is not the con­tender for the world cham­pi­onship, but du­ti­ful hus­band to a su­per­model and fu­ture ac­tivist for a (to be de­cided) African or South Amer­i­can kids’ char­ity. He looks cool in the front row of Fash­ion Week, tweets about my new un­der­wear line and ap­plies my spray tan.

At home, we both have our own clear space. Amor has the garage: hel­mets, tro­phies – any­thing brightly coloured and cov­ered in lo­gos be­longs in the garage. I have the apart­ment. Oh, don’t get me wrong, once Amor is fully de­branded and stylishly neu­tral he can come in­side – so, you see, our worlds are clearly de­fined. Well, un­til this sea­son.

It all started af­ter a pre-sea­son test. He stomped into the kitchen mut­ter­ing about KERS and ERS and started throw­ing away ev­ery­thing that wasn’t fruit or veg­etable. Overnight he’s the world’s fore­most ex­pert on calo­ries – and ev­ery­one’s un­wanted calo­rie counter. Meals with him are now as much fun as a team fac­tory tour, watch­ing him chew on a bowl of un­dressed grated car­rot with a su­pe­rior scowl, be­fore he heads off to swear at my bath­room scales. Last week I caught him cut­ting the lin­ing out of his rac­ing gloves and try­ing to weigh the lit­tle rem­nants. What’s next? Driv­ing com­mando?

Hello! Boundaries! Starv­ing him­self (and the se­cret late-night binges on Nutella he thinks I don’t know about). Is this not a clear over­step­ping of the line? My line?

If it was only the fussy-eat­ing teen-model be­hav­iour then I could cope, but his get­ting su­per-skinny is creat­ing a ma­jor prob­lem. For noth­ing will ruin a mar­riage faster than the hus­band hav­ing the smaller arse.

God bless who­ever gets Amor to eat a burger. Bei­jos, Adri­ana

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