THE DRIVER’S WIFE
Toeing the party line
Which should be reason to celebrate. One of the toughest things a driver’s wife has to face is the practically nonexistent social life. I bet you think our life is all glamorous galas, VIP parties, and exclusive cocktails on superyachts? Well, so did I! But drivers should come with a big “No Fun” forehead tattoo, so girls are fully warned.
Basically Amor is always in training – pre-season, mid-season, pre-next season… He never wants a drink, or a late night, or to go out where someone might be smoking. Whereas I only really come alive after dark, on a red carpet, twerking in my Louboutins. Amor is the greatest guy, but he’s also the only driver who doesn’t understand the obligation of going out on the Sunday of the Monaco GP, when the entire COUNTRY is partying.
But when the invitation arrived for Amor’s team-mate’s birthday bash, he just couldn’t say no. Not because we are neighbours in Monaco and he’d know we were lying about being out since our lights were on, but because of all the media furore about their on-track fighting, end-of-a-friendship, daggers-atdawn stuff. The decision to accept wasn’t even Amor’s, I think his manager RSVPed before the invitation reached our letterbox.
So Amor and I were go to a party mid-season! I might have got a little over-excited. I co-designed a black full-length fan-tailed gown for the arrival, and a red sequinned backless mini dress for after the aperitifs. Then an hour before we were due to leave, Amor announced there was a Flintstones theme, grabbed one of my fur gilets and told me he’d wait for me in the car.
Perhaps it was because we arrived two hours late, but there was no red carpet, no photographers and no security. Some woman accosted me with a bone necklace to ‘get into the spirit of things’ and nearly ended up with a bone enema. Then two sickly purple cocktails later I spotted Amor on the dancefloor, red, sweaty and shirtless under my gilet. Before I could send someone to retrieve him, he was rounded up by six other underdressed and rhythmically-challenged drivers into a bouncing rugby scrum.
It was like a flashback to my 14th birthday party. I’m sure I saw someone vomit in a pot plant.
A quarter of an hour later, Amor was passed out face-down on a leather banquette and I had to have him carried to a taxi. I never even changed into my second outfit.
So as I sit here with my green tea while Amor snores on the bathroom floor, I’ve had a revelation. It’s for the best he doesn’t go out. He was the serious sporty teenager who missed out on drunken binges, bad dancing and inappropriate behaviour. And if he missed it at 17, it’s certainly not worth starting it now!