THE DRIVER’S WIFE
The frenemy in my kitchen
If someone crosses me they are on the blacklist and that’s where they stay. Life’s too short to forgive, my vovò always says. So tell me, why is the-team-boss-who-shan’t-be-named (let’s just call him ‘TTBWSBN ‘) sitting in my kitchen right now? The man whose face is on Amor’s boxing punch bag and whose very presence triggers that skin rash I haven’t had since childhood.
Technically, let him in but that wasn’t entirely my fault as 1) he was camouflaged behind a massive bouquet of my favourite lilies; and 2) he was smiling.
There can’t be an F1 fan in the world who doesn’t remember the explosive end to TTBWSBN and Amor’s relationship this time last year. The images of TTBWSBN jabbing his finger at Amor’s visor, then his face twisted in pain as Amor accelerated over his foot. I’ve still got that as my screensaver if you need a reminder…
Every sports correspondent got an ‘exclusive’ with TTBWSBN about Amor’s disappointing performance, lack of loyalty, overdue retirement and how the team’s future would be way more successful due to his new pre-teen signing. Throughout the weeks of bad press, big lawyers bills, and baldness (Not me! God, no! Amor’s manager!), Amor remained stoically silent (me less so, if you listen to the lyrics on track three of my album) because we’d broken free and signed with the best team.
Then the best team became good but a bit unlucky, then always unlucky, then boom! Suddenly midfield. And TTBWSBN’s new interest, ‘the next big thing’ hit puberty, grew to be almost two uncoordinated metres tall and kept shunting at the start.
TTBWSBN’s charm offensives are legendary and unstoppable. Because he does his research, he knows you can’t think straight if he’s got a bag of your favourite chocolate truffles that are available only from AnaLuiza’s in São Paolo. Or the limited edition Patek Philippe Amor’s been eyeing. Or, hopefully, keys to the team’s new prototype supercar.
When Amor got back from his cycle ride to find the handmade Italian loafers neatly lined up at the front door, I was expecting fury. But he walked calmly to his desk, pulled a list out of a drawer and disappeared into the kitchen. And that was hours ago.
I suspect things will be resolved F1 style: no sensible burying of the hatchet and co-operation for the sake of the team. No. They’ll come out as BFFs and we’ll spend the weekend at a happy reunion somewhere claustrophobic like TTBWSBN’s boat. I’d better dig out Amor’s loafers. God bless you and even him – so long as he’s accepted all of Amor’s contractual conditions.