‘Whoa, paranoia alert!’
‘I beg your pardon?’ she said sharply.
Straker paused, slightly taken aback by her apparent mood change. ‘You’re successful in a competitive environment,’ he explained. ‘They wouldn’t be successful competitors if they didn’t envy and resent someone beating them. Of course they’re not going to like you — you’re winning. Exactly the same dynamic would surround you if you were a man.’
‘But I haven’t been winning till now. It hasn’t been resentment of any success. They’ve behaved like that ever since I started.’
‘Of course they have,’ he said almost unsympathetically. ‘Just being part of the F1 circus means success — that you’ve arrived. You’re all threats to each other at that rarefied level. Maybe your suspicion of chauvinism induces in you an awkwardness of manner. Maybe you behave with defensive offence when you’re with them?’
‘Fuck off!’
Straker leaned back in his chair and sighed: ‘Q? … E? … D?’
‘Fuck you!’
There was an awkward — deathly — silence at the table.
Crap, he thought to himself.
Whatever hopes he might have had of setting up a working relationship with this woman now seemed to be shot. Straker cursed inwardly. He hadn’t needed to say so much; he hadn’t needed to goad her. He looked down and rearranged the napkin in his lap. When he raised his eyes after a few moments’ silence, though, he was once again taken completely by surprise. Sabatino was looking at him with a radiant glint in her eye.
‘Not at all,’ she said, her smile lingering. ‘The men in Formula One imply they have big penises. That only a man can do what they do. Maybe a woman doing it proves it’s not quite so manly as they’d like everyone to believe it is. Trouble, though,’ she said slightly defiantly, ‘is I know what a big penis should look like. I know how to measure one.’
Straker smiled, but was not completely sure whether she was being literal or not.
‘Whatever the real reason,’ she said, ‘these boys seem to have to declare themselves whenever I’m around — well, that’s how it seems to me.’
They were interrupted by their waiter introducing himself, explaining the specials, and taking their order for drinks. They asked for two Kir Royales. Reassured that the mood between them might have been restored, Straker looked to change the subject. ‘How did you get into all this, anyway?’ he asked as bread and olive oil was placed between them.
‘F1? Slowly, then quickly.’
Straker offered Sabatino the basket. ‘Sorry?’
She took a piece of bread and dunked it in the oil. ‘Antonio, my elder brother — back in Malta — was a petrolhead. A car nut. Spent his entire childhood dying to get a drive in a go-kart. He stripped down cars, reconditioned parts, tuned up engines. He’d do hundreds of them to earn pocket money from a local garage. The owner’s son raced go-karts, you see. But the son was crap — constantly crashing and damaging everything. Antonio earned pocket money — and brownie points — fixing up his engines and parts. As a treat, every now and again, the garage people would take him to the track, just outside Valletta. He hoped that, one day, they might give him a drive. They never did. Even so, Antonio would still enjoy going to watch.’
The waiter returned with their drinks. They ordered their food.
‘One Saturday when I was about sixteen, Antonio asked me to go with him to the track. I went and loved it, you know? The whole scene — the noise, the smell of heat, exhaust, oil and rubber. But particularly the speed.’
‘You had no interest in anything mechanical up until then?’
Sabatino shook her head. ‘Ponies. Didn’t have my own, but was completely obsessed. Used to do the same sort of chores as Antonio, but my hangout was the local riding stables. While he was fixing up parts from the rich boy’s mistakes, to get my rides I’d be shovelling shit and grooming. Mother wasn’t rich enough to buy us our fun — we had to earn it for ourselves.’
‘How did you get to drive, then?’
Sabatino smiled wistfully. ‘The garage boy fancied me. He kept asking me back — to watch him race. Suddenly, to Antonio, I was a little sister with currency. It looked like I’d be guaranteeing him a lot more tickets for race days. Anyway, over time, I got familiar with the scene. While standing around for hours, I started watching. I found myself wanting to understand why some karts were faster than others and, then, why some drivers were faster than others in similar machines. Without realizing it, I seemed to know how to read a track — and the dynamics of racing.’
‘Very analytical.’
‘Maybe, but it got me into serious trouble. After one race, I stupidly pointed out that the rich kid had been beaten by slower drivers and slower karts. Then I told him why. It was like kicking him in the balls. In a tantrum, he said: “Well if you think you’re so fucking good, you do it!”’
‘You did — and the rest is history?’ offered Straker as a denouement.
Sabatino took a sip of her Kir Royale, and shook her head. ‘Never so easy. I did drive — in the last race that day. But only as a laugh. I got bumped, overtaken, baulked — all sorts. There was something there, though. Definitely. The race was only ten laps, and I was only steady for the last three. But it gave me enough time to try out my observations — about line, timing, acceleration, braking and car control. And, bizarrely, in those last ninety seconds, I found a rhythm.’
‘Which meant you displaced the rich kid and took his drive?’
Sabatino shook her head. ‘The only displacement was me as the rich guy’s girlfriend. He was so pissed off because I’d managed to clock a faster lap time than he ever had.’
‘Within your first ten laps ever?’
‘Amazing, huh? But me falling out with the boyfriend triggered a falling-out with my brother — because I had been given a drive in a kart and he never had.’
‘All that pique from your brother and the so-called boyfriend.’
‘Yep, all because of wounded pride and jealousy. It was harsh, but, as an experience, a great foundation.’
‘For what?’
‘Being a female doing something at the same time as a man. I realized that, for me, if I was ever to do anything in motor racing — or life, probably — I’d have to learn to cope with an additional set of dynamics.’
‘Don’t tell me — chauvinism?’
Sabatino scowled at him.
‘What did you learn then?’ asked Straker moderating his tone enough, he hoped, to prevent another “fuck you”.
Their food arrived and was placed reverentially in front of them by two waiters.
‘Certain things,’ she said. ‘I came up with one overarching mantra.’
‘Which was?’
‘To stay me.’
‘Very deep.’
‘It is,’ she rebuked. ‘The temptation was to become male — or masculine. To be one of them. To be what they want. I resolved very early on not to do that.’
‘Not even if that helped you to understand them — or how to beat them?’
‘Think like them, yes. But not be like them, no. That would never work. I could never be them. Trying to be them would only make me phoney.’
‘If staying you was your main mantra, what others did you come up with?’
‘Only my Machiavellian killer app!’
‘What’s that?’
‘To treat people — particularly egotistical men — not as they are … but as they think they are.’