‘Sure.’
‘Where are you at the moment?’ Sabatino asked.
‘London.’
‘Can we meet up this evening? Did you have any plans for dinner?’
Just before seven that evening Straker was waiting for Sabatino at a table in the London institution of Rules in Maiden Lane. She walked in on the dot of their appointed time. Several heads turned as she walked through the restaurant. She was wearing a stripy baggy shirt, skinny jeans, and close-fitting knee-length boots. No make-up. Straker was taken with her presence and suddenly hit by a phrase whose significance just dawned on him — that of someone being comfortable in their own skin. She seemed completely that. There was no invitation to “look at me”, but, at the same time, no self-consciousness either. Here was someone who lived at two hundred miles an hour — and was breaking new ground in a male-dominated sport. Having seen her dish it out to Van Der Vaal on the grid in Spa, Straker was engrossed, here, by how at ease and unassuming she was. Wasn’t this, he had to think, one of the best examples of someone leaving it all at the office?
He stood as she approached. Unexpectedly, she reached up and kissed him on both cheeks.
‘That was a fair bit of recognition,’ he offered indicating the attention she had attracted from parts of the room as they settled into a corner table.
She shrugged and grunted dismissively. ‘I dread becoming any kind of celebrity,’ she said. ‘No privacy. Cameras picking you off wherever you go. Still, I’ll have to win the Championship for that to be a real problem. I’ve got a long way to go — further still if Massarella keeps trying to trip me up.’
Despite Straker’s unease at not yet ridding the team of saboteur interference, he was glad the subject had come up so soon. It would allow him to clear the air. ‘Let me bring you up to date with where we are, then?’
‘Why don’t we order first?’
Straker was brought a glass of wine, while Sabatino took half a Guinness. With their privacy restored, Straker described the conclusions he’d drawn from the press coverage of Eugene Van Der Vaal, the problems with the injunction on Backhouse, the move away from Trifecta and, finally, the issue of the Fibonacci Blades.
‘That’s impressive work — particularly the decision to move away from Trifecta. Are we going with Valentines or Cohens?’
‘Treadwell’s not happy with any move, but would accept Cohens — at a push.’
Sabatino nodded her agreement. ‘Okay. And when do we get enough evidence to nail Van Der Vaal and Massarella?’
‘I’m working on a plan to do that right now.’
Yet again, Sabatino took Straker completely by surprise, particularly given her initial dismissal of his spy games. Moving her hand forward across the table, she placed it gently on his. She looked him in the eye and said: ‘An F1 team doesn’t have the ability to deal with this kind of sabotage bullshit. Without your efforts, I don’t know where I’d be — not on top of the Championship, that’s for sure. I’d more likely have been withdrawn — or suspended from driving — because of the danger. I want you to know I’m grateful, even if I seem impatient with our progress from time to time.’
Straker suddenly felt conflicted. He found himself relishing the physical contact with her, but he also wanted to pull back, for the sake of maintaining the professionalism of their relationship. He had responsibilities here, and did not want them to be any more complicated than they might already be.
THIRTY-TWO
In the gloriously old-fashioned surroundings of Rules — the cluttered walls with political caricatures by Gillray, prints from Vanity Fair, portraits of West End stars, naval vessels, mounted antlers — and its unashamedly English food, with dishes from seasonal game to bread-and-butter pudding, Straker and Sabatino talked on into the evening.
He felt there had been a mood change during their dinner — and their level of communication — undoubtedly triggered by the unexpected physical contact and personal gratitude earlier. Their new level of connection almost overwhelmed him.
Straker found himself drawn to her self-confidence. For all Sabatino’s shunning of the public recognition of her F1 achievements, her success was having an effect on her. It showed in her face. There was an energy there. A radiance. It was powerful. Her dark hair, dark eyes, olive-coloured skin, and her soft but worldly-sounding accent all seemed to sparkle. Was this effect on him, Straker wondered, some equivalence to the aphrodisiac of power?
Straker kept feeling his self-awareness pull him back — questioning how these developments would affect their working relationship. But as he listened to her talk — animatedly, with passion — her magnetism overrode it. He couldn’t prevent himself wallowing in the uninhibited moment with this striking and fascinating woman.
‘There’s something utterly spiritual about Monza,’ she told Straker as the conversation swung round to the next race on the calendar.
‘Why spiritual?’
‘A number of things. The heritage? There’s the no-longer-used Pista di Alta Velocità — the High Speed Circuit — the one with the old style banking. There are the inimitable Italian fans — the Tifosi — who create a unique atmosphere, except I’m really nervous about them. And then, of course, there’s the rawness of the speed?’
Straker frowned. ‘Hang on a minute, the Tifosi? Why are you nervous about the Tifosi?’
‘Because of these,’ she said cupping her breasts with her hands.
‘What?’
‘Italian motor racing is so male. I can only pollute their sport.’
Straker said without levity: ‘Speak to them like you talked to Van Der Vaal. You’d soon put them right.’
Sabatino laughed.
‘They like bravado,’ Straker went on. ‘If that’s a male thing, then you’ve got the female equivalent — what would that be, bravada? You’ll be hailed. That’s completely a non-issue. And what’s this you said about the rawness of the speed at Monza? Isn’t that the case at every circuit?’
‘Pretty much,’ she said taking another sip of Guinness, ‘but seventy per cent of Monza’s taken at full throttle — the highest proportion of any track, by a long way. Aerodynamically, we have to run a very low downforce set-up, to reduce the drag, but that decimates the grip. It makes the speed much more difficult to control — makes it very raw.’
‘And overtaking?’
‘Limited. Only real chance is into Turn One and the chicane — the Variante Della Roggia — Turns Four and Five.’
Straker smiled. ‘It does help that you’re Maltese to pronounce these fabulously Mediterranean names.’
‘Variante Della Roggia,’ she said again extravagantly, as if to make the point.
‘That definitely proves you’re sophisticated,’ said Straker with a nod. ‘But … the question is … are you as sophisticated with your music?’
Sabatino raised her eyebrows at the hefty change of direction. ‘If you mean Mediterranean music — opera — I’m afraid not.’
‘No, no — I was thinking more about music to feed your soul.’
‘Hip hop?’
‘What? No! Jazz!’
Sabatino pouted. ‘No, but then I’ve never been properly introduced.’
‘Excellent. There’s not a moment to lose.’ Straker caught the eye of a waiter and signalled for the bill. ‘Let me take you straight to the high altar.’
Sabatino made a face. ‘You want to take me to church?’
‘Almost. It’ll be my honour to introduce you to the hallowed ground that is … Ronnie Scott’s.’