𝗖𝝝𝗟𝗗 𝗦𝗣𝗜𝗡𝗘

𝗙𝗜𝗩𝗘

"Recording."

I pushed my freshly washed hair back, fingers nervously massaging my scalp in hopes of soothing myself somehow.

The bland white-walled room unfurnished, only a brown and very uncomfortable looking couch placed in the middle, small matching armchair stood opposite. 

Shuffling noises come from the two drivers struggling to seat themselves.

The armchair I was placed in, was not really comfortable either. My blue jeans roll against the rubbery material and the fuzzy grey knit sweater loads with electricity. Every now and then not holding back from sending shocks trough my body.

"Vivian are you ready?" The man behind the camera equipment snappy me back into the brown torture.

I look down to find the what once used to be a perfectly flat piece of paper, completely crumbled.

I don't have any reason to be nervous, yet here I sit with fidgety demeanor. Legs bouncing up and down, eyes glancing back and fourth at the memorized questions in case I'd forget. Of which, I've already, forgotten more than half.

"Yeah sorry. We can start." Straight into the lens. Showtime V, they're gonna put this on YouTube.

"Today we are doing a Q&A with the internets least asked questions about both our lovely Mercedes drivers." I take in the scenery. "Lewis, George!" They send a quick nod.  "You both look eager to get of this couch, so why don't we start?" The terrible attempt of lightening up the mood, only semi working.

"Never been more ready in my life!" I internally thank Lewis for matching my bad joke.

"Pull out the questions Vivian." The team-mate sits to his left.

"Alright first one. Marty from twitter wants to know 'how to not drive a car'."

"Interesting choice of words." George turns to his mentor, hoping he would be the one to take over.

"Marty I'll tell you what, do not ever drive off a cliff. They be coming out of nowhere nowadays, so always keep your eyes open on the road."

The uncomfortable look on my face, slowly replacing itself with a more genuine smile. "You heard it here first, thank you Mr. Hamilton I'm sure he will take that to heart. Next Lola wants to know 'Can the drivers water systems get filled up with sodas during the race'."

Georges head was quick to turn towards one of the staff members. "Wait, can they actually?"

"You're telling me all these years I could've been enjoying some Fanta during the race?" The 7 time world champion, baffled.

"Well internet, looks like these two haven't got a clue." My response made a few people around the room laugh. Confidence starting building the more I speak. Some questions were more, strange than others and some were so stupid, I doubted how anyone in the right mind could have come up with them.

"Now to wrap this up we've got one which was asked by some of our engineers. 'Have you ever peed in your race suit'." The disbelief on the guys faces was to die for.

"Out of everything they could've asked, THIS." I can swear I see the reflection of a tear form due to continuous laughter. The man next to him, suddenly all quiet, covering his face in his hands.

"I guess well never know!" I overlook the fact Lew turned all silent, trying my best to stay professional and not join with the crews loud cracks. "Thank you both for this incredible Q&A! Hopefully we'll get more of things we wish we never knew, in the future."

And with that last sentence the cameras shut off, and so does my one time interviewer performance. My shoulders visibly drop as I sink into the armchair, feeling a soft pat on top of my head.

"Not bad Vivi, you did well," Georges hand leaves my hair.

"Just for you guys, just for you," arms stretching forward before bumping Lewis outstretched first. Not mentioning how this interview really was the only reason I had to come to Baku on short notice.

"Not bad for your first time. Maybe we could do this again, definitely more fun with you than that other guy," my eyes widened in thought of having to do this again.

"No chance, I'm better off behind the cam."

__________

Good.

Just good and nothing else. It's good enough, is what they say. It's not nearly perfect, is what they mean. Covering up my failure inside a plastic wrap like a sweet little piece of candy. Not bothering to look you in the eyes while you unwrap the stabbing spheres shooting right at you and your hard work.

It's not enough, is what they think. It's not even worth looking over, what goes trough their heads when they fly over my work. Not bothering to serve their opinion on a silver platter when they trow their critique right in front of your shoes.

"We have informed him of your current performance."

The rough voice of my headmistress echoes inside my head. Picturing her dry stare and wrinkly forehead. I think back to the time my father called University. Demanded they'd tell him everything about my lecture skipping and falling asleep in classes, not to mention scores.

I try not tho think back to the time my father took me out to dinner. How he had embarrassed me in front of the whole restaurant, raising his voice like a maniac so I'd explain why I wasn't meeting his expectations. How I could dare not to.

"I would say I expected better, but you have more than once proven such thing could never come from you."

Maybe It was dizziness. But when my heart had started to ache and my chest had begun to sting, I knew it could only be one thing. Weakness.

"Definitely not perfect, but it's... good."

My neck stabilizes, heavy head lifting the baggage I carry around since the day it was strapped to my body. Big metal chains wrapped around my exterior for no other purpose but to torture me with every so little step I take.

"Iron deficiency again?"

My eyelids feather open, but my vision remains hazy.

"No, no just the flight. It was a bit, exhausting." I dodge her question.

"Just make sure to take your tablets. Can't have you faint at the paddock, bad press." My mouth tries to lift it's corners. "Like I said we will use the video nonetheless, just try not to talk to much next time. The people want to get to know the drivers, not you."

My bosses eyes lock with mine for the first time. I barely remember how long I've been sat inside her office, but I certainly don't recall her telling me I'd be doing this again. That one's new.

"What do you mean next time?"

"You'll be the new interviewer for our socials."

"I'm not a journalist Ramona. I am a media manager." I continue talking, sick of having to wait for something to come out of her mouth. " I can't do both."

"Which is why you won't,"  her voice raises, quieting the small room after that unexpected reaction. "We are dealing with a bit of trouble at the moment, you will be doing that until we fix things up."

Trouble?

"The interview will be out of on Sunday."