The guy was young, late twenties, blond, well-built, wearing a blue yachting blazer, and sitting at one of the most coveted tables, as close to the track as the restaurant could manage. The girl beside him was tall, brown-haired, and gold-skinned. She was maybe twenty-one or twenty-two, with a Spanish look about her. Her fingers poked through the chain-link fence.
A very pretty girl, exceptionally pretty even for young Eurotrash, so I raised my camera and started taking photos.
Using a fairly slow shutter speed, I was looking for a shot where she would be in focus, but the McLarens or Jordans passing a few feet in front of her would be a blur. The Saturday pre-qualifying practice session isn't good for much except picking up these local colour shots.
The girl saw me taking her picture. I zoomed in a little on her and she pouted outrageously and looked surprised. I took a few more pictures, zooming in further so that the cars were pretty much cut out of the frame. She squirmed and wriggled and showed me a full range of facial expressions. Why are you taking my photo? Oh, I feel shy. Surely you don't think I'm so pretty? Oh, you do. Now I'm embarrassed. Now I'm angry. But I forgive you. Here's my smile. She was as comfortable with a camera as that.
Stirling Moss would wave to pretty girls in pink lipstick as he controlled a four-wheel drift out of Casino Square. The four-wheel drift of Stirling Moss was a move that even Fangio envied. The lateral momentum of the car kept it from contact with the barriers not with the brake, but with the accelerator. A beautiful thing. The wheel turned in opposite lock, turned against the corner's natural direction. To drive a car that fast in that way seems to be unnatural.
The girl's blond boyfriend saw the direction my camera was pointed, and he smiled too. He liked me taking photos of his girlfriend because that's what she was there for, and that's why he was sitting at Rascasse. He put down his wine glass -- not champagne, I noticed blankly -- and reached up to his girlfriend's white shirt. With an easy motion, his popped two of the buttons and tugged the shirt open, and a single tanned breast appeared.
I was momentarily flustered. Now I've really got a photo -- flustered like that. I wondered if anyone else had noticed the girl's exposed breast and zoomed out the lens again, willing a car to pop into the frame.
Come on, I prayed. I need a car for this. I don't care who's driving it: for this girl, I need a streak of car in the frame.
But none appeared. Not even a lame Prost, not even a limping Minardi. The track was quiet and the pit-lane full.
Don't cover up, I prayed.
She didn't. Instead, without so much as a glance at her boyfriend, who was now looking up at her with quizzical amusement, the girl pulled open the other side of her shirt. Now with both her breasts fully exposed, she tilted her head provocatively and continued to gaze straight at my camera.
Not having much choice, I took a couple of shots of her and the empty road. But it was as good as useless next to the photo it could be.
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