You loved it when the British GP, his home race, came because it gave you a free chance to spend some time with your boyfriend in this god-awful cold country. How it was just barely 5 degrees in the middle of summer was beside you, your body was freezing, not used to the English chill, more accommodated to Mediterranean warmth. You and him were strolling through Silverstone in a small park, you wearing his jacket after he saw you shivering and, despite your protests, made you wear it. You walked along a small lake, beside him, fingers interlaced. To the side were a small group of people walking rather eagerly towards you. You hear him sigh beside you, pulling up your hood and tugging gently on your hand to lead you to the side, behind a broad willow tree hanging low over the water. He put his fingers on your mouth to keep you silent, so you wouldn't move or make a noise to draw attention as the group walked past

"Damn press. They're desperate to know who you are after that small leaked picture from Melbourne. Next thing I know we're being followed and photographed everywhere from Japan to Monaco and here...."