3. JULES
JULES
LONDON
In contrast to my many ‘pack with me’ vlogs, the reality of packing is not a serene affair with a fresh Japanese garden-scented candle and clothes whimsically thrown in a case. My dressing room floor is coated with meticulously crafted outfits arranged in perfectly straight lines.
My assistant, Nyla, bustles in carrying thigh-high boots. ‘Are you sure you don’t want to bring these? Louis Vuitton are the Australian Grand Prix’s title sponsor.’
I shake my head, my hair threatening to spill free from its haphazard topknot. ‘Too NFL.’
Last year was about brash and All-American glam; now it’s understated luxury. Neutral tones and clean tailoring, blazers and strong silhouettes. Vintage Miu Miu, Chanel, and Hermès accessories.
‘Got it.’ She slips out.
It really is an obscene amount of stuff to bring for four days. Nevertheless, I get my stool, lay an old towel on top so my fresh tan doesn’t imprint anywhere, and start rolling up the clothes one by one. I’m going to get a hunchback in the name of seventy-two hours of bronzed perfection.
Nyla kneels beside me and does the same.
‘This is much more you, I think,’ she says softly. ‘The fashion, I mean.’
‘Me too. There’s only so much red and gold I can stomach.’
‘The bodycon dresses.’ Nyla makes a face.
‘The faux fur coats.’
‘The logos,’ she whispers, wide-eyed, like they might hear.
I make a retching sound as I zip my packing cube. ‘And so much Versace. I couldn’t put those red sneakers on Vinted fast enough.’
Nyla slots hers in the case beside mine. ‘Baseball’s leading the poll now.’ She slides me a sly smile, a funny look on someone who’s pure sweetness.
I purse my lips to hide my grin. ‘I wonder why that could be.’
We posted three photos on Instagram this week with stripy pieces of furniture in the background, and this morning Nyla shared my Spotify story showing Centerfield by John Fogerty, which is apparently a baseball anthem.
Despite getting tempting offers from Fifth Base, Coach, and Topps – even Levi’s dropped into my inbox yesterday – baseball doesn’t give me what I want.
It’s so trivial, all this Easter egg planting, but that doesn’t mean it’s not insanely fun. Even the tiniest, vaguest clues get pounced on. Sometimes they’re not even clues at all. An autumn leaf emoji I used last September apparently suggested this year’s pick was going to be British.
‘How many votes are we up to now?’ I ask, trying and failing to neatly fold a blazer.
She doesn’t need to consult her phone. ‘Eight-point-three million.’
I let out a low whistle. ‘How much is that up from last year?’
‘Last year it closed at five million, so currently 66%.’
Excellent.
They’ll get it the day after tomorrow when I land in Australia. Maybe even tomorrow if I get spotted heading to the airport gate. I should wear a Melbourne Demons cap to throw them off one last time.
‘How are you feeling about the flight?’ asks Nyla, rolling up my favourite Ala?a dress.
‘Fine. Obviously. We fly all the time.’
‘I know, but—’
‘I have fifty anti-bacterial wipes, my sleep mask, noise-cancelling headphones, and a thirty-hour playlist of pink noise. Don’t worry about me.’
‘It’s twenty-three hours, Jules, with one stop. You can’t sleep the whole—’
Changing the subject. ‘Let’s go over the schedule.’
I reach for my laptop and stretch my neck while it fires up. Nyla’s nervousness is radiating off her, but it’s my issue. I can take care of myself. I’ve been doing it for years.
‘We land mid-afternoon on Friday. We check into the hotel, freshen up, and then I have drinks with Minnie and her driver friends. A very useful session for intel since Tom’s teammate étienne should be there.’
Nyla nods along while she packs.
‘Saturday is content day,’ I plough on. ‘We’re going to Hozier Lane, the Botanic Gardens, Great Ocean Road, and the Lululemon store because they’ve asked me to post about their new leggings.
‘Saturday evening, we have Martinelli’s annual launch party, thanks to their sponsor Patrón who got in touch after the Fairmont Hairpin clue.’
Nyla grins. ‘Thank you ChatGPT.’
‘This will be my first official connection to F1, and the place where I’ll meet Tom. This year’s entire strategy hangs on this one event, so it needs to go perfectly.’
She smiles her affirmation. ‘Securing your man’s never been a problem before.’
This is true, but Tom not having social media’s giving me pause. He’s heard of me, right? What if he has a secret girlfriend? And what if—
I need to stop worrying about things I can’t control. I’ve done my due diligence and everything’s in place. Obviously he knows – all this guessing’s inescapable.
‘So you’re planning to hard launch him at Saudi Arabia in April?’ Nyla asks.
I put my laptop aside and kneel before my toiletries case.
‘Ideally. The relationship needs to last at least six months to make any significant gains and be believable. It’s crucial that I’m seen as an F1 personality and a figure in the paddock – not just some disposable influencer girly – or this will all be for nothing. The earlier the better.’
The weight of what I have to accomplish this year hangs heavy in the air. It’s thrilling, all these Easter eggs and schemes, and my singular growth strategy really does pay dividends – quantitative metrics, brand elevation, rate increase, event access, relevance, and, most importantly, longevity.
But it is getting a little old. Setting this up is crazy time consuming, only to attach myself to an odious man for months.
It’s all about the bigger picture, and that I can commit to.
‘On a different but not unrelated note, did you see Logan posted again?’ Nyla says.
My skin crawls at the mention of my last ex.
‘Urgh, yes.’ I reach for my entire rhode collection. Yes, I really do need all of them. ‘Why can’t he move on to a Victoria’s Secret model like the others and be grateful? He had an eighties mullet before he met me. Think of the dating pool now open to him.’
I’m trying to make light of it despite a great ball of lead sitting in my stomach, and enough alerts on his activity that I almost know what he’s going to post before he does.
‘Did you see his haiku?’ she adds.
‘I guess I should be glad he’s moved on from Bible passages.’
‘I don’t know.’ She makes a face. ‘He rhymed love with bruv. I think he’s trying to win you back by talking roadman.’
Give me strength. He’s whiter than paper. ‘He’s from Arizona.’
He never quite got the hang of a PR relationship, despite sliding into my DMs the second I started sprinkling NFL clues. He knew who I was and what I was doing, and yet somewhere between that DM and our second ‘date’, the words ‘I love you’ singed my ears.
My other exes saw me as nothing more than eye-candy; sponsor bait; an ego stroke; a sixth heterosexual member of Queer Eye.
Why didn’t he? My boundaries were as airtight as normal.
He was never invited to my house. He never met my friends.
I never showed him affection in private.
I never saw him outside of work events or content.
A small part of me feels bad – I never set out to hurt anybody.
But it’s not like any of this is covert.
There’s a viral poll, for Christ’s sake!
I know he’s been hit on the head a few times, but you’d think if he interrogated it a smidge, he’d realise there was nothing authentic about us.
I said so multiple times. Maybe he thought he’d John Tucker’d me, morphing me into a loyal, committed, warm, loving woman.
Hah.