6. JULES
JULES
‘I’m here at the Martinelli Season Launch Party,’ I say to my iPhone, continuing the ‘Come to Australia with Me’ vlog I started at Heathrow. ‘I was kindly invited by Patrón who are sponsoring the event.
I’m not exaggerating. The way it looks on TV doesn’t do it justice.
I’m on the grid, a sprawling stretch of tarmac surrounded by empty stands and hospitality units.
I can’t imagine what it’ll be like tomorrow on race day.
There’s a faint hum of excitement now and the only people here are scant influencers filming content like me.
I’m wearing Rachel Gilbert, a talented local designer who’s been a mainstay of my Pinterest boards for years. My gown is floor-length, dark green, and dripping in drama. I feel like a Bond girl. Honestly, playing dress-up’s the only reason this introvert can stomach evenings like this.
‘I’m giving you guys a behind-the-scenes look at the event, so let’s go!’ I round off and cut.
Nyla switches off the ring light as I shake out my arm.
‘How’s the battery?’ she asks.
‘All good. Let’s get some food before the drivers come in.’
Nyla packs up her bag and we head back into the party.
The hospitality lounge is rapidly filling with F1 royalty, celebrities, sportsmen, and more influencers.
This team doesn’t do things by halves. There are top DJs, art installations, a step-and-repeat area, and fire spurting from both sides of the track.
They even have lighting assistants running around with LED wands for content creation. Can all events be like this please?
‘I’m loving your hijab tonight,’ I say as I pick the leanest canapé off a passing platter.
Nyla touches it shyly. ‘Thank you.’
‘Not many people can pull off burnt orange, but you can.’
‘Well, Leone is Martinelli’s development team and I felt like they wouldn’t get much love tonight, even though the party’s for them too.’
‘They need all the support they can get.’
‘I thought so.’
Qualifying was a painful watch, and I’m not even a Leone fan. Their rookie driver crashed out on his second lap. Their other driver didn’t have the pace to make it out of Q1, and starts tomorrow in eighteenth place.
Time to focus on tonight. Tom’s contracted to be here (thank you Minnie for the intel) so this is my best chance to meet him. It’s so handy our sponsorships lined up so we could be in the same place at the same time. What are the chances?
Nyla comes back with my two drinks – one margarita for show, and one soda and lime for drinking. ‘I just saw étienne Blanchet. The drivers are here,’ she whispers close to my ear.
My stomach drops. Shit. Ok. Fuck.
I skim the crowd and land on Leone’s Tiago Cabrera – Mr P18 – telling a story that has the crowd of corporate men around him in hysterics.
He’s the prettiest of pretty boys with a smile that could charm even Minnie at the height of her no men phase, and eyelashes I can see from here.
His dark hair’s textured like he doesn’t spend too long styling it but still likes to look sharp.
His suit is utterly impeccable, perfectly tailored, designer cut, and black as night. I bet he smells divine.
He’s trouble. Even if I hadn’t heard the stories – the threesomes, the belly dancers, the OnlyFans models, the Princess of Bahrain – I’d know that from one glance alone.
There’s a man standing near him who looks like he could be his brother. The same cheekbones and tanned skin, but with long hair slicked back in a bun, a well-kept beard, and a sleeve of tattoos poking out from his similarly impeccable suit jacket. What genes.
And behind them: Tom Webber.
My heart skips a beat, more from exhilaration than attraction.
He’s attractive, of course he is, with a tall frame, clean-shaven face, and suit too loose for him.
His strawberry blond hair needs a trim, and why is his whole outfit brown, even down to his shoes?
You’d think with all his millions he could afford a stylist. I guess it gives me more to work with.
He has a quieter presence than Tiago, speaking closely with two people. He gives off uncomplicated confidence, the kind that comes from being a serial titleholder.
I try to make eye contact but he’s too absorbed in his conversation. That’s nice, I guess. Nothing worse than talking to someone who’d rather be with someone else. I take a sip of soda water and prepare to wait – not something I’m typically good at.
‘Jules, it’s time to shoot content for Patrón,’ nudges Nyla, motioning to the camera crew set up at the bar in the corner.
I nod. Makes waiting easier, I suppose.
In between takes of speaking to the baristas and mixing margaritas, I glance over at him but he’s always, always engaged. I tap my foot. No one needs to be that good a listener.
By the end of our small shoot, I’ve decided to orchestrate a meet cute. My nerves are jangling, not least because the person beside him looks like a minder. They’re probably just making sure he speaks to the right people and hits the right beats.
As Nyla and I head back into the throng, I steer us towards his group, strategising the perfect nudge to catch his attention without being too gruff. His exes were wincy little models, after all, not junior tennis champions with a ‘cannonball’ serve.
It does the trick. I ‘get pushed’ into his arm, and he catches my eye as I say, ‘I’m so sorry.’
Ash was right – his smile is kind. Arresting, even. ‘No worries,’ he says.
Before he can utter anything else, I straighten and walk away.
Step one: done.
I’ll give him half an hour to come to me, and if he doesn’t, we commence with step two.
This one’s harder. I need to forge a deeper acquaintance using the people around him.
My best bet is the senior brand ambassador at Patrón, and after another lime soda, three salmon puffs and some interviews with influencer friends, I can’t wait any longer.
‘Do you need moral support or shall I go around and get some B-roll footage?’ Nyla asks, hoisting her bag higher on her shoulder.
‘No, you go. I’ll be fine.’
She beams at me. ‘Good luck, boss. You’ve got this.’
I know I do, but tell that to my slick palms. I should practice what I preach and self-affirm: I am a strong, confident woman. I can do anything I set my mind to. I do not need another salmon puff.
I’m not even really courting him. All I need is to properly introduce myself, plant the seed that I’ve chosen him, and, if previous experience is anything to go by, he’ll come running to me.
I wonder what Nyla thinks. Of me. Of this.
She’s far too good-natured to ever say anything, and she’s always been 100% supportive on the surface.
But I wonder. It’s a tough thing to understand when you don’t know the whole story.
It must seem superficial at best, heartless at worst. All this jet lag’s making me introspective.
I take a step towards Tom when I hear, ‘Jules Butler!’
I turn to see a tall brunette in her mid-thirties with truly excellent eyebrows.
‘Hello,’ I say.
‘I’m a huge fan. I’ve followed you since your early H turn him from racer to public figure; push him beyond performance-based partnerships and into aspirational lifestyle branding. He’d be a style and culture icon. Why wouldn’t Martinelli want that?
‘I’ve met étienne,’ I say, twirling a curl framing my face, ‘but I’ve yet to meet Tom.’
Her eyes light up. ‘I think you’ll really love him.’
‘Could you possibly introduce me?’
This is working better than I planned which never happens. I always have backups for my backups – and this is no exception – but none of them involved an Account Executive who watched my awful haul videos.
Her smile sputters. ‘Actually… Sorry, they’re being super strict with access tonight. I don’t know why. There can be no external introductions unless they’re pre-cleared.’
What?
I’ve never heard—
My gaze shoots to his minder and she’s looking back at me. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say it’s not just my fans keeping tabs on my plan. The comms team probably took one look at the guest list and decided speculation would distract from their launch.
‘I really, really, really want to help you,’ Brooke presses, ‘but my hands are tied.’
‘That’s alright,’ I mutter, ‘it’s not your fault.’
Patrón’s brand ambassador’s probably out too, then. I need someone closer. Someone outside the team’s corporate machine, but who Tom would want to speak to. Someone above the rules.
Raucous laughter makes me look over, and I’ve immediately found my guy.