9. JULES
JULES
TOKYO
Ipeer over the VIP mezzanine level at the crowd waiting below. They’re so quiet, so orderly, but the anticipation’s rising from them like steam.
‘God I love WAG perks.’ Minnie takes a gilded nigiri from a passing platter. ‘That Jack sure is useful sometimes. Journalists don’t even get decent free coffee, never mind sushi and sake!’ She raises her cup like it’s filled with The Elixir of Life.
Her raw delight makes me smile, even though my insides are churning.
‘Thank you again for letting Nyla and I be your plus ones. I don’t think I’ll be allowed on Martinelli’s guest lists any time soon,’ I say.
‘Of course! To be honest, it’s nice having someone to go with. My colleagues aren’t exactly VIP types. Far too highbrow. More committed to taking down the patriarchy.’
We’re in Martinelli’s FanZone in the centre of Tokyo.
It’s a sprawling three-tiered pop-up filled with simulators, reaction drill exercises, screens showing highlight reels, and last year’s ‘show car’, which is proving very popular.
There are cute Japanese touches too – a bonsai tree here, a sake pairing station there.
I’ll give them this: Martinelli rich right, though they’ve gone a little overboard on the branding for my taste. The entire structure’s navy and there’s not an orifice without a logo. Their sponsors’ signage is even mounted in LED lights. The crassness makes me even more queasy.
You wouldn’t think Leone have a part to play at all – which would thrill me, if the only giveaway wasn’t a digital screen saying Tiago Cabrera’s being interviewed on the stage in five minutes.
He’d better not screw up my chances with Tom a second time.
I don’t know how many more opportunities I’ll have to sidestep into a Martinelli event.
But there’s an even bigger issue: why haven’t I heard from Tom yet? It’s no secret I’ve picked him – it’s all over F1 media; mentions of Tom and I have gone through the roof; Minnie said the paddock grapevine’s losing its shit. I’m standing here in a navy jumpsuit, for crying out loud.
Normally I don’t need a second meet and it’s freaking me out. In all my meticulous planning, I didn’t really factor in what would happen if he didn’t want me. I’m not offering romance, I’m offering a smart business decision. What is there to reject?
Unless… Unless he’s completely detached from the noise. He’s not on social media so it’s faintly possible. Plenty of sportsmen don’t engage with media; it messes with their head. Oh please let it be that.
‘So, Melbourne was a bust,’ Minnie recaps as she takes a second helping of spicy tuna rolls. Unsurprisingly, I’m not hungry.
‘I met him, at least, for five whole seconds.’ I exhale roughly, staring into nothing. ‘Then he never showed up to the Grand Prix afterparty he was meant to come to. So yes, in conclusion, it was a bust.’
‘Today’s take two. It’s been three weeks, he’s definitely in the building, his manager’s nowhere to be seen, there’s no embargo on him that we’ve heard of, and you look fire today. I’d say things are lining up nicely.’
My gaze latches onto Tiago’s sign like it alone could obliterate my plans.
‘They better,’ I say, tearing my unused napkin into twelve methodical strips.
‘I’ve publicly committed to this team, this sport, not to mention spent weeks lining up collabs and activations across the spring and summer.
My entire year’s mapped out – I’ve bought flights, declined opportunities…
‘As for Tom, I haven’t confirmed anything about him specifically, but it’s pretty obvious it’s him given his teammate’s a baby. If I’m not at least pictured with him this weekend, it’s going to look awkward as hell.’
An incredibly intrusive and chilling thought pops into my head: what if none of it works?
What if I’m left flailing with no boyfriend? All the Easter eggs, all the teasing, all the grand prix appearances…
My credibility will be in the toilet. My content pipeline will collapse. The narrative I’ve based my entire image on will be broken. Associating myself with F1 was supposed to break me into the next tier of athlete. Without it, I’ll be in professional freefall.
I choose the men. I engineer the narrative. But if Tom rejects me, I’ll be exposed as having no power of my own.
It’s not like I can be an influencer in my own right – I’m seen as a WAG.
The difference is subtle but important. My power comes from who I’m next to.
People follow me for my life, not my perspective.
Sure, I host a personal development podcast and it’s one of the top self-help podcasts in twenty-two countries – and if I had my way, empowering woman is all I’d do – but listeners follow along because it’s behind-the-scenes talk from Logan Rogers’ ex-girlfriend.
They might like my tips, but the product is always secondary.
I’m not an expert and I don’t have authority, so I use association.
Without a relationship to anchor my projects, they lose gravity.
I can’t let that happen. I’ve worked too bloody hard.
‘I know it’s not going to plan and you’re stressing, but it’ll be fine.
’ Minnie taps my hand and takes a tiny sip of her sake, like that’ll make up for how strong it is.
‘Think of going with the flow as self-growth. A learning opportunity. Do you remember those three episodes you did on learning opportunities – with the life coach who had the extremely sexy voice?’
‘Get lost.’ My laugh’s strained. ‘Now’s not the time for self-growth.’
She gives a jolly little shrug and I force myself to take a breath. It will be ok. I’m overthinking this, as usual.
Let’s look at the positives. I’m at an amazing event with my best friend, and I haven’t been kicked out. Yet.
At what point do I give up this pretence and reach out to Tom?
Though that would present its own challenges.
I can’t slide into his DMs if he’s not online.
Any official route would include his management.
Jack might have his number, but he might not – they’re not close.
Tom doesn’t seem to have many friends in the paddock, though it looked like that wretched Tiago was one of them.
Nyla appears beside us as the crowd roars to life.
It’s a unique noise – rhythmic clapping overlaid with sonic squealing.
Signs in Spanish, custom ‘T’ hats, plushies, US flags, and knitted Leone helmets are raised high.
It doesn’t matter if they’re a teenage girl or retired man, they’re all brimming with excitement.
It’s very close to the reception Tom got, even though he’s second in the Championship and has fifteen years on the grid.
If only they could meet Tiago and find out what a delight he really is.
He could’ve dressed up for the occasion. With the exception of his team polo, he looks like the lone admirer of Soulja Boy.
‘Did you get the shots you wanted?’ I ask Nyla over the clamour.
She smiles. ‘It’s the most organised chaos I’ve ever seen! Also, I heard the Martinelli drivers are coming up here in the next ten minutes!’
‘Excellent intel!’
Tiago waves as he takes the microphone and the room instantly quietens. ‘Arigatō gozaimasu,’ he says in his very American accent, and the audience collapse into giggles. Like his ego needs any more stroking.
‘Hiya, Tiago. How are you doing?’ the interviewer asks.
Someone offstage mutters an extremely fast translation and it rings through the space.
‘I’m good, man. I’m always good,’ he says. ‘Better now I’m in beautiful Tokyo!’
Two seconds later, the crowd murmur bashfully.
‘How are you feeling about this weekend?’ the interviewer resumes.
‘Put it this way: if the car makes it to Sunday, I’ll be happy.’
‘So you’re not feeling hopeful?’
He scoffs. ‘Did you see China two weeks ago? A panda could’ve beaten us!’
The crowd laughs respectfully.
‘I mean, I’ll try my best,’ he goes on, ‘but finishing’s basically a podium for Leone, and I don’t see us getting there anytime soon.’
Cringe. What’s his PR manager briefing him?
His answers are sackable. Sportsmen should never publicly criticise their teams, it’s media training 101.
For one, they’re paying him. And two, where’s his professionalism?
F1 is a team sport; it should be Leone against the world.
Dissing them undermines authority, damages chemistry, lets his competitors see division, and makes him look uncoachable.
What a surprise he’s as immature at work as he is in life.
‘Tom and étienne are here,’ Nyla stage whispers.
My pulse whirs into overdrive. I need to speak to Tom before Tiago joins us. I scan the crowd and spot étienne, charging towards Minnie and me.
You might need him. He’s useful. Ignore his spindly moustache.
‘Bonjour, ladies.’ He beams.
A wave of laughter rises from below. I wonder how else Tiago’s managed to insult his team.
‘’Ow wonderful of you to join us,’ étienne adds.
I don’t miss how his kiss lingers a millisecond long on my cheek. I put it down to cultural differences.
‘I wouldn’t pass this up, it’s amazing in here,’ I say. ‘Martinelli sure know how to please fans.’
‘They’re certainly pleasing this fan.’ He makes to boop my nose and I take a horrified step back just in time. He continues talking, undeterred, ‘All I’m ’earing about is ’ow impressive you think we are, ’ow amazing our events are, ’ow you think we’re the team to beat.’
‘It’s called being grateful to your hosts,’ Minnie covers with credible cynicism.
Another chorus of laughter. Tiago can’t be that funny. Surely.
‘Trivia time!’ announces the interviewer and, belatedly, the audience excitedly voices their approval.
‘’Ave you tried the sim yet?’ étienne asks. ‘I’ll teach you ’ow to ’andle yourself.’
He’s Minnie’s friend. He’s Tom’s teammate. Be nice.
Be nice.
‘No thanks,’ I say with a hard full stop. Maybe if I’m brusque, he’ll get the message.