9. JULES #2
Why am I wasting time on this man-child?
Tom is my priority. When Minnie diverts étienne’s attention with shop talk, I quickly scan the VIP section.
It’s hard to concentrate over undulating squeals and shouts of ‘oooh!’ piercing my ears, but I manage to spot him – surrounded by suits, but thankfully his minder is nowhere in sight.
Thunderous applause has me looking over the barrier in time to see Tiago walk off stage. Shit, I’m running out of time.
‘Zhoohl,’ starts étienne, ‘what are you doing tomorrow? I don’t usually let people in my garage, but I could make an exception for a special lady.’
Bile rises in my throat. I stew on it for a nanosecond and actually, that’s not a bad idea. He and Tom share the same garage, right? ‘I would love that. Thank you so much, étienne.’
He preens. In your dreams, kiddo.
‘She’s seen a garage before,’ Minnie huffs. ‘I took her to Pagari’s.’
Before he can say anything else, I excuse myself to go to the bathroom – and head straight towards his teammate.
Right, here we go. I’m finally going to speak to—
An unwelcome man steps into my path. The orange polo’s so bright it’s making my eye twitch, or maybe that’s just who it’s attached to.
‘What’s the plan this time?’ says Tiago, baiting grin in place.
How can someone have such an infuriating smile? I reach for the mindful breathing techniques I learned on a PR trip to the Nepalese mountains.
‘I don’t have time for your histrionics,’ I retort, calmer than he deserves, ‘so if you’ll excuse me—’ I make to slip around him, but he’s quicker.
‘Are you going to bat your eyelashes and hope you’re wearing his number by Imola? Real original.’
My eyes narrow. ‘You don’t know anything about me.’
‘Sure I do.’ He takes a mocking sip of Coke. ‘You’re a fame-hungry, money-grabbing, man-hating manipulator. You wouldn’t know something real if it bit you in the ass.’
I feel like I’ve been whiplashed. Who is this cock? He’s acting like I threaten him. It takes everything I have to hold back my right hook. ‘Do me a favour and back the fuck off before I soak your stupid trousers. You look like Billie Eilish.’
He recoils like I’ve wounded his soul. ‘They’re called “pants”, and they’re Versace.’
Of course they are.
‘Well, this has been special, but I have places to be, and you have Hell to crawl back to. See you next time, Captain Cob.’ I throw him a mock salute and bail.
It takes a minute for what I said to compute in his silly little brain, and I’m halfway towards Tom when I hear, ‘Hey!’
What the actual hell is his problem? I don’t have time to worry about it now because the posse around Tom’s opening up. I have about two seconds to pull myself together. My hands are shaking with rage. I want to smack Tiago’s dumb, handsome face, but instead I grip my drink tighter and—
‘I thought we lost you,’ says étienne, appearing by my side.
All I want is five uninterrupted minutes with Tom Webber.
IS THAT TOO MUCH TO ASK?!
‘étienne, you can’t abandon me on the simulator like that,’ Minnie says through laboured breaths. I love her for trying.
The way he’s looking at me makes my skin itch. ‘I was going to see if Zhoohl wanted to join us.’
Screw being nice. Screw him being Minnie’s friend. Where’s it getting me?
‘étienne,’ I say slowly, ‘I don’t want to go on the simulator. I want to speak with Tom.’
He pulls a revolted face. ‘Tom? Why?’
‘Because I like him, and I think we have a romantic connection.’
He does a double take. Literally. Like a cartoon. ‘Quoi?’
‘I—’
‘You want to speak to my teammate?’ He says ‘teammate’ like an expletive. ‘But—but—!’
‘étienne, calm down,’ snaps Minnie.
‘Tom? TOM?’ The sound comes from the back of étienne’s throat, like Tom’s a furball.
‘Keep your voice down,’ I hiss, quieter, trying to ignore everyone around us turning to look. I can hear the music with disturbing clarity. My skin’s prickling all over.
‘I heard my name,’ says an Australian voice.
Jesus Christ. Wonderful timing.
We lock eyes and he gives a fleeting smile before étienne booms, ‘There ’e is! I’m surprised you’re still awake, Grandpa. It’s past your bedtime.’
I have to keep my jaw from hinging open.
‘Nah, this old boy’s got some mileage in him yet.’ Tom brushes him off with an easy laugh before turning to us. ‘Hiya Minnie.’
It takes my mortified brain a second to catch up. They know each other from work, obviously.
I will not have this opportunity blown by—
‘Jules, right?’ Tom’s looking at me.
Thank fuck.
I open my mouth to answer but a French-tinged eruption takes its place. ‘There’s no point talking to ’im, Zhoohl, ’e’ll probably forget whatever you say.’ étienne draws circles by his temple. ‘Dementia.’
‘étienne!’ Minnie barks, eyes blown to the size of planets.
I note Tom’s absence of a temper, and refusal to take the bait. If the rumours Minnie told me are true, that’s quite out of character. Then again, he does have a reputation for being deceptive.
étienne, meanwhile, looks like a singing teapot.
‘Mr Calm, Mr Reliable, Mr Consistent,’ étienne spouts. ‘Maybe if you took a risk once in a while, you’d be worth talking about!’
Tom smiles indulgently. ‘You’re talking about me right now.’
‘Come with me,’ Minnie says through gritted teeth, yanking étienne away by the sleeve.
‘Yes, but—’ étienne jolts as Minnie gives him a sharp tug, ‘I’m doing it on purpose. No one— Hé! Lache-moi!’
‘I don’t know how you were so calm,’ I admit when he’s finally out of sight.
There’s a glint in Tom’s eye. ‘I save it for the track.’
I’m almost too relieved to clock we’re alone. It feels somewhat like a victory – I’ve earned this, for Pete’s sake – and yet the hangover of rage and humiliation’s still sitting on my chest. There’s nothing I hate more than a scene, except for maybe Colombian-American F1 drivers.
‘He really shows his age being so hot-headed like that,’ I remark.
Tom rubs the back of his neck. ‘He’s just mad about free practice earlier. He can say what he wants; I don’t give a shit what people think about me. It’s like water off a duck’s back. If it makes him feel better, what the hell.’
I don’t give a shit what people think about me.
This is a baffling development. What does that mean?
How can you be a professional sportsman and not care what people think?
There are a thousand wannabees who could take your seat in a heartbeat.
Team principals, viewers, advertising execs, your career is completely bound with what they think.
The minute no one cares in elite-level sport, you’re done.
‘So, Jules, what do you do again?’ Tom asks, his face the picture of sincerity.
My brain sputters. Oh my god.
He doesn’t know who I am.
He doesn’t know what I’m doing.
I don’t know what to do with this information.
Is he playing dumb? His crew know who I am; his teammate knows who I am; his management know who I am. Has he really not heard anything?
Which leads me to red alert number two: if he doesn’t care what people think about him, how the flying fuck can I tell him I’m a content creator? Caring what people think of me is my entire career. Why would he want to associate himself with someone who has opposing values?
Jules, calm the heck down. Answer the man and see what he says. He might just be being polite?
I clear my throat. ‘I’m—’
His publicist swoops in to excuse him for team duties. I almost sag to the floor in relief.
What in the world am I going to do?