12. JULES
JULES
I’m getting my lips touched up at the glam station when I glimpse a pink bow attached to blonde hair coming through the door.
‘Where’ve you been?’ I demand through unmoving lips to avoid getting a nude streak up my cheek.
‘Sorry, my editorial meeting ran late,’ Minnie says, panting. ‘Ooh, mini muffins! Where’s Nyla?’
‘I’m flying solo. It’s going to be a late night so I said she could have a lie-in.’
Minnie nods and makes a beeline for the snacks. When the makeup artist is done, I direct her and her collection of mini muffins away from the masses.
‘You’ll never guess what happened to me right before this event,’ I say in a hushed voice.
She chews excitedly. ‘What?’
I tell her, lingering on the part where he tried to threaten me.
Like I’d be interested in teaming up with him.
The man’s a loose cannon, and a dickheaded one at that.
You can’t have leverage with a reputation like his.
If he claimed we’re together, I could just deny it, and who’s the more believable party here?
The one who’s respectable, stable, and speaks her truth (ostensibly) on her various platforms, or the one who’s unpredictable, frantic, and hops from one woman to the next?
Minnie blows out a breath. ‘Oof. Dick move.’
‘Right?’
‘But…’ I don’t like this “but”, ‘things aren’t exactly going to plan with Tom, are they? Would a little push from the inside hurt?’
I fold my arms tightly. ‘Are you seriously entertaining this?’
‘Is it so ridiculous? You’ve made hardly any ground since the start of the season a month ago. You wanted to launch Tom by Saudi Arabia. That’s now.’
‘I know.’
‘You said a relationship needed to last at least six months – that’s Spain, which is only six weeks away.’
‘I know.’
She lowers her voice even more. ‘He’s not like the others, Julesy. This time has to be different.’
She’s putting it lightly – it’s a fucking nightmare – but she does me a solid by not saying it. Tom doesn’t know who I am, and doesn’t care how I can help him. For the first time ever, my need of a prospective boyfriend is one-sided.
I have no choice: I have to manufacture this relationship for real.
Pursuing him is entirely unethical but I can’t see another way.
I’ve committed to F1 and Tom for weeks now, it’s too late to change direction.
I might not have ethics but I do have integrity.
I don’t know why I feel so slimy about it; women have been using men for millennia. And like men haven’t been using women?
Anyway, he’s a knob so it’s fine. I mean, he didn’t act like a knob when étienne confronted him, but he was in company so who can be sure. He’s an athlete – they’re the biggest knobs in all of knobdom.
‘But we’re talking about Tiago,’ I moan.
‘I knew him last year and he wasn’t a loose cannon,’ says Minnie.
‘A fuck boy, sure, but he’s a committed driver, and he was always friendly and generous to me.
He was one of the only drivers who let me interview him when I first started out.
I can’t defend how he treated you, but we shouldn’t underestimate how much this transfer’s taken a toll on him. ’
‘I don’t want to be around someone who can’t handle rejection. I don’t need that negative energy in my life.’
‘Jules.’ Minnie shoots me a naughty schoolgirl look. ‘Stop self-sabotaging. Think of what’s important here.’
Urgh, she needs to stop being such a menace and saying sensible things. Let me live in my fantasy where Tom plays ball and Tiago fucks off and I get everything I want.
‘How’s the Paddock Club?’ She changes the subject.
‘Delightful. They have a doughnut station. It’s like someone told them my weakness.’
‘Heaven! Meanwhile, these pastries are my lunch.’
‘Minnie.’ I glower at her. ‘Why don’t you come up to the Paddock Club with me for lunch? Then we could go to the FanZone together. I hear there’s a zip wire over the track.’
‘I’m press, Julesy; you’re a Paddock Club guest. They’re strict about that around here. Also, I have this thing called a job.’
‘What’s a job? Sounds dull.’
We pull faces at each other and trail off, giggling.
‘Come on.’ Minnie dusts the crumbs off her hands and loops an arm around mine. ‘Put your Jules Butler face on and let’s talk to the paddock girlies.’
I blow an exhale. ‘Do we have to?’
I got up at 5am to get ready and I’m confident this red Celine chiffon dress was a good decision, and yet I still feel like a gnarled moose compared to these WAGs Minnie knows.
I’ve seen my fair share of glamorous partners over the years.
Polished tennis WAGs with country club couture.
Try-hard football WAGs with bulging lips and flashy jewels.
Athleisure-clad swimming WAGs who love being Clean Girls.
Outdoorsy rugby WAGs with human-named dogs.
Outrageous NFL WAGs with bushy lashes and swampy extensions.
But these women? They float through race weekends, polished, sun-kissed, and decked in linen.
They don’t find the camera, the camera finds them.
And the most annoying part? They’re all extremely accomplished.
Every single one. A doctor, an economics student, a former Miss Brazil, an F1 Academy driver, a hyperpolyglot who’s just written a children’s book, and, not forgetting the most important of all: an F1 journalist. Yay for empowered queens, but also could they please have a flaw to make me feel better?
They’re not even insular bitches – they’re so bloody nice.
‘I saw your vlog about the Japanese Grand Prix and I loved your observations,’ says Gustaf Henriksson’s girlfriend, former Miss Brazil. ‘“Freed from Desire” does play on repeat at every race weekend.’ Knowing titters trickle around the table. ‘What do you think about Saudi?’
‘The paddock’s gorgeous, it’s like a five-star hotel,’ I start, and they hurry to agree. ‘But the humidity here’s no joke. Thoughts and prayers to anyone who curled their hair this morning.’ They burst out laughing. ‘You can’t do a fit check when you’re leaking all over.’
‘You wait for Miami,’ cautions the economics student.
Oh, I can wait, that’s for damn sure. Another fruitless weekend where I look even more desperate? In Tiago’s hometown so I’ll see his maddening face wherever I go? Unsubscribe.
‘And they really love their lasers here, don’t they,’ I round off, and heads nod.
Miss Brazil takes my hand and I start at the contact. ‘I’m so pleased you chose F1. We can’t wait for you to be one of us officially and help elevate this sport. We’re all hoping Tom comes to his senses soon.’
I know she means to be encouraging, but my cheeks burn all the same.
It’s mortifying that everyone knows I’m struggling. I can’t tell which is worse: them thinking I’m chasing a man who doesn’t fancy me back, or the truth.
As we crowd together for a ‘Women of the Paddock’ group photo, I can’t help but think F1’s edging its way into being my new favourite sport.
Between the glamour, style, drama, and camaraderie, it’s me down to the ground.
I can see why Minnie loves it so much. I want to embed myself in it in a way I haven’t felt since tennis.
Brands are approaching me, my following’s steadily increasing, and journalists on the grid are asking what my predictions are about the upcoming race, not just about the fashion or how it ‘feels to be here’.
Things are definitely moving in the right direction.
I just need the most critical piece of the puzzle to fall into place and I’ll finally be seen as a legitimate presence in F1.
If tonight’s Montclair event goes well, I’ll happily forget Tiago ever propositioned me. But if it doesn’t…