13. JULES
JULES
This evening, I’m trying a different tactic. Tom doesn’t care about appearances. His team have a fixed impression about me. I have one night to turn it all around.
Enter: Jules Butler, Creative Director and entrepreneur.
My outfit’s demure – sleek black Dior dress, minimal jewellery, clean makeup. Both Nyla and my tripod are staying at the hotel. This will work.
It needs to work.
I fight my own battles. I solve my own problems. I don’t need some last-place, hot-headed, womanising self-aggrandiser to help me. And I’m going to prove it.
Take four, here I come.
The stage is set, a boardwalk on the banks of the Red Sea.
It’s luxury Swiss watch brand Montclair’s activation to launch their new collaboration with Martinelli, cemented with a one-of-a-kind Saudi Arabian Grand Prix limited edition timepiece.
Thankfully, it’s Montclair’s guest list, so I managed to charm my way onto it.
We’re surrounded by floodlit palm trees and displays of ￡50,000 watches which glitter like crushed ice in the moonlight. A DJ’s playing cool Arabian dance music, but no one’s dancing. It’s easy to forget the party started at 1am. Time works differently out here. Maybe that’s the hook. Smart.
The drivers won’t hang around for long with race day tomorrow so as soon as I spy an opportunity, I’m seizing it.
Since Tom’s currently speaking to a group of very official-looking Saudi dignitaries, I wait.
I’ve spotted étienne three times but I don’t think he’s seen me.
The thought of the Tokyo FanZone repeating itself is the reason the pad of my thumb’s red raw.
Mortified’s too weak a word for what I felt – what I still feel.
Martinelli events aren’t sustainable, at least until Minnie confirms he’s totally cooled off, and her voice note while I was getting ready suggested we’re not there yet.
I’ve never had to woo a man before (impressing Damian with my ability to read my opponent on court doesn’t count) so I’m no expert, but I do know athletes.
Tom’s a man used to being handled, fawned over, performed for, and something tells me it’s not really him.
To be a serious contender, I can’t show admiration or agenda. I’m a safe space, not a fangirl.
I’m going in blinder than I’d like. Tom isn’t an easy man to get to know the new-fashioned way (i.e. without speaking to him). With no social media platforms, an affable public persona and intensely private life, it’s near impossible to disentangle the job from the man beneath the helmet.
However, I saw a vintage Omega Speedmaster on his wrist in the paddock yesterday, the same one he was wearing in a magazine from ten years ago. Watches clearly aren’t a marketing stunt for him, and in a world that reveres the shiny and new, this guy has nostalgia in spades.
I mosey up to the watch display vaguely near him and it isn’t long before the chatter around me quietens and I’m not the only reflection in the glass.
‘See something you like?’ he asks.
‘Just… The patina on this dial is beautiful. You don’t see that on the new chronos.’
I meet his gaze, expecting shrewd understanding, and I get… a downturned mouth, like I’ve just told him otters turn yellow when they’re dry.
‘And in English?’ he prompts.
Oh God, was I… wrong? Did I misread one of the only personality markers I have? ‘Do you know m-much about watches?’ Get it together, Jules.
‘Nah, I just want them to look cool.’ He rotates his wrist in the light so it throws sparkles around us.
What the hell’s going on? I’m usually very good at assessing people. ‘Do… Do they hold sentimental meaning for you?’
He barely thinks about it. ‘Not really. I had to wear an old one yesterday because the battery died in my new one, and all the others are back in Monaco. Great timing, huh?’
Not sentimental. Not nostalgic. Not a watch guy.
Next he’ll declare he’s Armenian and the Aussie accent’s fake.
He spears everything I think I know and offers nothing in return.
It’s rude, really. How am I supposed to seduce him in one night if I don’t know anything about him?
I’m this close to bringing up Neighbours.
I flew Qantas once, I wonder how I could work that in.
‘Did—’ I’m cut off when he’s quite literally pulled away for fan photos.
I take the opportunity to refresh my drink and survey the vicinity for a lanky French boy, and happily come up dry.
This is good. I needed a break to regroup. From now on, I’m going to steer clear from what I think I know about Tom and focus on the facts. He came over to me when I wasn’t even looking at him. It’s reasonable to assume he likes that I’m not asking anything of him or chasing his approval.
After a fun interlude of belly dancers sashaying through the party (that I surreptitiously film – Montclair are paying me to be here, after all), I strike up a conversation with one of their brand managers, under the educated guess he’s a mutual acquaintance.
It pays off when Tom wanders over to join us.
After a lecture on the global state of freight, the brand manager leaves to go to the bathroom, and it’s just us.
‘Sorry about earlier,’ Tom says. ‘I’m pulled in so many directions at these things. It’s…’ He trails off and shrugs in defeat.
‘I get it. It’s a lot being “on” for people you don’t know. Endless mindless chatter. No real conversations.’
His eyes brighten. ‘Exactly. I hate that. It’s all so superficial and hollow. For appearances’ sake.’
God, who would do anything for appearances? What a terrible person.
‘People make assumptions about you,’ I go on. ‘They think they know you, even though the image in their head couldn’t be further from the truth.’
A smile touches his lips, intrigue unmistakeable. ‘What do you do in that situation?’
I sip my sparkling water. ‘I lean into it.’
‘Sorry to interrupt.’ It’s his publicist, and my heart plummets. ‘Tom, we need you.’
This is ridiculous.
Is there a word limit or something?
Is there a thirty second ceiling before our time’s cut off?
His smile’s almost cowardly as he trails after her. I check my watch. It’s already 2.30am. He’ll be leaving soon. I don’t have much time. I need to set up one last conversation so I can—
‘Ms Butler?’ It’s another woman in a Martinelli polo. Older. More severe. She’s looking at me like I’m in trouble, and, although my palms are sweating, I hold my ground.
‘Hi.’
‘I’m going to be very clear so there’s no confusion going forward. Tom’s in the middle of a championship campaign. We’re keeping his environment as uncomplicated as possible. He doesn’t need any speculation or distraction that might compromise his racing.
‘You’re very good at what you do, but you come with a level of attention that doesn’t align with his goals.’ Her smile’s clipped. ‘For the remainder of the season, we’ll be keeping all events internal. I’m sure you understand.’
Her message is loud and clear: back the fuck off.
I know how this works. There’s no point arguing. I smile and say, ‘Of course.’
But inside I’m writhing.
How humiliating to be kicked out. To be banned. Under layers and layers of foundation, my face is on fire.
Since when does a grown man need his work to manage his love life? Talk about red flag. Unless he doesn’t know…
I realise, as I grab my blazer from the side, that I don’t know why I’m so affronted. This has been coming since Martinelli’s launch party weeks ago. Their reasoning’s predictable. I called it completely. I just… can’t stand rejection, I guess.
Plus, this makes my life harder, which is infuriating. She’s blown my plan to smithereens with no regard for all the good I could do for Tom and her precious team.
Complication. Distraction. Attention.
How about Amplifier. Brand manager. Accelerator. My ambition isn’t a threat; I would protect and elevate him. But there’s no point mansplaining this to her if she’s going to be narrow-minded.
Now, events and activations connected to Martinelli and their sponsors are officially out of the picture. Their comms team will be analysing guest lists with a fine-tooth comb. The backdoor method has been promoted to Plan A. It’s the only way I can get close to Tom.
On the positive side, I think he’s amenable to dating. He approached me twice; he listened closely; he seemed to like what I had to say. He didn’t exactly beg for my number, but maybe that was never going to happen. He strikes me as the slow and steady type.
He’s polite, he’s sweet, he’s easy on the eye, he smells great, he looks decent in a suit and… I don’t fancy him one bit. Just as well, really. I can’t afford to lose my head now.
He seems too decent to be a top athlete.
I’m using him more than I’ve ever used my exes, and the only thing making it slightly ok is if he’s the man Minnie says he is.
Difficult behind closed doors, a poor team player, obstinate to a fault, lacking in loyalty, and zero integrity.
I haven’t seen any evidence, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t true.
I’m seeing him in social settings, after all.
Tonight’s proven I can’t compete with the machine around him, and I definitely can’t be where étienne’s fee-fi-fo-fumm-ing around the place. I’m closer but not close enough.
As I pull my phone out of my pocket in the taxi back to the hotel, I hate myself with every fibre of my being. I can’t believe it’s come to this, but I’m out of options. Minnie’s right: Tom’s not like the others. Things do have to be different.
brB, off to make a deal with the devil.