19. JULES
JULES
MONACO
Ithought there was one famous tunnel in the Monaco Grand Prix, but it turns out there’s a second – it runs beneath the pit lane connecting the paddock with the pit building. It’s significantly less cool but no less high octane, with crew scurrying through pushing tyre trolleys and hugging laptops.
It’s where Tiago said he’d meet me.
Twenty minutes ago.
He’s not picking up his bloody phone, which is a wonder for someone who’s constantly on it.
If there’s one thing I hate, it’s lateness. I’m never, ever late. I leave half an hour earlier than I need to, meticulously check my journey, and have at least three backup routes to hand.
I might be less nervy if I thought I was allowed to be here.
I’m not like him; I don’t feel zen rocking up to places and hoping for the best. What if the FIA bans me?
Where would our plans be then? That woman in a headset just looked at me suspiciously.
This is definitely not in my head. I’m going to kill that—
‘Jules?’
Oh my god, it’s Tom.
He smells like sun cream, and looks slightly less dapper in his team shirt and shorts than his development teammate. I push that unsettling thought away.
‘Hi,’ I say, breathlessly.
‘Whatcha doing out here?’
‘Tiago said I could join his track walk…’ and merge it with yours. I raise my GoPro by way of explanation. ‘Vlog.’
‘I see. No sign of him yet?’
‘No,’ I say primly. ‘He’s late.’
‘Figures, it’s still pretty early. I’m usually the only driver out at this time.’ He scratches the back of his neck. ‘I mean, we’re about to start. You can join… if you want. I’m sure we’ll see him out there.’
Has this possibly worked even better than we’d planned?
I hoist my tote higher, smothering every scrap of eagerness. ‘If you don’t mind.’
‘What’ve you got in there? It looks like it weighs a ton.’
‘Oh, just the usual.’ I do my best to shrug with one shoulder anchored down. ‘Camera, iPad, mic, gimbal, spare SD cards, water bottle, protein bars…’ He seemed amenable to my job when Tiago and I had lunch with him so I might as well be honest.
He pulls a face. ‘…Hazmat suit, snow gear, rain poncho, swimming cossie.’
Despite myself and my numb shoulder, I laugh.
The pit lane’s half-built as we pass through it, with stacks of tyres, cable reels, and mechanics unpacking their equipment.
I film Tom listening as his engineers talk in code.
I’ve assured them my vlog won’t air until after the weekend and I’ll overlay this part with music, but they’re extra careful, and I don’t blame them. There’s too much riding on this race.
It isn’t long before we’re hiking uphill, climbing high above the yachts sparkling in the morning sunlight. I linger behind to capture the marina and when I look back, Tom’s watching, amused. He corrects his engineer’s measurement mid-sentence and they carry on.
‘See that dent in the wall?’ he asks.
I nod.
‘In ’06, Christophe Blanchet tried overtaking Cliff Roberts here. He clipped him and went into the wall.’
Cliff Roberts – Minnie’s miscreant father who left her and her mum when she was a tween. I hate him with the fire of a thousand suns, even though it forced them to move back to England where she met little old me.
‘Oh wow. Was Christophe ok?’ I say, doing a heroic job of feigning concern for both of them.
Tom chuckles under his breath. ‘Yeah. He threw a tizzy and marched home.’
I adjust my sunglasses. ‘Sounds like his son.’
‘Doesn’t it?’
It’s crazy to think Minnie spent her childhood here.
I didn’t grow up a stranger to high-level sport, but there’s pageantry and then there’s F1 pageantry.
If motorsport Monaco is champagne and yachts, tennis Monaco is bananas and folding chairs.
There were no convoys, no luxury catering, no extensive management – it was economy, a battered suitcase, and homemade smoothies.
I smile as my memories of Monaco flood back.
Dad never did reach the heights of tennis himself, but the art of hustling is one of the few things we can still connect on.
‘Somewhere you definitely wouldn’t want to overtake is the Casino up here,’ Tom remarks, pushing his hands in his pockets. ‘It’s one of the hardest overtaking spots in the sport. You breathe wrong, you end up like Monsieur Blanchet.’
I mentally note it to use in my commentary later.
‘That’s a really nice hotel.’ He gestures to the Hotel de Paris.
‘I know,’ I say, swivelling to capture him and his engineers in the Square.
‘Over €6000 a night, I’m told.’
‘You were told correct.’ I reposition my phone to tackle the glare. This cheeky sun.
‘You’ve heard it too?’
‘I’m staying in it.’
His eyebrows lift over his sunglasses and I swallow a smile. What, can’t a girl afford her own suite in a five-star hotel? I mean, I can, but I wouldn’t. That’s where L’Oréal and their new SPF comes in. The pillows have my initials embroidered on them and everything.
Where a sea of hypercars were parked on my arrival is now an impenetrable fortress of metal barriers. I’m not sure I fancy colliding with those things. This track feels tight even walking it, let alone driving at 100mph.
‘Monaco’s a divisive track. It’s glamorous and prestigious, but tough and unforgiving. How do you feel about it?’ I ask, keeping my camera trained on Tom as we head downhill towards a twisty hairpin section.
‘It’s complicated. Monaco’s home – I drive these streets all the time.
It’s the race every young karter dreams of winning one day.
But, like you said, it’s tough. Sometimes you’re more surviving than racing.
You have to use the walls; you can’t run from them.
The track’s not built for the modern race car, which means there’s a limit to what you can do as a driver, and it can be pretty boring to spectate.
Then again, I have won it – three times – and I can say it’s worth it. ’
‘All three times?’
‘All three times. And I’ll do it again on Sunday for the chance to feel it again.’
‘Same as last year here, Tom,’ murmurs his engineer. ‘Grip should come up once the rubber goes down, but maybe not evenly. You’ll sense it. Same rhythm as before.’
I wonder if Tiago does this with his team. From the sounds of it, Leone lack cohesion and—
Why am I thinking about him right now? Dickhead’s probably in bed with some model, not giving me and our meeting time a second thought. He doesn’t deserve any of my wonders.
Imagine what Tom would say if I told him the truth right now. The chance of him being up for a six-month-long, mutually beneficial fake relationship are slimmer than that hairpin turn up ahead. Though duping him does make this already tricky situation a hundred times worse.
I ponder it throughout the second half of the walk, 2.5km through the fast-heating streets. I can’t picture what it’ll be like hurtling round here in a fireproof suit. Tiago will need to put his Miami heat training to the—
Why does he pop up everywhere please?
We return along the start/finish straight and I’ve decided I can’t leave without cementing the next phase of our relationship. If we get back to the tunnel and he hasn’t made a move, I’m going to take Tiago’s advice and—
A hand lightly brushes my wrist.
‘Hey,’ Tom says, stopping, his engineers and comms team walking off towards the pits.
My heartrate picks up at this new earnest tone. ‘Yes?’
‘So, you and Cabrera…’
It takes a moment for me to catch up. Tom thinks we’re together? Tiago and I? I mean, a part of me isn’t surprised. Between the bickering, the banter, the sexual tension, that smile, those lashes–
What am I saying?
‘Just friends,’ I say firmly. ‘Gross.’ It feels wrong to connect that word to Tiago but that’s probably the sun warping my brain. Brits are indoor creatures.
‘I didn’t know he was capable of being just friends with a beautiful woman.’
Cute. ‘He manages.’
‘Do you wanna… go for dinner, sometime? You know, without the… field gear.’
It’s happening.
It’s HAPPENING.
My smile’s demure. ‘I’d like that.’
Bloody hell, I did it. I convinced the second most famous F1 driver in the world to ask me out. I’m not a model or professional athlete or PhD student, and I succeeded anyway.
Victory’s still fizzing through me as I exit the tunnel alone. I’m treating myself to a fat pain au chocolat for breakfast – or three, who cares? Screw my calorie tracker. Then I’m going to the pool. No, the sea. No, the sauna. Or swim and sauna? What a time to be alive.
I glance down at my phone and stop in the middle of the paddock. One message surfaces above the others, and it annoys me more than it has any right to:
You’re welcome, Julie.