24. JULES
JULES
‘So this is it,’ I say in front of my tripod, giving it a full body shot.
‘Saturday night date night. We’ve got the white dress from Zimmermann, the Reformation sandals you guys loved from my sale haul a couple of months ago, and topping it off, my Diptyque perfume that smells like heaven in a bottle.
I think we’re due an updated video on boujee products that are worth every penny. I’ll mull on that one.
‘As always, you can shop all my looks on the Shop My page in my bio. And merci for getting ready with me! Oh god, that was so cheesy.’ I laugh a little too shrilly and run over to stop recording before I make myself vomit.
Poor Nyla, she’s got two hours of content to edit into something remotely watchable by tomorrow morning. That ending will undoubtedly need to be cut. What a cringe monster I am.
I’ll post the GRWM Saturday Date Night reel on Instagram tomorrow and the MONACO GRAND PRIX: a Formula 1 blog to YouTube on Thursday, with a couple of trails to build momentum.
It should be popular if my Emilia Romagna Grand Prix vlog was anything to go by.
And this is Monaco. And it features Tom. And it’s after my date night video.
Anyway, I can’t procrastinate anymore – it’s time to leave.
People go on dates all the time, it’s no big deal.
Heat is definitely not creeping up my neck as my finger hovers over the Uber app.
I’m absolutely not pacing a hole in the carpet at the thought of sitting across from Tom at dinner.
It completely doesn’t matter that my first ‘real’ date is loaded with pressure.
Classic Jules. I never do things by halves.
I arrive at a towering block with pretty yellow scalloped sunshades on each balcony.
I try to count them – counting usually calms me down – but my driver tugs at my attention wanting a tip, and suddenly I’m outside the front door and the doorman’s letting me in and I’ve only counted eight sunshades. Oh god oh god oh god.
Tom’s apartment is not as big as I’d have thought.
It has a compact dining/living room space, two bedroom doors off the hall, and a small domed balcony looking over the Mediterranean.
I find comfort in comparing it to Logan’s twelve-bedroom palace with its heated driveway (in San Francisco), lion sculpture in the master bedroom, and wardrobe exclusively for trainers.
In fact, this doesn’t feel like a bachelor pad in the least. It’s all abstract lampshades and plants artfully arranged in thoughtful spaces.
Either an ex lived here or an interior designer did a number on it.
There’s a soullessness, like it was 3D printed from a catalogue.
Like Tom himself, his flat gives nothing away.
‘There’s Italy,’ he remarks, coming up behind me with two soda water and pomegranate juices, nodding to the far left side of the window. That’s the nice thing about dating athletes, they don’t tend to drink either.
I suck in a deep breath, disguising my nerves as taking it all in. ‘It’s some view.’
The neat neighbourhoods, the emptying beach, the shimmering water with the sun setting behind it. London feels like a world away.
‘Yeah it’s alright,’ he says.
It’s like blood from a stone.
‘Shall we?’ I motion to the sofas. ‘It’s lovely to talk without being interrupted.’ Even if it is to myself.
‘The day job’s a bit of a circus sometimes.’
‘Do you enjoy it?’
He takes a sip. ‘I like the racing.’
‘Not the rest of it?’
‘Does anyone like their whole job? Do you?’
Aside from the logistics and scheming, I adore my career with everything I have. I’ve worked so hard to build my businesses, and seeing women flourish from my advice fills my cup more than any cheque could. The money helps, too.
He doesn’t have to know any of that. ‘Some people must,’ I toss back lightly.
Dinner will be five courses cooked by a schmancy French chef working in Tom’s kitchen. It’s all too fussy for my taste but I go with it. Probably better than him cooking chicken and greens. He doesn’t seem like much of a chef.
Before we can get to the food, my gaze locks on the red petals scattered across my place setting, like fat drops of blood.
‘I like to treat a woman,’ he explains as he pulls out my chair.
Treat. Sure.
I sit mechanically, every muscle in my legs struggling to cooperate. When he turns his back, I flick the rose petals off like they’re loaded needles.
I choose a slice of saucisson from the charcuterie board to distract myself. ‘What’s after F1? Back to IndyCar?’
‘Maybe.’ He adds some Comté to a cracker. ‘I’m less hungry to win than I used to be, though. There are other things I want to do that I’ve been putting off. Maybe it’s almost time.’
‘Things like what?’
‘I’d like to move back to Aus at some point and buy a ranch. Raise a brood there.’
Damn, there goes my plan of making him the next Martin Brundle. Not that I had much hope for it anyway.
‘Couple of dogs, some horses,’ he goes on. ‘Do a bit of farming like my old man. This whole Monaco thing,’ he gestures around the apartment, ‘it’s not me. I don’t really care much for money and… things.’
How noble of you.
‘So you don’t have nice cars then?’ I say, flicking my hair back.
A wry smile. ‘Now, I never said that. I don’t class them as “things”; they don’t go on a shelf. I race them, I experience them. They’re coming with me to the ranch, don’t you worry.’
I don’t worry since I won’t be there. Do I look like I wrestle wombats? These lips don’t fill themselves.
‘What about you? Will you take pictures on Instagram forever?’ he asks.
Do I detect something disparaging in that? I pretend to be busy chewing a slice of baguette while I formulate an evasive enough answer. He really has no idea what I do. Let’s keep it that way. ‘For as long as they’ll let me.’
The thought of him being a good guy’s gnawing at me.
He may not be the biggest fan of content creation, and he thinks brown goes with everything, but that doesn’t make him a beast. I haven’t seen or heard anything genuinely negative since I first entered this world.
At worst, he’s a pushover, allowing his team to dictate his every move without question.
But an arsehole? Ruthless? Self-obsessed?
Deserving of me using him like a voucher code?
It’s not until the salad course that I feel brave enough to broach Ackland. Please at least let him have a filthy temper. It wouldn’t give my dating record a boost but it’d make me feel better.
I thread my fingers together over the table. ‘Tell me about your time at Ackland. You were there for, what, five years?’
He pulls a face. ‘Do I have to?’
‘I don’t know anything about F1 or your career,’ just the three months I spent researching it, ‘and I’d really like to know more.’ I flutter my eyelashes for good measure.
He stretches, slowly relenting. ‘I was there for eight years.’
‘Did you enjoy it?’
His shoulders crunch and I suppress a disgusted shiver. ‘For the most part.’
‘Why not all?’
He takes a deep breath like he’s considering whether to tell me or not. ‘They brought in someone who should never have been my teammate. We both had world titles and wanted another. We were put in a really tricky position. I think it was on purpose, but who can say now.
‘And then I… left under difficult circumstances.’
He left? That’s not what I heard, I heard he was pushed. ‘Because of your teammate?’
‘Not really. Not directly.’ He takes a maddeningly slow sip of water.
Does he not know women like details? ‘It was Round 20 – Mexico – so pretty late in the season. We were head-to-head with Pagari. My team principal took me aside before the race and told me to crash out. It’d trigger a safety car so my teammate could win. ’
I can’t stop my jaw falling open. This never came up in any Reddit threads.
‘They knew they’d put me in a difficult position because it was common knowledge we weren’t best mates.
It’d look petty internally if I didn’t. I said nothing, I think I was in shock.
It goes against the integrity of racing.
I’d have rather Pagari won the title – which they ended up doing, by a hairsbreadth – than win it like that. That’s not the team I signed up for.
‘They gave the order on lap 65 and I didn’t do it. After the race, I got out the car and resigned on the spot.’
He rubs his face looking tired all of a sudden.
‘I took the brunt of the fallout. They told the press they fired me, that I abandoned them mid-season, that I was the most difficult driver they’d ever worked with.
I didn’t say anything. I didn’t want to get my race engineer fired.
He was just relaying orders, he didn’t have anything to do with it.
Besides, it was a million against one. They could think what they liked, I didn’t care.
‘The whole thing caused uproar in the team. Most of the mechanics quit. My strategists quit. The FIA found out about “Crashgate” and half the board left, though probably not voluntarily. They fined the team something chronic. Ackland’s never been the same since.
‘I was all set to go back to IndyCar, but then I got a call from Martinelli. Christophe doesn’t get on with anyone anyway, so he doesn’t give two shits about gossip and clashing personalities. And that’s where I’ve been for the last five years.’
Holy moly. It’s all starting to make sense. I can’t imagine him having a black temper, or sending his teammate death threats, or spitting at mechanics ‘like a llama’ (Minnie’s words). I can reconcile this Tom with the Tom I’ve known all season.
‘I just feel sad about it,’ he goes on, pushing leaves around his plate. ‘Ackland’s a heritage constructor. They have a ninety-year legacy. We were title contenders. All the guys I worked with deserve better than to crawl up the rankings like a broke backmarker.’
For fuck’s sake, he is a good guy.
Ackland do that to him and not only does he shoulder the blame and protect his team, but on reflection he feels sad about it? I’d burn the place down and scatter the ashes on the team principal’s front lawn.
The only thing that made what I’m doing slightly palatable is that he’s not a decent person, and I can now say with total certainty that Tom Webber is a decent person. He’s principled; he listens; he has empathy; he reflects; he hasn’t obnoxiously brought up his winning record once.
This is so bad. I’m in way over my head. He clearly hates deception, and I’m a wily deceiver!
I give myself a mental slap. Calm down, Jules, it’s only a first date. People lie on first dates all the time. George the rugby player said he was over 6ft. Dom the swimmer said he wasn’t a workaholic. Hell, Brennan the footballer said he was faithful.
‘Has anyone ever told you that you have the most beautiful eyes?’ Tom says suddenly.
Everything I’ve just eaten crawls back up my throat. He doesn’t mean it. My fake lashes must be confusing him. ‘Thanks,’ I force out, adding a smile a second late.
Compliments are for other people, natural people, people who aren’t trying to ensnare him.
Back to the task at hand. It’s not like I can even make him over.
He doesn’t need bigger sponsors; he doesn’t care about ‘things’ (what, by the way, does that mean?); he doesn’t want to transition to a mature second career.
I can’t provide a public service in exchange for misleading him.
There’s give and take with Tiago. Things are so much simpler.
I’ll treat this like every other relationship, with a healthy dose of distance, elusiveness, deflection, and boundaries. Come December, it’ll be like he never knew me at all. Perfect.
‘Enough about me.’ He smiles warmly. ‘I’ve been talking all night. What about you? What did you do before Instagram?’
‘Trust me, your job is much more interesting than anything I could say. My life’s simple. You’re the one doing extraordinary things.’ I feel feminism retreating fifty years, but this feminist wants to afford a life better than her parents’, and this is how she does it.
‘Bullshit. I want to know everything.’
Huh? That one always works. Take the bait.
I puff my chest out, wishing I’d worn the other Zimmermann dress with the lower neckline. ‘Tell me about—’
‘No way. Your turn.’
I hold back a groan. Why is everything so hard with this man?