25. TIAGO
TIAGO
BARCELONA
‘Could you look any more American?’ is Jules’ greeting, staring at my baseball cap like it reads I HATE brUNETTES.
I reposition it slightly. ‘You say that like it’s a bad thing.’
She just raises her eyebrows and stalks off down the Passeig de Gràcia toward Armani.
She looks especially good today, flouncing through the streets in a little pale blue dress that flaps around her tanned thighs, and if I’m not mistaken, beautifully free nipples beneath the thin fabric.
Her hair’s in a high ponytail which swishes from side to side with every step.
I’d say she looks sweet, but I know better than to call Jules sweet.
I wonder if Tom thinks she’s sweet. She’s kept silent about their so-called ‘date’. That’s fine by me. I don’t care. I mean, I care that I fulfilled my side of the contract – with weeks to spare.
‘Everything’s going to plan,’ she summarises while I change in the empty fitting room. ‘Your tone’s changed in interviews, your socials are looking great, events are going well, and the press stories we’re seeding are working. Businesses are noticing, fans are noticing…’
‘Yup.’ I’m half listening. I’m standing in my underwear and she’s only a couple of metres away behind the door.
How am I supposed to not be turned on by this?
I will her to stop yabbering about work and nudge the door open.
It’s not like I can do it. If I do it, I’m a predatory exhibitionist; if she does it, it’s the sexiest thing since Ana de Armas.
I imagine her in the fitting room opposite. Slipping out of her tiny dress. Hairband tossed on the floor. Curls flirting with her titties. Peaked nipples bare in the mirror. My lips brushing the nape of her neck. I know what her skin tastes like. I know the sound she makes when I—
‘All we need now is to sharpen your wardrobe,’ she says, and I snap out of that impossible dream. Imaginary Jules is much more agreeable. ‘Then we can schedule your feature interview with Minnie.’
I’ve got to shake it off. This shit’s important, and I can’t walk out there straining against my pants. I quickly put on the first outfit she chose and scowl at myself in the mirror.
‘Uh, Jules?’
‘What?’
‘I don’t think this is really me.’
‘Sure it is.’
‘I look like I’m going golfing.’
I open the door and her eyes don’t bug out like mine did.
Her smiles are unbelievably hard won so it’s fucking annoying that she thinks this is worthy. ‘You look perfect.’
‘Perfect? I look like Trey’s dad. I just need a combover and a belly full of Fritos, and I’m all set.’
She tuts. ‘Chinos don’t make you someone’s dad, Tiago. The word you’re looking for is tailored.’
I examine myself in the mirror. ‘A button-down? Really?’
She gets off her pouffe. ‘Let’s check the fit.’
I freeze when her fingers brush the bottom of my neck, examining the collar. Her scent’s all-consuming. It’s fresh and musky, and completely intoxicating. I hold my breath.
She moves onto my waistband and I jolt. Whatever happened to consent? I go through the characters of Café Con Aroma de Mujer, my mom’s favourite telenovela from the nineties. It’s a blessing when she finally moves onto my feet.
‘The fit’s good,’ she decides, stepping back, and I can finally breathe again. ‘Next!’
‘I think you should try something on.’ I run my tongue over my bottom lip. ‘Fair’s fair.’
Not even her eyebrow moves as she settles her laptop back in place and starts furiously typing. Consider me ignored.
‘You’re not worried your followers will think you’re with me?’ I ask as we walk to our fourth store.
‘No, I’ve already shared that I’m doing brand work with a couple of drivers. I’ve taken some photos with Jack too.’
I don’t have time to reply as a group of teenage girls are sprinting toward us.
I’m about to ask Jules if she can be cameraman again when they stop in front of her.
I quickly mask my surprise – I don’t want to be a dick.
In fact, I don’t know why I’m surprised, her Insta following’s at least double mine.
Her name comes out a mixture of ‘Yools’ and ‘HOO-lehs’, and it has me jamming my lips together.
‘?Ay, Dios mío, eres tú! We loves your videos!’
‘We adore your style.’
‘Te seguimos siempre.’
‘You’re even prettier in person, de verdad.’
Jules is a total charmer, super polite and warm – nothing like she is with me – and she doesn’t need my help at all.
The girls barely notice me, and I don’t know how I feel about it.
I mean, it’s kind of nice seeing her in the limelight.
She’s so good at what she does, and it must feel lonely when your millions of fans live on your phone.
‘We loved your Monaco video,’ one girl gushes. ‘You and Tom have mucha química, eh?’
So much chemistry? What?
‘?Es él el indicado?’ another probes, and they collapse into piercing giggles.
The one?
Well now I’m in a bad mood.
Jules says something ambiguous about it being early days, and I hustle her away. This shopping trip is about me. We don’t have time for immature fans.
I’m still quiet when we sit down to lunch. It’s a backstreet Mexican restaurant with bright yellow walls and rustic wooden high-tops. I love spots like this – fuss-free, bold flavours, far away from tourists – but over my dead body will I let it show.
I don’t know why this Tom thing’s bugging me so much. It was her plan all along – hell, I helped her do it! But now it’s working, I feel… like the typo on the front page of the menu’s inexcusable.
‘How does Mexican food compare to Colombian food?’ Jules asks.
‘Do you see any Colombian restaurants around?’ It comes out sharper than I meant, and inside I cringe.
She sizes me up with a careful eye. I don’t want her to think I hate my homeland. It’s fire, just not the food. Too beige, too mild, too heavy, and there’s too much freaking soup. Even for breakfast. Some people just don’t want soup!
‘I want an addendum to the contract,’ I say before I talk myself out of it.
If she’s surprised, she doesn’t let it show. Carefully, she lays Google Translate on her phone aside. ‘What do you have in mind?’
‘We can’t keep pretending like Monaco didn’t happen. I’m going to lay it out there: I had a great time.’
She takes a slow breath, holding my gaze. ‘I did too.’
It’s not news – I know when I have a satisfied customer – but hearing her say it makes victory surge through my veins.
‘It doesn’t have to be a one-time thing,’ I explain too fast. ‘We could add an addendum that’s, like, “any personal or intimate relationship that may develop between the Parties shall be separate from the terms of this Agreement”.’
I can’t sleep with other people, for many reasons.
More women increases the risk that word will get out – that’ll never happen with Jules.
If I sleep with just one woman, I’m proving to myself that I’ve reformed my serial womanising ways.
She’s not like the others (for one, she’s not exactly my biggest fan), ergo I don’t behave like my old self around her.
And if I slept with someone disposable after that night, it would make what we had a one-night stand like any other, and it deserves to be more.
Not because I have grand romantic notions – fuck that – but because it felt too different.
Throwing it in in the same category as drunken fumbling after six rounds of tequila would do us both a disservice.
Jules is impossible to read, tapping her nails against the table without breaking rhythm.
‘We don’t have to put a timeline on that part, obviously,’ I rush to add. ‘In fact, we could take away the timeline altogether. The contract’s suiting us both right now, so why don’t we keep it going after the Canadian Grand Prix? When it doesn’t work for us anymore, we—’
‘Ok.’
Huh? This is a woman who took five minutes deciding which shopping bag she wanted from Tom Ford.
‘Ok?’ I repeat. ‘Just like that?’
‘I’ll get it made official when I get back to the hotel.’
‘You don’t want to mandate how many times in a race weekend, or that you’ll have me hung, drawn and quartered if I tell anyone?’
A shoulder rises. ‘It’s your addendum.’
I don’t want to say it, but for my own sanity: ‘Where does Thomas Webber factor into this?’
She starts straightening her cutlery with fidgety fingers. ‘I suppose… if Tom and I start being intimate, I’ll end this.’
Seems fair. It’s irrational how much I liked that she said ‘if’ not ‘when’.
‘Deal. Shall we shake on it?’ I ask.
‘No.’
‘Alrighty then.’ I pick up the menu. ‘Are you having a spicy marg? Isn’t that what all the girlies are drinking?’
‘I don’t drink alcohol.’
Now that is a surprise. ‘What’s your vice then?’
‘I don’t have one.’
‘Everyone has one.’
Her eyebrow kicks up. ‘What’s yours?’
I look plaintively at her. She catches on with a huffed laugh.
‘Mine’s probably a yumnut,’ she says.
‘What’s a yumnut?’
‘Half doughnut, half yum yum. Specifically from Marks & Spencer.’
‘Sounds disgusting.’
‘You don’t like sweet things?’
‘No, I’m a savoury guy, and there’s no way abs like yours have ever seen a… yummy, or whatever it is.’
‘You can have a sweet tooth and still enjoy exercise. I compete in Hyrox and have a reformer studio in my house, so if I want a yumnut, I have it.’
‘Who’s your Hyrox partner?’
‘Minnie’s mum.’
I snort. ‘Couldn’t get someone your own age?’
‘Don’t joke, she leaves me in the dust.’
It suddenly occurs to me that Minnie’s mom is Sir Cliff Roberts’ ex-wife, Cara Macklin. I can totally see her beasting Hyrox. Her ass is hella peachy.
‘Let me know when you’re next doing it. I’ll race you.’
She sips her water, holding eye contact the whole time, and fuck me if she doesn’t have me in a chokehold. ‘You’d be left in the dust, Cabrera.’
My junk wakens with a painful surge. ‘We’ll see about that,’ I force out.
I talk her through the Spanish menu and how Mexicans would typically eat. When I get to the tostadas section, I pause. ‘Did tostadas make it to the UK?’
Jules gives me a bored look. ‘We have fire and steam power too.’
‘Alright, alright.’