32. JULES
JULES
MIAMI
Ireally wish I hadn’t Googled Grupo Inmobiliario Cabrera.
I’ve never officially ‘met the parents’ before. With Damian, his family were always courtside when we used to play in junior championships. His mum used to hand me turkey wraps after matches. They didn’t prepare me to be introduced to a property dynasty.
What if Tiago’s family see me as a monolingual interloper? Ignorant euro trash? A pale alien, despite me slathering on extra tan in the Virgin Airways lounge? My dad’s a tennis instructor and my mum was a publicist. We lived comfortably but are hardly in the same league.
You need to calm the fuck down. It’s not like you’re dating their heir.
Is Tiago even the heir? Isn’t he baby number eight?
Are his sisters included in the line of succession?
And he has millions of cousins – some of whom are on the board page of their supremely swishy website. Where do they sit in line?
The three relatives I have met have been nothing but welcoming.
Well, JC doesn’t really engage, but Isa and Trey more than make up for him.
What if they’re exceptions to the rule? Tiago’s very, very close with his family, and even though I’m squirming at my own pitifulness, I want them to like me. I’m not his girlfriend or anything but—
Oh my god, what if they think I’m his girlfriend?
How has he pitched me? This whole situation’s strange for even me to get my head around, and it’s not exactly parent friendly. Knowing Tiago, he probably blurted everything out. Jesus, I bloody hope he didn’t.
I’m spiralling – literally. I grip the handle tighter as I wheel my case down the circular ramp towards Arrivals. What am I doing? Why in the world did I agree to this?
And why can I hear Pitbull playing from tinny speakers?
As I round the final bend, I don’t see Tiago under a Dolphins cap like he said he’d be. I see lots and lots of Hispanic girls, all chatting around a boombox. A couple look quite like Isa. In fact, one looks really like—
She’s pointing at me.
‘?Ya llegó!’
Now they’re all screaming.
And rushing in my direction.
I resist the urge to hold my passport up as some semblance of a shield.
I think this is where I die. Stampeded in Miami Airport. Opposite a man with an alligator on a Gucci lead.
‘JULES!’
‘It’s so great to meet you. I’ve heard so—’
‘Let me take your bag.’
‘?No me empujes, Gabi!’
‘Hi, Jules, I’m Tiago’s cousin—’
‘This is heavy as fuck!’
‘I’m a huge fan.’
‘?Tati, pon Will Smith!’
The space around me shrinks, bodies all pressing into one another. Through a gap in their heads I spot a Colombian flag being flung in the air. Will Smith’s ‘Miami’ rings out, impressively drowning out the Arrivals Hall din.
This is very… sweet and everything, but I’m painfully conscious of passersby. Photos can’t end up online. Tom thinks I’m here for a brand meeting – and it conveniently aligns with my old friend Isa’s party. I don’t know how to explain the Great Colombian Welcome Wagon if this gets back to him.
‘She’s on vacation from London!’ snaps a girl with dyed blonde hair and severe roots to a security guard. ‘We wanna give her a proper Miami welcome.’
At last, the turquoise flash of a baseball cap catches my eye, and a part of me I didn’t know was missing settles back into place.
‘Give her space!’ he’s yelling. ‘What did I tell you? She doesn’t like flying!’
Anxiety about this trip strangely overpowered my fear of plummeting from the sky.
I’m not good with leaving my comfort zone, and this is one hell of a new experience.
I couldn’t sleep; I couldn’t relax to my pink noise.
I frantically shoved pretzels in my mouth for ten hours straight, listened to the Disney Channel playlist Tiago made me (Kim Possible’s on there four times), and binge-watched telenovelas.
I can’t remember a single Spanish phrase – not that I imagine any of them will be applicable this week.
As our eyes meet, I tell the butterflies in my stomach to shut up.
‘I’m sorry,’ is his welcome. Hassled is a good look on him. ‘I tried to sneak out, I swear.’ He searches my face. ‘You ok? How was the flight?’
Stressful. Sweaty. Salty. ‘Fine.’
He half smiles, a soft look in his eyes. ‘I’ll pretend I believe you.’ He looks around at his sisters and cousins who have now melted back into their cliques, and blows out a heavy breath. ‘Alright, everybody. ?Listos, nos fuimos!’
Only the girl who was yelling at airport security moves, sticking her foot out and crossing her arms. I make a mental note never to mess with her. ‘Aren’t you going to introduce us?’
‘Nope, not here.’ Tiago’s arm steals around my shoulders like he’s my personal security. It feels nice. Natural, even. The height difference is perfect.
‘Congratulations on coming second,’ I say.
His chuckle’s throaty. ‘You already congratulated me.’
His familiar aftershave soothes the depths of my soul. I might pinch his shirt for the flight back.
Where did that come from?
Must be all that cabin pressure, it’s altered my brain.
He takes his arm back and I can’t help mourning it, even though I know it’d look much worse if a camera caught us. He’s a major celebrity here, and his family were anything but covert.
‘Not in person. It’s a huge deal. You were incredible out there.’
He smiles and it’s so boyish and adorable. ‘Thanks, Jules.’
I’m still fizzing with pride. He took on some of the toughest drivers in the sport and triumphed – even Tom!
But what made me prouder was the way he celebrated his team.
The grid was awash with orange and he leapt headlong into it.
In the post-race interview, he never once said ‘I’.
He thinks Leone have come a long way, but I think he’s come further.
‘Guys! ?Dale, dale!’ He claps and the group starts to disperse. ‘Wait, where’s your luggage?’ he suddenly asks me.
I glance down at the empty spot where my suitcase once sat. ‘I don’t know.’ Before panic can spark, I catch it towing behind Isa as she disappears through the glass doors.
Tiago sighs and nurses his forehead.
‘At least I have the essentials.’ I dig out my passport and boarding pass from the top of my handbag.
The look in his eyes sharpens, and before I can make sense of it, he’s whipped my passport from my hand. I swipe weakly and he brushes me off as he flicks through the pages.
‘I look awful,’ I whine.
He cackles when he gets to the photo page and quickly sobers up. ‘Juliet Evangeline Butler,’ he says slowly, like it’s the key to unlocking something important.
Tiago knowing my full name feels oddly exposing, even more than him seeing me butt naked. I make a pathetic stab at humour: ‘I bet your name doesn’t fit on the page.’
It’s like he hasn’t heard me as he continues to look at it. ‘You’re a Juliet.’
‘I am.’ I don’t know what else to say.
‘It’s beautiful.’ He hands it back, staring at me in a way that makes my head empty.
‘Thank you,’ I whisper.
We approach a convoy of SUVs, his family squealing over who’s sitting where – and the moment evaporates.
‘I wanted to pick you up alone,’ he grumbles under his breath. ‘I was going to show off my Pagari.’
I raise my eyebrows. ‘Is that supposed to impress me?’
‘Oh you’ll be impressed, don’t worry.’
Half an hour later, I am impressed. Beyond ornate gates and a short palm tree-lined drive is the most beautiful house I’ve ever seen.
It’s giving Old World Spanish – white stucco walls, a terracotta barrel-tile roof, arched colonnades, and wrought-iron balconies.
It looks like something I made on The Sims when I was a tween.
I need to keep a cool head. I don’t want to make a fool out of myself or come across as stiffly English. I’ll be polite but not boring, charming but not arrogant, chatty but not loud.
‘Have you fucked my brother?’ demands a girl when we’ve barely crossed the threshold. I can’t stop my jaw from crashing to the floor. ‘Is he good to you? Because if not—’
‘?Sofía, no puedes preguntar eso!’ shrieks a girl, gripping her arm.
‘I swear to god.’ Tiago closes his eyes and nurses his forehead. ‘Ignore my idiot sisters.’
My cheeks gradually return to normal colour as we move through the house. It’s completely chock full of people, and I didn’t think the party started for hours. I’m hugged by everyone, often twice. Even the little kids. What did Tiago say? They won’t notice me? Mentiroso.
The house was certainly built for twelve children.
There are oversized sofas with too many cushions, and the most enormous dining table commandeered by older men talking with their hands, voices stacking on top of each other.
Family photos are everywhere. For a kitchen that will have paid staff, three older ladies decked in mouthwatering jewellery are arguing over bubbling vats of stew.
If I’d known what I was entering into, I would’ve been overwhelmed, but in reality it feels…
homely, which is crazy because my home couldn’t be more different.
I’m on edge constantly, but I kind of like it.
The garden looks like Bermuda with lush greenery, an enormous pool, and a resort-style pool house with open sides.
I spy Trey getting beers out of the fridge.
Karol G blares from the DJ booth by the hot tub.
An enormous superyacht’s moored on the end of their jetty, and I know for certain that’s the ‘boat’ Tiago’s taking me on tomorrow. He made it sound like a dinghy.
‘Jules, this is the birthday girl, Maleja. Don’t worry, she’s pretty normal,’ Tiago adds.
Maleja’s like an older, taller Isa, looking exquisite in a fringed maxi dress the colour of a sunset. It’s hard not to notice her boobs are even perkier than mine. She smells like Acqua di Parma as she wraps me in a warm embrace.
‘H-happy birthday,’ I say.
‘It’s so nice to finally meet you, Jules.’ She grins, revealing a perfect set of veneers. ‘I’ve heard so much about you.’
‘No you haven’t,’ Tiago snaps.
Her eyes shimmer with enjoyment. ‘Tiago never brings girls home.’
‘She’s not a—’