36. JULES
JULES
SPA, BELGIUM
Ihaven’t done a red carpet as a couple in ages, but all the poses and angles come back to me like no time has passed. Tom wraps an arm around my waist and points a smile at the loudest voice. It’s not his forte but for Liberty Media’s sake, he’ll give it his best shot.
As much as I love dressing up – and I really am devoted to this navy gown from Belgian designer Elara Vandevelde – Tiago and his stupid, latent Tiagoness are ruining it.
Matter of fact, they’re ruining everything right now.
My gym sessions, my sleeping, my mindful walks, my meditation.
Don’t even get me started on how many times I bring him up in conversation.
It’s so dumb because I’m the one who left.
I’m the one who spiralled and lashed out like a rabid dog.
I was harsh, but I don’t regret it, even if I did cry the entire flight back.
If he knew what I was keeping him from, he’d thank me.
He doesn’t want the real Jules. And I can’t want him.
For a million reasons, my place is right here with Tom.
I regret slapping Tiago, though. All those telenovelas must have gone to my head. He looked so shocked and wounded, and it’s all I can see whenever I close my eyes. My chest tightens just thinking about it.
I wonder if he thinks about me as much as I think about him. I’m probably just a crazy bitch – one of many. It’s for the best, but that doesn’t make it ache any less.
I plaster a doting smile on my face and suck in as deep a breath as I can with these spanks constricting my organs.
This is my job. I know how to do it. It feels safe.
Accompanying Tom here cements my position in this sport.
It signifies another step up – I no longer need to source my own invite, I’m an automatic plus one.
Everyone knows I’m Tom’s girlfriend. This is everything I’ve been working for.
Maybe if I think it enough times it’ll stick.
‘Hey Jules,’ calls one of the photographers, and I raise an eyebrow. ‘Do you plan ahead?’
Tom turns around, confused.
I know what’s coming. How nauseatingly predictable.
‘Depends on the circumstance,’ I say lightly.
‘How’s the selection for next year’s athlete going?’
Tom goes rigid around me.
Honestly, if this kind of thing bothered me, I should’ve picked a different career path. Tennis maybe, if my shoulder wasn’t so temperamental. Marketing agency, though I’m no team player.
Jules Butler owns her choices.
Tom, however, isn’t quite so used to being a punching bag. ‘That’s inappropriate, mate. You need to apologi—’
I wave him away. ‘It’s alright.’ I look the photographer dead in the eye.
If he wants a few hundred euros extra for getting a rise out of me, he’s out of luck.
‘I’m very happy where I am, thank you. Tonight’s about raising money for the Foundation and opening up the world of motorsport to the next generation. Let’s focus on that, shall we?’
The comms team hurry us along before he can spew any more clickbait. I feel jubilant for the first time since that wretched yacht, but the feeling soon vanishes because I thought about that wretched yacht.
Tom’s still ruffled when we sit down to eat.
I’m 99.9% sure he knows about my dating strategy.
He’s never said anything, but it’s impossible to escape the paddock grapevine, and one quick Google would unearth everything he needed to know.
It’s been deafening ever since it became clear we’re a couple.
Not having social media and being totally analogue aren’t mutually exclusive.
He has an iPhone; there are smart bulbs in his apartment. This man is no Luddite.
So why won’t he bring it up? Does he think he’s the exception? Is he in denial? Is he fine with it? Maybe he’s not as negative about my job as I first thought.
We’re on Martinelli’s table surrounded by their champions of old. As the wine’s poured, I catch the dapper seniors opposite talking about Leone and how the summer break saw a huge leap forward for them. My heart surges, and I tell it to shut the fuck up.
For starters it’s North Sea scallops, lightly seared and served with celeriac purée and black truffle. I don’t have the stomach for it, which is such a shame, but at least it looks beautiful. I slide my phone out to capture it and am mid-finding the right angle when there’s a mutter next to me.
‘Are you going to actually eat your food or just get likes out of it?’
Or maybe he’s exactly as negative about my job as I thought.
I take my time putting my phone back in my bag. ‘I’m a lifestyle content creator, Tom,’ I say with deliberate slowness. Not defensiveness, not yet, but something’s brewing that’s not far from it. ‘I document my life.’
‘But it’s not really you, is it?’
I rub my red lips together. ‘What do you mean by that?’
‘Well, I mean… You just… Oh forget it.’
‘What did you mean by that?’ I say again. He’s not getting away that easily.
He puts his knife and fork down. ‘It’s just… influencing’s beneath you, isn’t it? You’re better than fluffy pictures and exploiting yourself to strangers. Why don’t you do something… I don’t know, worthwhile?’
Beneath me.
Fluffy.
Exploiting.
Worthwhile.
Is a top-ten podcast in eight countries not worthwhile? How about a fitness clothing brand with 240% growth year-on-year? What about being one of the few Forbes 30 Under 30 listees who isn’t a nepo baby? Or how about being the youngest face of one of the biggest beauty brands in the world?
When I did a three-part series on rape in relationships and received 5000 messages of lived experience, was that fluffy? When I wrote a Substack on what it’s like to watch a parent die of cancer and people still stop me in the street to cry about their own loved ones, was that not worthwhile?
Catharsis. Understanding. Empathy. Actualisation. I do so much more than exploit myself to strangers. You drive in circles, Tom, you’re not the Dalai Lama. How dare you try and paint my achievements as shameful. Not all successes demand confetti and Moet.
‘I care about you,’ he blabbers on, ‘and—’
‘I’m going to powder my nose.’ I dab the corners of my mouth with my napkin.
His eyes blow wide. ‘Jules, wait, I—’
‘I’ll be right back.’
‘I didn’t mean—’
‘Eat your starter, Tom.’
There’s no point explaining myself to him. I don’t need him to get it. He thinks caring about someone is criticising everything they’ve built? He’s got a lot to learn. Tiago would—
Urgh, why is my brain stuck in a loop?!
I don’t even know why I’m stung. This isn’t the first time a partner’s thought me inferior. In fact, I ensure it. I guess I thought… Tom’s a nice guy. And maybe he still is. If he truly believes he’s being supportive, he’s nowhere near Brennan’s level of dickishness.
Or maybe I’m stung because a tiny part of me still, after all this time, doesn’t feel enough.
One of the tall French doors is open to let the breeze in and I escape through it, brushing a lone tear away.
There’s no music or voices out here, only the rapid clink of my heels against the stone.
Plane trees tower over manicured gardens, and there’s a horsey water feature in the middle, faintly lit from below.
It smells old and earthy, and there’s a sobering chill to the air.
My phone’s shrill ring breaks the calm, and my heart jumps when I see who’s calling. I consider not picking up, but the longing to hear his voice is a physical need. It’s only been four days – how can I miss him this much?
I want to sound angry, really I do, but my mouth doesn’t listen and it comes out embarrassingly sincere. ‘Hello?’
‘Who’s that dick in One Tree Hill who works in the record store and refers to himself in the third person?’
I’m so confused I don’t answer immediately, but the sound of his voice reaches into me and soothes me.
‘Jules, are you there? He sings with Haley and—’
‘Tyler Hilton?’
‘Yes! He’s playing Elvis in this movie I’m watching. It’s been bugging me for ages. I knew you’d know.’
I perch on the wall next to an iron lantern. ‘Glad to be of service.’
‘You’re good with things like that.’
I swallow the urge to point out that it’d have been quicker to have IMDB’d it, but I’m so glad he didn’t. I’d rather rib him instead. ‘You just love phoning people, don’t you? Call yourself a millennial.’
‘Who says millennials don’t call people?’
‘Millennials are scared of calls. It’s in our blood.’
‘That’s dumb. It’s the quickest way to communicate with someone.’
‘It’s intrusive. What if I was in the middle of something?’
He knows tonight is The Champions and Constructor’s Circle Dinner, and he knows plus ones are allowed.
‘Are you in the middle of something?’ he asks, the timbre of his voice shifting.
‘I’m always in the middle of something.’
‘That’s what happens when you’re a world-class media mogul.’
I could cry. I don’t, because of makeup, but my eyes prickle all the same. I look up to the blackened sky to be safe, feeling like everything’s wrong. How I wish he was a champion and overheard Tom’s callous words. He’d understand, he always does.
‘Hey, Jules?’
‘Yes?’
‘I’m kinda… in a fight with JC.’
My stomach drops. ‘I’m sorry to hear that. Is it about me?’
‘No,’ he says sharply, and I know he’s lying. It’s his own fault for not consulting his brother before our first meeting, but it doesn’t stop guilt wracking my body. ‘It’s not important.’
I swallow down another apology. ‘How are you doing?’
‘I feel like shit.’ I’m deflated that he doesn’t seem to be affected by our fight at all, but if he’s calling me like this, maybe he didn’t think it was significant?
Maybe that’s how Colombians fight? Oh god I’m so confused.
‘He’s my big brother, Jules. He always knows what to do and he’s…
not speaking to me. And, like, I’m getting shit from eleven group chats. ’
‘What?’
A huffed laugh. ‘They’re trying to help, I think? Who knows at this point.’
‘He’ll come around,’ I offer.
‘I don’t know. You didn’t hear what he said or how he said it. He hates me. I don’t know what to do, I thought…’
What did you think, Tiago?
Did you want to hear my voice like I wanted to hear yours? Did you want me to make it better like you make everything better? Did you want to problem solve like we do about work? Have the last few days been strained and tortured and unbearable?
I settle for the most impartial. ‘Thank you for calling me,’ I whisper.
I can hear his smile and it kills me that I can’t see it. ‘Thank you for picking up.’
A flurry in the doorway catches my attention and I look up to see Tom striding through it. I waste no time pointing to my phone and mouthing, ‘Work’. He doesn’t get the privilege of cutting my call short after what he said. My heart rate accelerates that my time with Tiago has only seconds left.
‘Listen, I have to go,’ I say into my phone, ‘but don’t worry, this’ll blow over.’
‘You think?’
Tom’s waiting, hands in his pockets, expression hard to read.
‘Absolutely,’ I say. ‘I’ll see you in the paddock.’
I put my phone back in my bag feeling something close to relief, even though Tom’s bearing down on me.
‘Who was that?’ Tom asks, aiming for casual but underpinned with acidity.
I want to bite back and say, ‘A fluffy brand’, sashaying inside with sass and dignity. But I can’t let my feelings get the better of me and affect our relationship, especially not when I’m finally embedded in the paddock. Work comes first. Work always comes first.
‘Nyla.’ I flash him a smile.
‘Look, I just wanted to apolo—’
I hold my hand up as I get to my feet. ‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘Seriously Jules, I never meant to—’
‘Come on, let’s go back. It must be almost time for the mains.’ I link my arm with his even though it feels foreign and wrong, and lead him back inside.