As we crowd together for a ‘Women of the Paddock’ group photo, I can’t help but think F1’s edging its way into being my new favourite sport. Between the glamour, style, drama, and camaraderie, it’s me down to the ground. I can see why Minnie loves it so much. I want to embed myself in it in a way I haven’t felt since tennis.
Brands are approaching me, my following’s steadily increasing, and journalists on the grid are asking what my predictions are about the upcoming race, not just about the fashion or how it ‘feels to be here’. Things are definitely moving in the right direction. I just need the most critical piece of thepuzzle to fall into place and I’ll finally be seen as a legitimate presence in F1.
If tonight’s Montclair event goes well, I’ll happily forget Tiago ever propositioned me. But if it doesn’t…
Chapter 13
JULES
This evening, I’m trying a different tactic. Tom doesn’t care about appearances. His team have a fixed impression about me. I have one night to turn it all around.
Enter: Jules Butler, Creative Director and entrepreneur.
My outfit’s demure – sleek black Dior dress, minimal jewellery, clean makeup. Both Nyla and my tripod are staying at the hotel. This will work.
Itneedsto work.
I fight my own battles. I solve my own problems. I don’t need some last-place, hot-headed, womanising self-aggrandiser to help me. And I’m going to prove it.
Take four, here I come.
The stage is set, a boardwalk on the banks of the Red Sea. It’s luxury Swiss watch brand Montclair’s activation to launch their new collaboration with Martinelli, cemented with a one-of-a-kind Saudi Arabian Grand Prix limited edition timepiece. Thankfully, it’s Montclair’s guest list, so I managed to charm my way onto it.
We’re surrounded by floodlit palm trees and displays of £50,000 watches which glitter like crushed ice in the moonlight.A DJ’s playing cool Arabian dance music, but no one’s dancing. It’s easy to forget the party started at 1am. Time works differently out here. Maybe that’s the hook. Smart.
The drivers won’t hang around for long with race day tomorrow so as soon as I spy an opportunity, I’m seizing it. Since Tom’s currently speaking to a group of very official-looking Saudi dignitaries, I wait. I’ve spotted Étienne three times but I don’t think he’s seen me. The thought of the Tokyo FanZone repeating itself is the reason the pad of my thumb’s red raw. Mortified’s too weak a word for what I felt – what I still feel. Martinelli events aren’t sustainable, at least until Minnie confirms he’s totally cooled off, and her voice note while I was getting ready suggested we’re not there yet.
I’ve never had to woo a man before (impressing Damian with my ability to read my opponent on court doesn’t count) so I’m no expert, but I do know athletes. Tom’s a man used to being handled, fawned over, performed for, and something tells me it’s not really him. To be a serious contender, I can’t show admiration or agenda. I’m a safe space, not a fangirl.
I’m going in blinder than I’d like. Tom isn’t an easy man to get to know the new-fashioned way (i.e. without speaking to him). With no social media platforms, an affable public persona and intensely private life, it’s near impossible to disentangle the job from the man beneath the helmet.
However, I saw a vintage Omega Speedmaster on his wrist in the paddock yesterday, the same one he was wearing in a magazine from ten years ago. Watches clearly aren’t a marketing stunt for him, and in a world that reveres the shiny and new, this guy has nostalgia in spades.
I mosey up to the watch display vaguely near him and it isn’t long before the chatter around me quietens and I’m not the only reflection in the glass.
‘See something you like?’ he asks.
‘Just… The patina on this dial is beautiful. You don’t see that on the new chronos.’
I meet his gaze, expecting shrewd understanding, and I get… a downturned mouth, like I’ve just told him otters turn yellow when they’re dry.
‘And in English?’ he prompts.
Oh God, was I… wrong? Did I misread one of the only personality markers I have? ‘Do you know m-much about watches?’ Get it together, Jules.
‘Nah, I just want them to look cool.’ He rotates his wrist in the light so it throws sparkles around us.
What the hell’s going on? I’m usually very good at assessing people. ‘Do… Do they hold sentimental meaning for you?’
He barely thinks about it. ‘Not really. I had to wear an old one yesterday because the battery died in my new one, and all the others are back in Monaco. Great timing, huh?’
Not sentimental. Not nostalgic. Not a watch guy. Next he’ll declare he’s Armenian and the Aussie accent’s fake. He spears everything I think I know and offers nothing in return. It’s rude, really. How am I supposed to seduce him in one night if I don’t know anything about him? I’mthisclose to bringing upNeighbours. I flew Qantas once, I wonder how I could work that in.
‘Did—’ I’m cut off when he’s quite literally pulled away for fan photos.
I take the opportunity to refresh my drink and survey the vicinity for a lanky French boy, and happily come up dry.
This is good. I needed a break to regroup. From now on, I’m going to steer clear from what I think I know about Tom and focus on the facts. He came over to me when I wasn’t even looking at him. It’s reasonable to assume he likes that I’m not asking anything of him or chasing his approval.
