We posted three photos on Instagram this week with stripy pieces of furniture in the background, and this morning Nyla shared my Spotify story showingCenterfieldby John Fogerty, which is apparently a baseball anthem.
Despite getting tempting offers from Fifth Base, Coach, and Topps – even Levi’s dropped into my inbox yesterday – baseball doesn’t give me what I want.
It’s so trivial, all this Easter egg planting, but that doesn’t mean it’s not insanely fun. Even the tiniest, vaguest clues get pounced on. Sometimes they’re not even clues at all. An autumn leaf emoji I used last September apparently suggested this year’s pick was going to be British.
‘How many votes are we up to now?’ I ask, trying and failing to neatly fold a blazer.
She doesn’t need to consult her phone. ‘Eight-point-three million.’
I let out a low whistle. ‘How much is that up from last year?’
‘Last year it closed at five million, so currently 66%.’
Excellent.
They’ll get it the day after tomorrow when I land in Australia. Maybe even tomorrow if I get spotted heading to the airport gate. I should wear a Melbourne Demons cap to throw them off one last time.
‘How are you feeling about the flight?’ asks Nyla, rolling up my favourite Alaïa dress.
‘Fine. Obviously. We fly all the time.’
‘I know, but?—’
‘I have fifty anti-bacterial wipes, my sleep mask, noise-cancelling headphones, and a thirty-hour playlist of pink noise. Don’t worry about me.’
‘It’s twenty-three hours, Jules, with one stop. You can’t sleep the whole?—’
Changing the subject. ‘Let’s go over the schedule.’
I reach for my laptop and stretch my neck while it fires up. Nyla’s nervousness is radiating off her, but it’s my issue. I can take care of myself. I’ve been doing it for years.
‘We land mid-afternoon on Friday. We check into the hotel, freshen up, and then I have drinks with Minnie and her driver friends. A very useful session for intel since Tom’s teammate Étienne should be there.’
Nyla nods along while she packs.
‘Saturday is content day,’ I plough on. ‘We’re going to Hozier Lane, the Botanic Gardens, Great Ocean Road, and the Lululemon store because they’ve asked me to post about their new leggings.
‘Saturday evening, we have Martinelli’s annual launch party, thanks to their sponsor Patrón who got in touch after the Fairmont Hairpin clue.’
Nyla grins. ‘Thank you ChatGPT.’
‘This will be my first official connection to F1, and the place where I’ll meet Tom. This year’s entire strategy hangs on this one event, so it needs to go perfectly.’
She smiles her affirmation. ‘Securing your man’s never been a problem before.’
This is true, but Tom not having social media’s giving me pause. He’s heard of me, right? What if he has a secret girlfriend? And what if?—
I need to stop worrying about things I can’t control. I’ve done my due diligence and everything’s in place.Obviouslyhe knows – all this guessing’s inescapable.
‘So you’re planning to hard launch him at Saudi Arabia in April?’ Nyla asks.
I put my laptop aside and kneel before my toiletries case. ‘Ideally. The relationship needs to last at least six months to make any significant gains and be believable. It’s crucial that I’m seen as an F1 personality and a figure in the paddock – not just some disposable influencer girly – or this will all be for nothing. The earlier the better.’
The weight of what I have to accomplish this year hangs heavy in the air. It’s thrilling, all these Easter eggs and schemes, and my singular growth strategy really does pay dividends – quantitative metrics, brand elevation, rate increase, event access, relevance, and, most importantly, longevity.
But it is getting a little old. Setting this up is crazy time consuming, only to attach myself to an odious man for months.
It’s all about the bigger picture, and that I can commit to.
