‘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 Moët.
