The hospitality lounge is rapidly filling with F1 royalty, celebrities, sportsmen, and more influencers. This team doesn’t do things by halves. There are top DJs, art installations, a step-and-repeat area, and fire spurting from both sides of the track. They even have lighting assistants running around with LED wands for content creation. Can all events be like this please?
‘I’m loving your hijab tonight,’ I say as I pick the leanest canapé off a passing platter.
Nyla touches it shyly. ‘Thank you.’
‘Not many people can pull off burnt orange, but you can.’
‘Well, Leone is Martinelli’s development team and I felt like they wouldn’t get much love tonight, even though the party’s for them too.’
‘They need all the support they can get.’
‘I thought so.’
Qualifying was a painful watch, and I’m not even a Leone fan. Their rookie driver crashed out on his second lap. Their other driver didn’t have the pace to make it out of Q1, and starts tomorrow in eighteenth place.
Time to focus on tonight. Tom’s contracted to be here (thank you Minnie for the intel) so this is my best chance to meet him. It’s so handy our sponsorships lined up so we could be in the same place at the same time. What are the chances?
Nyla comes back with my two drinks – one margarita for show, and one soda and lime for drinking. ‘I just saw Étienne Blanchet. The drivers are here,’ she whispers close to my ear.
My stomach drops. Shit. Ok. Fuck.
I skim the crowd and land on Leone’s Tiago Cabrera – Mr P18 – telling a story that has the crowd of corporate men around him in hysterics. He’s the prettiest of pretty boys with a smile that could charm even Minnie at the height of her no men phase, and eyelashes I can see from here. His dark hair’s textured like he doesn’t spend too long styling it but still likes to look sharp. His suit is utterly impeccable, perfectly tailored, designer cut, and black as night. I bet he smells divine.
He’s trouble. Even if I hadn’t heard the stories – the threesomes, the belly dancers, the OnlyFans models, the Princess of Bahrain – I’d know that from one glance alone.
There’s a man standing near him who looks like he could be his brother. The same cheekbones and tanned skin, but with long hair slicked back in a bun, a well-kept beard, and a sleeve of tattoos poking out from his similarly impeccable suit jacket. What genes.
And behind them: Tom Webber.
My heart skips a beat, more from exhilaration than attraction. He’s attractive, of course he is, with a tall frame, clean-shaven face, and suit too loose for him. His strawberry blond hair needs a trim, and why is his whole outfit brown, even down to his shoes? You’d think with all his millions he could afford a stylist. I guess it gives me more to work with.
He has a quieter presence than Tiago, speaking closely with two people. He gives off uncomplicated confidence, the kind that comes from being a serial titleholder.
I try to make eye contact but he’s too absorbed in his conversation. That’s nice, I guess. Nothing worse than talking tosomeone who’d rather be with someone else. I take a sip of soda water and prepare to wait – not something I’m typically good at.
‘Jules, it’s time to shoot content for Patrón,’ nudges Nyla, motioning to the camera crew set up at the bar in the corner.
I nod. Makes waiting easier, I suppose.
In between takes of speaking to the baristas and mixing margaritas, I glance over at him but he’s always,alwaysengaged. I tap my foot. No one needs to be that good a listener.
By the end of our small shoot, I’ve decided to orchestrate a meet cute. My nerves are jangling, not least because the person beside him looks like a minder. They’re probably just making sure he speaks to the right people and hits the right beats.
As Nyla and I head back into the throng, I steer us towards his group, strategising the perfect nudge to catch his attention without being too gruff. His exes were wincy little models, after all, not junior tennis champions with a ‘cannonball’ serve.
It does the trick. I ‘get pushed’ into his arm, and he catches my eye as I say, ‘I’m so sorry.’
Ash was right – his smile is kind. Arresting, even. ‘No worries,’ he says.
Before he can utter anything else, I straighten and walk away.
Step one: done.
I’ll give him half an hour to come to me, and if he doesn’t, we commence with step two. This one’s harder. I need to forge a deeper acquaintance using the people around him. My best bet is the senior brand ambassador at Patrón, and after another lime soda, three salmon puffs and some interviews with influencer friends, I can’t wait any longer.
‘Do you need moral support or shall I go around and get some B-roll footage?’ Nyla asks, hoisting her bag higher on her shoulder.
‘No, you go. I’ll be fine.’
