‘Iknow.’
She lowers her voice even more. ‘He’s not like the others, Julesy. This time has to be different.’
She’s putting it lightly – it’s a fucking nightmare – but she does me a solid by not saying it. Tom doesn’t know who I am, and doesn’t care how I can help him. For the first time ever, my need of a prospective boyfriend is one-sided.
I have no choice: I have to manufacture this relationship for real.
Pursuing him is entirely unethical but I can’t see another way. I’ve committed to F1 and Tom for weeks now, it’s too late to change direction. I might not have ethics but I do have integrity. I don’t know why I feel so slimy about it; women have been using men for millennia. And like men haven’t been using women?
Anyway, he’s a knob so it’s fine. I mean, he didn’t act like a knob when Étienne confronted him, but he was in company so who can be sure. He’s an athlete – they’re the biggest knobs in all of knobdom.
‘But we’re talking aboutTiago,’ I moan.
‘I knew him last year and he wasn’t a loose cannon,’ says Minnie. ‘A fuck boy, sure, but he’s a committed driver, and he was always friendly and generous to me. He was one of the only drivers who let me interview him when I first started out. I can’t defend how he treated you, but we shouldn’t underestimate how much this transfer’s taken a toll on him.’
‘I don’t want to be around someone who can’t handle rejection. I don’t need that negative energy in my life.’
‘Jules.’ Minnie shoots me a naughty schoolgirl look. ‘Stop self-sabotaging. Think of what’s important here.’
Urgh, she needs to stop being such a menace and saying sensible things. Let me live in my fantasy where Tom plays ball and Tiago fucks off and I get everything I want.
‘How’s the Paddock Club?’ She changes the subject.
‘Delightful. They have a doughnut station. It’s like someone told them my weakness.’
‘Heaven! Meanwhile, these pastries are my lunch.’
‘Minnie.’I glower at her. ‘Why don’t you come up to the Paddock Club with me for lunch? Then we could go to the FanZone together. I hear there’s a zip wire over the track.’
‘I’m press, Julesy; you’re a Paddock Club guest. They’re strict about that around here. Also, I have this thing called a job.’
‘What’s a job? Sounds dull.’
We pull faces at each other and trail off, giggling.
‘Come on.’ Minnie dusts the crumbs off her hands and loops an arm around mine. ‘Put your Jules Butler face on and let’s talk to the paddock girlies.’
I blow an exhale. ‘Do we have to?’
I got up at 5am to get ready and I’m confident this red Celine chiffon dress was a good decision, and yet I still feel like a gnarled moose compared to these WAGs Minnie knows. I’ve seen my fair share of glamorous partners over the years. Polished tennis WAGs with country club couture. Try-hard football WAGs with bulging lips and flashy jewels. Athleisure-clad swimming WAGs who love being Clean Girls. Outdoorsy rugby WAGs with human-named dogs. Outrageous NFL WAGs with bushy lashes and swampy extensions. Butthesewomen? They float through race weekends, polished, sun-kissed, and decked in linen. They don’t find the camera, the camera finds them.
And the most annoying part? They’re all extremely accomplished. Every single one. A doctor, an economics student, a former Miss Brazil, an F1 Academy driver, a hyperpolyglot who’s just written a children’s book, and, not forgetting the most important of all: an F1 journalist. Yay for empowered queens, but also could they please have a flaw to make me feel better? They’re not even insular bitches – they’re so bloody nice.
‘I saw your vlog about the Japanese Grand Prix and Ilovedyour observations,’ says Gustaf Henriksson’s girlfriend, former Miss Brazil. ‘“Freed from Desire”doesplay on repeat at every race weekend.’ Knowing titters trickle around the table. ‘What do you think about Saudi?’
‘The paddock’s gorgeous, it’s like a five-star hotel,’ I start, and they hurry to agree. ‘But the humidity here’s no joke. Thoughts and prayers to anyone who curled their hair this morning.’ They burst out laughing. ‘You can’t do a fit check when you’re leaking all over.’
‘You wait for Miami,’ cautions the economics student.
Oh, I can wait, that’s for damn sure. Another fruitless weekend where I look even more desperate? In Tiago’s hometown so I’ll see his maddening face wherever I go? Unsubscribe.
‘And they really love their lasers here, don’t they,’ I round off, and heads nod.
Miss Brazil takes my hand and I start at the contact. ‘I’m so pleased you chose F1. We can’t wait for you to be one of us officially and help elevate this sport. We’re all hoping Tom comes to his senses soon.’
I know she means to be encouraging, but my cheeks burn all the same.
It’smortifyingthat everyone knows I’m struggling. I can’t tell which is worse: them thinking I’m chasing a man who doesn’t fancy me back, or the truth.
