After a fun interlude of belly dancers sashaying through the party (that I surreptitiously film – Montclair are paying me to be here, after all), I strike up a conversation with one of their brand managers, under the educated guess he’s a mutual acquaintance. It pays off when Tom wanders over to join us.
After a lecture on the global state of freight, the brand manager leaves to go to the bathroom, and it’s just us.
‘Sorry about earlier,’ Tom says. ‘I’m pulled in so many directions at these things. It’s…’ He trails off and shrugs in defeat.
‘I get it. It’s a lot being “on” for people you don’t know. Endless mindless chatter. No real conversations.’
His eyes brighten. ‘Exactly. I hate that. It’s all so superficial and hollow. For appearances’ sake.’
God, who would do anything for appearances? What a terrible person.
‘People make assumptions about you,’ I go on. ‘They think they know you, even though the image in their head couldn’t be further from the truth.’
A smile touches his lips, intrigue unmistakeable. ‘What do you do in that situation?’
I sip my sparkling water. ‘I lean into it.’
‘Sorry to interrupt.’ It’s his publicist, and my heart plummets. ‘Tom, we need you.’
This isridiculous.
Is there a word limit or something?
Is there a thirty second ceiling before our time’s cut off?
His smile’s almost cowardly as he trails after her. I check my watch. It’s already 2.30am. He’ll be leaving soon. I don’t have much time. I need to set up one last conversation so I can?—
‘Ms Butler?’ It’s another woman in a Martinelli polo. Older. More severe. She’s looking at me like I’m in trouble, and, although my palms are sweating, I hold my ground.
‘Hi.’
‘I’m going to be very clear so there’s no confusion going forward. Tom’s in the middle of a championship campaign. We’re keeping his environment as uncomplicated as possible. He doesn’t need any speculation or distraction that might compromise his racing.
‘You’re very good at what you do, but you come with a level of attention that doesn’t align with his goals.’ Her smile’s clipped. ‘For the remainder of the season, we’ll be keeping all events internal. I’m sure you understand.’
Her message is loud and clear: back the fuck off.
I know how this works. There’s no point arguing. I smile and say, ‘Of course.’
But inside I’m writhing.
How humiliating to bekicked out. To bebanned. Under layers and layers of foundation, my face is on fire.
Since when does a grown man need his work to manage his love life? Talk about red flag. Unless he doesn’t know…
I realise, as I grab my blazer from the side, that I don’t know why I’m so affronted. This has been coming since Martinelli’s launch party weeks ago. Their reasoning’s predictable. I called it completely. I just… can’t stand rejection, I guess.
Plus, this makes my life harder, which is infuriating. She’s blown my plan to smithereens with no regard for all the good I could do for Tom and her precious team.
Complication. Distraction. Attention.
How about Amplifier. Brand manager. Accelerator. My ambition isn’t a threat; I would protect and elevate him. But there’s no point mansplaining this to her if she’s going to be narrow-minded.
Now, events and activations connected to Martinelli and their sponsors are officially out of the picture. Their comms team will be analysing guest lists with a fine-tooth comb. Thebackdoor method has been promoted to Plan A. It’s the only way I can get close to Tom.
On the positive side, I think he’s amenable to dating. He approached me twice; he listened closely; he seemed to like what I had to say. He didn’t exactly beg for my number, but maybe that was never going to happen. He strikes me as the slow and steady type.
He’s polite, he’s sweet, he’s easy on the eye, he smells great, he looks decent in a suit and… I don’t fancy him one bit. Just as well, really. I can’t afford to lose my head now.
