I raise my hands in defeat. ‘Alright, alright, I won’t say anything.’
It doesn’t stop me sniggering all the way to my driver room.
Chapter 24
JULES
‘So this is it,’ I say in front of my tripod, giving it a full body shot. ‘Saturday night date night. We’ve got the white dress from Zimmermann, the Reformation sandals you guyslovedfrom my sale haul a couple of months ago, and topping it off, my Diptyque perfume that smells like heaven in a bottle. I think we’re due an updated video on boujee products that are worth every penny. I’ll mull on that one.
‘As always, you can shop all my looks on the Shop My page in my bio. Andmercifor getting ready with me! Oh god, that was so cheesy.’ I laugh a little too shrilly and run over to stop recording before I make myself vomit.
Poor Nyla, she’s got two hours of content to edit into something remotely watchable by tomorrow morning. That ending will undoubtedly need to be cut. What a cringe monster I am.
I’ll post theGRWM Saturday Date Nightreel on Instagram tomorrow and theMONACO GRAND PRIX: a Formula 1 blogto YouTube on Thursday, with a couple of trails to build momentum. It should be popular if my Emilia Romagna Grand Prix vlog was anything to go by. And this is Monaco. And it features Tom. And it’s after my date night video.
Anyway, I can’t procrastinate anymore – it’s time to leave.
People go on dates all the time, it’s no big deal. Heat is definitely not creeping up my neck as my finger hovers over the Uber app. I’m absolutely not pacing a hole in the carpet at the thought of sitting across from Tom at dinner. It completely doesn’t matter that my first ‘real’ date is loaded with pressure. Classic Jules. I never do things by halves.
I arrive at a towering block with pretty yellow scalloped sunshades on each balcony. I try to count them – counting usually calms me down – but my driver tugs at my attention wanting a tip, and suddenly I’m outside the front door and the doorman’s letting me in and I’ve only counted eight sunshades. Oh god oh god oh god.
Tom’s apartment is not as big as I’d have thought. It has a compact dining/living room space, two bedroom doors off the hall, and a small domed balcony looking over the Mediterranean. I find comfort in comparing it to Logan’s twelve-bedroom palace with its heated driveway (in San Francisco), lion sculpture in the master bedroom, and wardrobe exclusively for trainers.
In fact, this doesn’t feel like a bachelor pad in the least. It’s all abstract lampshades and plants artfully arranged in thoughtful spaces. Either an ex lived here or an interior designer did a number on it. There’s a soullessness, like it was 3D printed from a catalogue. Like Tom himself, his flat gives nothing away.
‘There’s Italy,’ he remarks, coming up behind me with two soda water and pomegranate juices, nodding to the far left side of the window. That’s the nice thing about dating athletes, they don’t tend to drink either.
I suck in a deep breath, disguising my nerves as taking it all in. ‘It’s some view.’
The neat neighbourhoods, the emptying beach, the shimmering water with the sun setting behind it. London feels like a world away.
‘Yeah it’s alright,’ he says.
It’s like blood from a stone.
‘Shall we?’ I motion to the sofas. ‘It’s lovely to talk without being interrupted.’ Even if it is to myself.
‘The day job’s a bit of a circus sometimes.’
‘Do you enjoy it?’
He takes a sip. ‘I like the racing.’
‘Not the rest of it?’
‘Does anyone like their whole job? Do you?’
Aside from the logistics and scheming, I adore my career with everything I have. I’ve worked so hard to build my businesses, and seeing women flourish from my advice fills my cup more than any cheque could. The money helps, too.
He doesn’t have to know any of that. ‘Some people must,’ I toss back lightly.
Dinner will be five courses cooked by a schmancy French chef working in Tom’s kitchen. It’s all too fussy for my taste but I go with it. Probably better than him cooking chicken and greens. He doesn’t seem like much of a chef.
Before we can get to the food, my gaze locks on the red petals scattered across my place setting, like fat drops of blood.
‘I like to treat a woman,’ he explains as he pulls out my chair.
Treat. Sure.
