My eyes bug out. ‘I didwhat?’
‘I voted on your account. We’re so likeminded, it’s scary sometimes. Oh my god,basketball’sat the top again. They’re only choosing that because she wore Jordans last week, but if these morons thought about it for ananosecondthey’d know she’d never go for an American again.’
‘Why not?’ asks Trey.
‘Because she dated Logan Rogers last year. You know, the 49ers’ quarterback? It was a weird fit. I didn’t think the NFL was her thing. She’s very European: chic, classy.
‘I say he’s going to be from Australia,’ she blabs on. ‘Last night, I went down this rabbit hole of theories, like she wore a red racing bomber jacket to the Chiefs game in November. There’s no current red team in F1, but the traditional colour of the sport is red.
‘Then, on the same weekend as the Abu Dhabi Grand Prix a few weeks later, she went to Monaco, woredark blue shoes, and took a story of herself walking around theFairmont Hairpin – a significant corner for a certain team.’ She’s staring at us like a mad scientist. ‘Which team is dark blue?’
I back away. ‘You’re possessed.’
‘Martinelli!’ Trey yells triumphantly, like he’s just proven his performance coach worthiness to her. I’m so proud.
‘Correct. Is there a driver for that team who’s single and from Australia? Why yes, there is: Thomas. Andrew. Webber.’ She claps hard and we both start. ‘I’m a freaking detective. The FBI should hire me.’
‘Will you shut up about her already?’ I snap. ‘She’s a talentless nobody who makes money duping idiots like you into thinking she’s relevant.’
‘I’m right, I know I’m right. You’ll see.’
Chapter 3
JULES
LONDON
In contrast to my many ‘pack with me’ vlogs, the reality of packing is not a serene affair with a fresh Japanese garden-scented candle and clothes whimsically thrown in a case. My dressing room floor is coated with meticulously crafted outfits arranged in perfectly straight lines.
Over the winter, I collated dozens of Pinterest boards – Melbourne in spring; Monaco in May; wet Silverstone; dry Silverstone. Pieces were bought, photographed and catalogued until I had over two hundred outfit choices for the F1 calendar stuck on a pin board in the corner of the room under subheadings of events and content moments.
My assistant, Nyla, bustles in carrying thigh-high boots. ‘Are you sure you don’t want to bring these? Louis Vuitton are the Australian Grand Prix’s title sponsor.’
I shake my head, my hair threatening to spill free from its haphazard topknot. ‘Too NFL.’
Last year was about brash and All-American glam; now it’s understated luxury. Neutral tones and clean tailoring, blazers and strong silhouettes. Vintage Miu Miu, Chanel, and Hermès accessories.
‘Got it.’ She slips out.
It really is an obscene amount of stuff to bring for four days. Nevertheless, I get my stool, lay an old towel on top so my fresh tan doesn’t imprint anywhere, and start rolling up the clothes one by one. I’m going to get a hunchback in the name of seventy-two hours of bronzed perfection.
Nyla kneels beside me and does the same.
‘This is much more you, I think,’ she says softly. ‘The fashion, I mean.’
‘Me too. There’s only so much red and gold I can stomach.’
‘The bodycon dresses.’ Nyla makes a face.
‘The faux fur coats.’
‘Thelogos,’ she whispers, wide-eyed, like they might hear.
I make a retching sound as I zip my packing cube. ‘Andsomuch Versace. I couldn’t put those red sneakers on Vinted fast enough.’
Nyla slots hers in the case beside mine. ‘Baseball’s leading the poll now.’ She slides me a sly smile, a funny look on someone who’s pure sweetness.
I purse my lips to hide my grin. ‘I wonder why that could be.’
