THE DRIVER’S WIFE
I have a love rival: Scott
I am Adriana Oliveira, in fact I don’t even have to use my surname, I am known throughout the world as just Adriana. How many women can say that? Although quite frankly that should be enough, I am one of the longest standing Victoria’s Secret Angels (I started when I was extremely young) and have been voted the World’s Sexiest Woman four times. FOUR times. So tell me, how the hell did I, international sex goddess, end up in competition with a bloody bike?
His manager always says to me, “Adriana, we [he says that when he means me] have to try to keep his environment as tranquil as possible over a race weekend.” That’s British for “Leave him alone and don’t stress him out.” So I do as I’m told, I’m not a total egotistical bitch, but after the race weekend, that means it’s all about me and ONLY me.
But still I’m supposed to share him with his manager, physio, trainer and press officer; with the team boss, engineers, mechanics, marketing; with sponsors, media and fans. And that was in life B.S. (Before Scott). Scott is worse than all the others put together because he’s taking over his soul.
What about me? I have needs too. What’s the point of having this face and this body if nobody’s looking?
To him I am ‘Adri’ whereas the bike is ‘My Scott’. “Have you seen the new aero bars on my Scott, Adri?” “I can’t go out now, I have to install the ceramic bearings on my Scott.” No one is allowed in our apartment without removing their shoes and being forcibly encouraged to wash their hands. But the bloody mud-spattered bike is wheeled into the sitting room, where it is lovingly cleaned with baby wipes. I swear I hear it taunting me: We’ve scaled mountains together: don’t even try to understand.
So somehow I found myself pulling out all my best moves to compete against a piece of metal (“Oh, it’s carbon fibre, Adri baby”). I lit some candles, put on the ultra-sexy babydoll I borrowed from the last shoot and struck a pose on the bed. Forty-five minutes I waited like that until I got a stiff back and a sore throat from sighing. I stomped around the appartment, finally tracking him down in the bathroom, where he’s naked on the scales holding the bloody bike. “Look, Adri, it’s 300 grams lighter with the carbon rims!”
The next morning when I wake up yet again to an empty bed, I decide enough is enough. Apart from everything else, no man should be so proud of displaying his assets in skin-tight lycra.
So to all of you early risers in Monaco, sneaking out in rainbow-coloured leotards, I’m on to your two-wheeled cult and I’m staging an Adri-intervention. I’ve got a Vuitton hold-all full of tacks and I will use it. God bless you (unless you are a cyclist).