THE DRIVER’S WIFE
Keep an eye on his a*$e!
I’m often asked, “Adri, how do you manage the demands of the international fashion circuit and the Formula 1 World Championship?” Well, it’s the age-old question: how do two global icons fit into one relationship?
I usually tend to reply with an enigmatic smile, because no one ever really wants to hear me bitch about Amor’s schedule and all those endless early nights. But last night, when I was helicoptering back into Monaco, I suddenly came up with the answer. It’s like Amor and Formula 1 are the Principality and Me and Fashion are France. Each has its own boundaries and its own rules… Amor’s in charge of his little portion – and I’m in charge of the rest.
Take race weekends for example: that’s Amor’s time. He gets priority. It’s all about him. He gets what he wants, when he wants it. I am first and foremost the loyal, supportive Driver’s Wife. But from midnight on the Sunday, the next ten days are my time. Mine. Amor is not the contender for the world championship, but dutiful husband to a supermodel and future activist for a (to be decided) African or South American kids’ charity. He looks cool in the front row of Fashion Week, tweets about my new underwear line and applies my spray tan.
At home, we both have our own clear space. Amor has the garage: helmets, trophies – anything brightly coloured and covered in logos belongs in the garage. I have the apartment. Oh, don’t get me wrong, once Amor is fully debranded and stylishly neutral he can come inside – so, you see, our worlds are clearly defined. Well, until this season.
It all started after a pre-season test. He stomped into the kitchen muttering about KERS and ERS and started throwing away everything that wasn’t fruit or vegetable. Overnight he’s the world’s foremost expert on calories – and everyone’s unwanted calorie counter. Meals with him are now as much fun as a team factory tour, watching him chew on a bowl of undressed grated carrot with a superior scowl, before he heads off to swear at my bathroom scales. Last week I caught him cutting the lining out of his racing gloves and trying to weigh the little remnants. What’s next? Driving commando?
Hello! Boundaries! Starving himself (and the secret late-night binges on Nutella he thinks I don’t know about). Is this not a clear overstepping of the line? My line?
If it was only the fussy-eating teen-model behaviour then I could cope, but his getting super-skinny is creating a major problem. For nothing will ruin a marriage faster than the husband having the smaller arse.
God bless whoever gets Amor to eat a burger. Beijos, Adriana