Page 101 of Tipping Point

CAMILLE

GRANDE PRIMA DRIVER SURVIVES HARROWING CRASH

I lower my phone, where I was reading the news.

I breathe in slowly through my nose, my sunglasses covering my closed eyes.

“Cam?” Amy places a large cup of coffee down on the wonky street cafe table, placing a hand tentatively on my shoulder.

I cover her hand with my own and give her a nod.

I have to shake it off, that moment my eyes scanned the article, holding my breath, searching for the confirmation, and the relief that floods me.

He’s okay.

There is nothing I could do about it. I have never felt more hopeless. I have spent the last few weeks caught in a constant loop. First the buildup of absolute terror as race day approached. And then race day, the terror through the race, my fear a weight on me, suffocating me. And then, the relief. When he was called to pit. His suspension.

That weight tumbling off to be replaced by featherlight hope.

And then this last race.

When he pulled away, I knew. Amy had heard my keening wail and, confused, held me as I cried. She had known everything but this. This was the secret core of him, and I couldn’t bring myself to tell her how broken he was, how poisoned by his own guilt.

When I had just returned, I told her I couldn’t bear the fear of watching someone I love risk their life. And she could understand it, mourned with me.

I had always been logical when it came to romantic relationships in the past, so she could understand it, understand how I would come to that conclusion.

She had stood by helplessly as I cycled through my emotions every week, bracing for the race ahead, my fear, my relief. She knew I was holding out on something, and as she watched me over the last few weeks, she had grown more and more frustrated at my silence. She tried to distract me, take me out. Drew me warm baths and forced me to eat. But she could not hide her confusion when I insisted on watching every race.

“Don’t do it, Cam.”

“I have to know…”

“You need to move on.”

“I know!” I could not.

“Cam, please. What is going on?”

Every time she asked, I was torn. I wanted to tell her, but somehow, it felt like I would betray him. Like maybe I would betray myself.

“Cam, help me understand.”

I shook my head.

She had shaken her own and watched me reach for the only thing that could anchor me, my work.

London in November is dreary. After chasing the summer season over the globe, the cold was taking some getting used to. Pretty soon after finishing our coffees over mild conversations, the rain started pouring down and we grabbed a cab home. In the small sitting room, we step over my equipment, all packed in crates and bags. I want to fly out to Sar-i-Pul, the small village in northeastern Iran, where I want to reconnect with the weaver and his grandson. I haven’t been able to get a hold of them yet. The number I have is out of service and the importer of the scarves confirmed that the last shipment they received was two months ago.

They’d let me know if they heard from him.

Frustrated, I spend the next week arguing with the embassy to get my visa application started. I need an invitation from an Iranian national before they’ll even begin the process. Frustratingly, I need to wait.

Dixon calls as I sit on the couch, feet tucked under me, unwashed hair standing out around my head like a halo.

He phones regularly for insight or guidance on the project as he acclimatises to the role. I expect another question about the crew, or insight into someones character as he navigates the scores of people who keep the Prima Grande wheel turning.

“Cam?” he asks tentatively.

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