Page 3 of Tipping Point

He is giving me nothing.

I’m hungry, and I’m tired. More importantly, I am unprepared. Our layover in Singapore had robbed me of time. I was angry at Dixon, and I was angry at myself, and I was angry that this man was being difficult just because he was used to being special.

“Look, Irish.” I brush the damn curl out of my face again. “You don’t want to be here? Well, you and me both. Unfortunately, we’re both under contract with Grande Prima Ultimate and WebFlix Max to produce this documentary, and we’re going to spend the next year doing it. And since we are, we’re going to make sure we do a damned good job.”

His face doesn’t change at all.

He doesn’t move.

“How about,” I speak through gritted teeth, “you give us your name, a smile and a wave, and we’ll make you look good in the edit?”

He pushes up off his chair and he ‘tsk’s me.

“Don’t call me Irish,” he says as he walks away.

“Well, fuck you too,” I say under my breath.

The sound tech laughs.

* * *

CAMILLE

The crew is gracious about it.

“We’ll get him next time.” The cameraman shrugs. He’s an American named James, but says, “Call me Jay,” with a very laid-back attitude. He’s happy to be here, and it shows.

“We have an entire year of filming ahead,” he says kindly. “Why don’t you head to the hotel and catch up on some sleep?”

I nod gratefully. “See you guys tomorrow at qualifying.”

They wave me off cheerily and I grab my luggage and head outside. And it hits me for the first time. I’m in Australia. Next weekend I’ll be in Bahrain, then Shanghai, Barcelona, Monaco…

Twenty-two races on the calendar for this year’s Annual Grande Prima, and millions and millions of dollars swirling around. Everyone knows athletes make serious bank, but this is on another level. The whole sport revolves around luxury.

And today, I am grateful for it. As I get out of the cab in front of the Empyrean Luxury Hotel Melbourne, I drop a quick thanks to WebFlix Max. We might be a small crew, but we will travel in style. That’s one bonus of filming the rich and famous. You have to stay close.

I can’t help but marvel at the glossy hotel lobby and the discreet hushed tones of the staff as they slip by on quiet feet. The concierge gives me a genuine smile and makes me feel important.

Talk about customer service.

I’m welcomed and issued my room key without a fuss, and when I book into my double room, I immediately phone down for room service. Between being hungry, dirty, and tired, I am prioritising food.

After I’ve eaten, I will feel a ton better.

I hop in the shower for a quick wash, including the blonde curls, and when I step out, I hear the soft knock on the door announcing my meal. My burger arrives on a silver trolley, under a silver dome, which the server removes with a flourish to show me my meal.

There is a slight pause where I’m not sure if he expects me to clap, and it’s only after I shut the door behind him that I realise he’s waiting for me to tip him.

Whoops.

I scarf down the burger and lay back happily. I’m just not myself when I’m hungry.

It’s then that I really take in the room.

Understated luxury. The carpet is soft and firm, the room modestly decorated, but tastefully so. The sheets on the bed are thick and soft. Even the lighting is well thought out. When I look in the mirror, the soft glow softens the dark circles under my eyes, casting the curls in a shiny halo, my tired skin basking in the natural light.

If I ever get rich, I’m installing lighting like this.

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