Page 42 of Tipping Point

“I’m very appreciative of you, Cam,” he says quietly. “I know you were pitching hard for the Silk Road project.”

A year and a half ago, I had purchased a scarf and I was intrigued by the sewn-in label. When I had researched the brand, I located the maker, an elderly man who, along with his youngest grandson, weaved silk scarves. His grandson was the only family member who expressed an interest in learning about the dying craft. Pretty soon I’d found a potter and a blacksmith, the only remaining artisans, relics from a time where hand crafting items were the only way to make them, long overtaken by the speed and precision of modern technology. They were all located along the famous Silk Road, the last of many generations before them, and their blatant refusal to join the contemporary world held, for me, a very particular kind of magic. I had planned to spend a year with them to film them at their craft, show their heritage, preserve their histories.

They were all quite old, and I feared their end could come before I could film them, their histories and skills then lost to time forever. And yet, when Dixon called and asked, I couldn’t say no.

“You’re very welcome, Boss.”

We sign off and I sit quietly for a moment, taking in the view. I had signed on for a year, but with Dixon’s wife deteriorating, there is a big chance I will be able to walk away sooner. The thought left me restless. Unsatisfied.

Filming starts in two hours. Today we’re filming the wives and girlfriends, or WAGS, as they are affectionately known in the media, at their annual spa afternoon.

The luxury hotel we’re staying at is famous for its mineral waters and it has become an annual tradition for the women to get together for an afternoon to relax and unwind.

The hotel also has an impressive wine cellar, and a sommelier would be present to give the ladies an exclusive wine tasting while they relax and catch up.

I’m happy I asked the team to be early, because we filmed Ollie’s heavily pregnant wife arriving in a helicopter. Dressed in all neutral colours, with her long blonde hair styled to perfection, she gives us a friendly wave before making her way inside the hotel, her older sister following on her heels.

We head towards the spa to set up for filming. They have agreed for us to film them arriving, and a scene where they convene to drink wine while in their dressing gowns. Then we’ll leave them in peace and privacy until about three hours later, where we’ll film them as they leave, looking all relaxed and recharged.

From the get-go, it’s tough.

They arrive in drips and drabs, seven women, including Rheese’s girl, Valentina. Ollie’s wife’s name is Sophia, and she introduces her sister who keeps out of the shot and prefers not to have any attention on her at all. Sophia gets along famously with everyone and pretends not to notice Valentina’s envious looks at her belly.

The sommelier serves her grape juice with a flourish.

They sit around awkwardly in their white fluffy gowns in a small sitting room, stacked doors thrown open to invite in the sunny summer air. They feel uncomfortable with us watching them. They will need some help to get talking naturally.

“Hey, Sophia.” I step from behind Jay but keep clear of the shot. “I saw Ollie’s win last weekend. He pulled a pretty dangerous maneuver when the race kicked off.”

She purses her lips. “I swear, that man seems to forget he has a baby on the way and I need him alive to help me raise it.”

“Is it a boy or a girl?” a petite French girl asks. She has a prominent gap between her front teeth and a distinct cupid’s bow, her short hair styled with classic finger curls. She is stunning.

Sophia gives her a kind smile. “We don’t know.” She rubs her hands over the enormous bulge in her belly. “We’ll find out when it comes!”

“It’s so weird to call your baby ‘it.’” Valentina quips.

“Well,” Sophia says with a blush, “we don’t call our baby ‘it’ in private. We have nicknames we use.”

“I would think that’s pretty obvious” a black woman, ebony skin exquisitely dark, throws back at Valentina. She has a shaved head and a septum ring. She is tall and lanky and has a derriere so famous, it has its own social media following. Her accent is as heavy as her black eyes, narrowed in animosity.

Her name is Nakato, and she’s from Uganda. I know because I follow her derriere. It’s exquisite.

She winks at Sophia and the French girl smiles. “I hate when Matteo takes risks like that.” She steers the conversation away. “Sometimes I swear these guys have no fear.”

“They can’t do what they do and be afraid,” another woman adds.

“Actually,” I hear myself saying, breaking my rule of interrupting while filming. “I think that the fear gives them a healthy balance between risk and reward.”

I’m thinking of Finn.

Don’t.

I haven’t spoken to him since Monaco. In Montreal, he finished so well and I couldn’t find him amongst his team when they celebrated. They didn’t know where he was and couldn’t reach him at the hotel.

In France, he placed well again. This time, however, the public was ready for it. A stream of young women came dressed in his colours, screaming his name when he made his way to the car. They practically mobbed him on his walk to the paddock. If he was surprised he didn’t show it. Nothing but mild contempt and calm resignation for his fans, I think sarcastically.

I can’t help but be one of them. I admire how he’s racking up the points, especially now that I know he hates being a race car driver.

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