Page 9 of Tipping Point

Erik is angry that I never went to test the car. There was no point. Delta Victor hasn’t delivered a consistent car for the last three years. They make adjustments before every drive, and it never handles the same. They’re throwing the last of their money at the car this year. As we place worse and worse, their purse, each year, gets smaller and smaller. They can blame the drivers all they want, but I’ve spent the last two years pointing out the issues with the cars and Erik has not been receptive.

His ass is on the line too, I guess.

“Let’s walk through it before you hit free practice. We can make adjustments if you have anything to add.”

I nod. Free practice is an hour for us to warm up the cars and identify any last-minute snags. After that we’ll have qualifying.

Qualifying lasts an hour, split up into three segments.

The first segment cuts the five slowest drivers, and you place sixteenth to twentieth based on that.

The next segment is for the remaining fifteen and the slowest five place eleventh to fifteenth.

The third segment is the top ten cars fighting for pole position and they get placed on the grid depending on their times.

It’s that easy, and that hard.

There are a couple of press interviews and debriefs after that and we’ll get together as a team to finalize our race-day plan.

After that it’s curfew, and we head back to rest and prep for race-day Sunday.

I’m already shaking as I make my way to the car. Luckily, I’m frustrated as fuck. Frustrated about the contract ending, about the car these last couple of years, about Erik not listening to my feedback, about Jack having to fight the engineers. About Inez and that fucking red dress.

For a moment I think about the blonde curls, but I shut it down.

I need the anger, because for the next three hours I will be fighting my fear. The fear of losing control at two hundred and thirty miles per hour.

Because at two hundred and thirty miles per hour, people die.

And I can’t die yet. First, I need to sign the papers.

* * *

CAMILLE

We spent all day yesterday filming the crowds. We can cut the scenes into the final edit to bring the excitement and tension to the viewer.

I spot a bunch of characters in the crowd that stand out to me.

Jay is smiling behind the eyepiece, carrying the weight of the huge video camera on his shoulder.

“How’d you spot them?” he asks curiously.

It’s a young couple with a baby boy. The father is wearing the purple and orange colours of Velocity Racing, the current number one team. His wife wears the plain white colour of Bianchi, with the black bull logo on the left pocket. They are the second-best team.

The baby wears a large sunhat, and his short-sleeved onesie is obviously homemade, one half in Velocity colours, the other half white, split straight down the middle.

“C’mon!” I urge Jay. “Let’s join Evan.”

Evan is the other cameraman, and he is tasked with filming the drivers as they make their way towards their respective race cars.

“I love my job,” Jay murmurs as he zooms in on Matteo Severini, driver for Bianchi and fan favourite to dethrone Velocity Racing driver Ollie Blythe from his number one spot this year.

I spot the blue and gold colours of Delta Victor and see Irish, helmet under his arm, heading to the grid. His eyes are black as night and his hair tousled. His neck is rigid as he strides single minded towards his car. A young fan rushes out. Her parents must be filthy rich to afford for her to be allowed behind the scenes at the paddock. She steps in front of Irish with a smile on her face. I’m not too far away to see Irish pause, take her in for a moment, then give a small shake of his head and an irritable shrug of his shoulder. He brushes off the young fan rudely, pulling his fire-resistant balaclava over his head. Dark curls pop out through the hole in his eyes, his dark eyebrows heavy and low.

Yesterday and today have been, surprisingly, so much fun to film. The tension and excitement are palpable. I had a hard time sleeping last night, revising our schedule for today after learning a couple of things at qualifying yesterday. I hadn’t realised how tight-knit the teams were. I assumed it was all about the drivers, but yesterday I met and filmed the crew at Peakstone, who ended in sixth place last racing season. The easy familiarity of the mechanic and pit crew who were on a call with the engineers at their head office while tweaking the car to prepare for race day. Their driver, Callum Wright, is Australian and eager for a win on home soil. They were infecting me with their excitement. When the drivers did their walk down the lanes to interact with fans, the locals had practically mobbed Callum. He’s a tall blond guy with even teeth and a wide smile, his hair cut into a very mild mullet style that is replicated in the hundreds by the fans in the stadium. The drivers had been relaxed and generous with their time and attention and seeing Irish brush off the young girl is jarring. He did the walk with the other drivers earlier, and though he didn’t drop easy smiles, he had signed autographs willingly and had quiet discussions with fans.

The young girl’s face falls, and my heart aches for her.

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