Page 58 of Tipping Point

Announcements must have been made because Ollie grabs my hands, holding the silver trophy and hoists it up into the air. It’s an absolute barrage of noise. Next he lifts his own golden cup and we’re handed bottles of champagne.

I tap mine habitually on the podium and stride towards the edge of the balcony and pop the top over the entire Delta Victor crew below. Their faces are upraised, laughing, getting drenched in champagne.

Ollie, behind me, drenches me. He’s ecstatic. His joy for me is tangible.

As I lower the bottle, my eyes scan the crowds. I pick out Jay’s lanky frame holding the camera, lens pointed towards me. Behind him, Camille has a fist in the air. She’s cheering like crazy, tears streaming down her face, and I know it’s for me. After how I treated her, she’s putting that aside to celebrate this win for me. Her joy is for my joy.

I could love her, I swear it.

* * *

FINN

She doesn’t answer her phone when I call. She won’t answer. I’ll need to make her, if I want her to talk to me.

I know exactly how. It takes me two days.

“Are you insane?” Camille is practically shouting down the line. “I absolutely cannot accept this.”

She’s furious because I had the Celestia diamond collar sent to her. Via the WebFlix Max team.

“I told you it wasn’t for me.”

The line goes quiet.

“Do you not have anything to say?” I ask, surprised.

“No.”

“Well, if you really don’t want it, why don’t I pick it up?”

She gives a groan of frustration and her address in London. I have another black SUV rental car at my disposal.

The drive down takes an hour and a half, and I take another twenty minutes to find her street in Kensington. Two rows of identical white houses line the street. I take the first parking spot I can get and walk the rest of the way.

The front door is identical to every other door. After I press her flat number, she buzzes me up.

She opens the door before I can knock.

“Tea?” she offers.

A truce.

“Cheers.”

It’s a typical flat share. Two personal styles are clashing in an irregular melody of colour and design. A bookcase takes up an entire wall, and it’s overflowing. There seems to be an abundance of autobiographies, coffee table books, and actual encyclopedias, sprinkled with romance and cooking books. The modern sofa has a Ndebele blanket thrown over one end and on the wall is an array of carved wooden masks. One’s wearing a pair of red heart sunglasses.

I can smell her perfume as she walks towards the kitchen. Her curls are loose and still damp, and she’s wearing a white cashmere sweater over black leggings. Her feet are bare.

In the kitchen she puts the kettle on to boil and takes down two mismatched cups from a cupboard. I can’t remember the last time I stood in a flat this small. The women I meet come to me. I haven’t seen how someone else lives for years.

The cabinets have all been painted yellow, and the fridge is covered in photos and magnets.

Camille and a black woman with Fulani braids smile out from most of them.

“Your roommate?” I ask, taking one off the fridge.

She nods. “Her name is Amy.”

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