Page 26 of Tipping Point
“Is that what he told you?” he asks, crosses his arms over his chest.
“Just paddock talk.”
He’s grinning cruelly. “We might have come up together, but I surpassed him ages ago.”
“Does he live like this too?” Jay asks, taking in the azure ocean stretching out ahead of us.
“I doubt it,” Rheese says drily. “It’s not about the money for him. It never was. He must have millions squirrelled away.”
“He’s a scrooge?” Jay asks curiously.
Rheese scoffs. “Well, he’s not a spender. Lives like a-” Rheese pauses, taking all of us in. “Lives normally,” he ends lamely. “But it’s not like he’s earning the way he used to anymore. Delta Victor doesn’t have a big purse.” He smirks, but his smile fades slightly.
Something’s bothering him.
“You remarked that his driving style is different.” I look out over the ocean, leaning back comfortably. But he’s guarded when he takes me in. I’m being too casual about it.
“On the record,” I add. I know Rheese won’t be mean if I can quote him on it. All the drivers seem to have exemplary media training. They’re all smiles and grace when they’re in public. Rheese smiles at me, wide and cruel, like I told him a secret nobody knows.
“No comment.”
* * *
CAMILLE
The sound tech slash lighting tech’s name is Bruce, and because I’m on my fifth coffee martini, I’m finding it hilarious that it took me almost two months to learn his name.
I’m still in the sundress and we’re seated at oceanside tables at a street cafe, taking in the view. We start off admiring the army of yachts in the harbour, but somewhere around our third drink we switch to people watching. We think, after almost two months of being exposed to wealth and luxury, that we can comprehend what it is. Being in Monaco proves us wrong. The yachts tower stories high into the sky, most of them lit up and hosting lavish parties of their own. On race day, they line up and provide their billionaire owners a prime trackside view of the race. The people strolling down the streets in designer clothes or driving impossibly exotic cars are all well dressed, well spoken, and absolutely dripping with diamonds and luxury watches. The entire city is rich and looks it.
Casey is studiously ignoring Bruce and pulls her chair just slightly out of our circle, so that if she turns her shoulders from us she looks like a solo traveller, openly admiring the ocean view. It’s obvious that she’s baiting for a wealthy man and Bruce isn’t taking it well.
“Six o’clock,” Jay whispers behind his hand and as one we turn to take in a woman dressed in a bubblegum pink leather mini skirt and impossibly high heels. The dress has a bow at the front, but it’s so big she has to hold up the loops on either side with each hand.
“Guys!” Jay groans. “Don’t all look at once!”
“It can’t be fashion,” I say incredulously.
“It’s a Giacomo,” Casey offers from her spot. Her voice is awed.
We break into giggles.
“I don’t get it,” Jay says.
“Me neither.” I raise my glass and he taps it with his glass of beer.
Bruce and Evan end up leaving together and Casey, upset at being left behind, storms off after them in a huff at being abandoned. Jay can drink about twice as much as any normal man and I’m lagging behind. He orders us a round of tequila which is served in crystal shot glasses. He is trying to get me to hide them in my backpack to send home to his mom and we’re laughing; me trying to talk him out of it, him amused at my fear of being caught.
“How do you think they do it?” Jay asks me.
“Hm?”
“Living like this, always on the move.”
“I don’t know,” I say tentatively. “I think it must get exhausting, year after year, but it’s exciting too.” I take a sip of my drink. “Besides, it’s not like they’re slumming it.”
We laugh again. I spill a few drops of the espresso martini as I bring it to my lips and the dark droplets taint the pure white linen tablecloth. I wipe at it hurriedly, but it smudges.
“Shit.”