The McCabe Girls Complete Collection

by Freya North

  Luca nodded. ‘And have you seen the baseball caps and T-shirts? The journalists are getting them too.’

  ‘Not to mention the cereal bars,’ Ben elaborated. ‘You know they’re emblazoned with the logo and the words “as depended on by our brave team”?’

  Luca’s jaw dropped. ‘I never bloody ate one in my life!’

  Ben manipulated Luca’s ankles. ‘If you riders don’t impress the media, this treatise and accompanying branded freebies certainly will.’

  ‘We’re a friggin’ wildcard team,’ Luca exclaimed. ‘It was only confirmed we’d be racing the Tour a month ago.’

  ‘Megapac are a wildcard team only because they’re not ranked in the UCI top sixteen,’ Ben said, almost sternly. ‘It has nothing to do with the quality of the riders – merely that you’re a relatively new team and therefore have amassed no track record.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah,’ Luca said, leaning forward so Ben could listen to his chest.

  ‘Don’t rush your career,’ Ben mused. ‘If you went to Mercatone Uno or Saeco, you’d be a much smaller fish. You can really shine at Megapac – you already have. A Stage win in your first Giro – bloody marvellous. Now, let me listen to your heart,’ Ben said, stethoscope at the ready.

  ‘My heart,’ Luca proclaimed, with his right hand clasped at it for emphasis, ‘belongs to Megapac. God Bless America.’

  Ben and he laughed heartily and then fell silent while Luca’s impressive organ was analysed.

  ‘Good,’ said Ben, ‘you’re really in good nick. Just take care, young man. Recuperation is the key to success.’

  Luca sat up on the side of the examination table and took a couple of deep breaths. ‘Drink tonight?’

  ‘You can have a beer,’ Ben cautions, ‘and no women. Or vice versa.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Luca laughed, ‘something like that.’ He sprang down from the bench, slipped into his tracksuit, gave Ben a high five and arranged to meet him later.

  Ben smiled as he prepared for the next rider.

  For me, Luca personifies the point of the Tour de France – the international flavour and colour that epitomizes the peloton. He’s going to hit his peak during the Tour and do great things for the team. It’s going to be his first Tour de France, coming only a month after his first Giro where he won a Stage in fine style. He’ll go far. With my help. Ambition is in his soul but his body is in my hands. That’s the kick for me.

  Ben is sharing beer and banter with Hunter and Travis, the two American stars of Megapac. Hunter Dean and Travis Stanton are as focused and earnest as Luca is cavalier and spirited. Both are all-American boys: Hollywood handsome, open demeanour, and awesomely fit, for whom Commitment is their creed, Dedication their dogma and very much with capital letters. They’re ambassadors – representing Megapac and the United States in general, cycling in particular, their families, their colleges, their home towns specifically. They love their bikes and their moms and dads and kid siblings, their buddies in the teams and their fiancées with dreamy daft names to whom they dedicate race wins, Stage wins, tough days or good rides.

  ‘Cycling is lucky to have been chosen by you,’ Ben says, eating peanuts, ‘because I suspect you could have turned to any sport you wished and excelled.’

  They know more about vitamin supplements than I do. They love sports massage; they love citing their VO2 Max and how many kilometres they ride a year. They love knowing what their ideal body fat percentage is and they love training hard and eating the right things to ensure that they maintain it. They love quoting their power output in terms of watts, and mantras which they chant and believe in. They believe in themselves. Belief is both the ultimate and minimum requirement for any cyclist who wishes to survive the Tour de France, let alone do well.

  ‘As I said in my mission statement,’ says Hunter, touching a peanut and then forsaking it, ‘When I was a kid, I had a dream and my dream was to represent a great national team, to represent my country. I’m living my dream, man, living my dream.’ He sighs and nods gravely at Ben. ‘My statement continued: They say that racing takes it out of you, but by racing, I believe I’m giving something back. I ride because I love it but I race for all of you. That’s me, Ben, that’s how it is for me.’

  Ben sips his beer thoughtfully.

  I don’t know whether to kiss the bloke or piss myself laughing.

  ‘Your mission statement,’ Ben says instead, ‘did you write it? Were you interviewed?’

  ‘Interviewed? Was I fuck,’ says Hunter. ‘Sure I wrote it.’

  ‘And you, Travis?’ Ben asks.

  ‘It’s a mission statement,’ Travis exclaims, as if Ben is mentally deficient, ‘of course you write it yourself. Or it ain’t yours. What would that make the mission? Fucking bogus.’

  ‘Do, er, you know yours off by heart?’ Ben enquires, grateful that Luca is out of earshot or keeping his straight face would be a physical impossibility and mental torture.

  Travis balks, as if Ben has asked a most ridiculous question. ‘It starts off: They say you never forget how to ride a bike and I guess that’s true. Racing professionally enables me to make my living out of a pastime that is a pleasure for so many people.’ He pauses and shrugs. ‘And it goes on, you know?’

  Ben is saved a rendition of the entire statement by a rumpus at the other end of the bar. It is Luca, surrounding himself with an impressive, hungry female entourage. ‘What is it about Luca?’ Hunter shakes his head. ‘Huh, Ben?’

  ‘A blend of sound and vision,’ Ben shrugs, raising a bottle of beer on catching Luca’s eye.

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘The aural senses send nerve impulses to woman’s carnal core,’ Ben expostulates, knowing it’s bullshit but that Hunter would never think so. ‘At least, that’s my theory.’

  ‘Huh?’ Hunter repeats, wondering whether it is a finer point of medicine, Ben’s grammar or the effect of the rare beer that is making comprehension a little difficult.

  ‘Ears, right?’ Travis clarifies.

  ‘The accent,’ Ben specifies. ‘Luca’s curious blend of Italian and Carnaby Street peppered with Americanisms causes an involuntary chemical reaction in womenfolk.’

  Hunter laughs and chinks bottles with Ben and Travis. ‘Way to go, Luca!’

  ‘You can kissa my ass ’cos I’m not going up that fuckin’ ’ill,’ Ben imitates Luca perfectly.

  ‘Fucking Al!’ Hunter proclaims, chinking bottles again and taking a good swig.

  ‘Plus,’ Ben continues in all seriousness, ‘it comes out of the mouth of a perfectly formed, aesthetically pleasing twenty-four-year-old.’

  They observe the younger rider, in his element, flirting for England, or Italy, or America. Wherever. Perfect white teeth surrounded by pillowy lips, set into a boyish face atop a beautifully athletic physique.

  ‘Look at those women,’ Ben remarks objectively, motioning to the throng with his beer bottle, ‘they are utterly bewildered. They are caught in an extreme dilemma.’

  ‘They are?’ Travis probes, inquisitiveness keeping him in the bar though he’s glanced at his watch and thinks that, at half past nine and after half a bottle of beer, he really should be leaving so he can get eight hours’ sleep. ‘What’s the problem?’

  ‘Well,’ says Ben contemplatively, ‘they don’t know what they want more – to mother him or fuck him.’

  ‘Je-sus!’ Hunter exclaims. ‘He’s a fucking bike rider.’

  ‘Exactly,’ says Ben, ‘they can’t decide whether they’d rather run their fingers through those soft, Botticelli curls or grab hold of his buttocks and drive their nails right in.’

  ‘Go, Luca!’ Travis jockeys, ordering another beer and thinking what the hell.

  ‘Son of a bitch,’ Hunter agrees with admiration.

  Luca extricates himself from the tangle of women and saunters over to his team-mates and doctor. ‘You guys, you talking about me, hey? What you saying?’

  Bottles chink.

  ‘You’re a chick magnet,’ Hunter congratul
ates him so solemnly that it should be impossible to take seriously.

  ‘Cheers!’ Luca responds ingenuously. ‘Here’s to France and the belle femmes.’

  ‘Coming hot on the heels of the Giro and all those belle signorine,’ counters Ben.

  ‘Ah, the Giro,’ Luca says wistfully, as if it were something he’d done as a young man. ‘All those pretty babes in denim shorts and bikini tops, waving and calling your name from the roadside, coming to you at the village départs wanting an autograph—’

  ‘And being rewarded with your double kiss,’ Travis adds.

  ‘Gawping, in hot-flushed awe, as your legs were rubbed,’ Ben remembers.

  ‘All our legs are rubbed at the finish,’ Luca remonstrates.

  ‘Yes,’ Ben says, ‘but the rest don’t spread their limbs quite so wide while maintaining unflinching eye-contact and suggestive smiles with young ladies.’

  ‘I’m a young man, man,’ Luca shrugs, ‘and strong. I’m a bloke. The crowds, the passion, the girls – vive le Tour.’

  ‘OK guys,’ says Hunter, suddenly horny from the beer, the conversation, the freedom of the evening and the realization that he won’t see his fiancée again for nearly a month, ‘I’m out of here.’

  ‘Me too,’ says Travis. ‘All set?’

  Ben nods approvingly and raises his eyebrows at Luca. ‘You should do the same.’ Luca looks petulantly over to the posse of pussy whose eyes have not once left him. He regards Ben and then nods.

  ‘I’m going to have a great Tour, hey doc?’ Ben places a supportive hand on his shoulder in response. ‘I’m going to make the sponsors proud and they’ll sign me for next year – with a raise, perhaps elevate my status in the team.’

  Ben steers him through the bar and out into the night. The mountains lumber and slumber in dark mauve velvet masses against a sky smattered with an inordinate array of stars.

  ‘And my Mama and Dad – make ’em proud too,’ Luca continues. They stroll to their bikes. ‘Podium girls,’ Luca says, swinging his leg and freewheeling away. Ben catches him and they pedal slowly back to the apartments, the lethargic pace caused as much by their intent conversation as from a little alcohol.

  ‘Podium girls?’ Ben repeats.

  ‘Yeah! I want to be flanked, Ben – flanked, kissed and zipped into that yellow jersey – just for a day. I’d die happy.’

  ‘You can’t die,’ Ben reasons, ‘or you won’t be able to bask in glory, sign more autographs, dish out more kisses and increase your female fan base.’

  ‘I want to have fun,’ Luca says, ‘you know? On the Tour. On my bike and off. It’s the fuckin’ Tour de France, man – it’s my dream. I’m going to be living it. My goal is to finish in the top thirty in Paris. My dream is a Stage win. My ambition is recognition for my skill, to be recognized by the spectators, the media, my sponsors. Yeah, and the girls!’

  They pedal thoughtfully, virtually tasting the imminence of the Tour, the hopes that might be realized or could be dashed.

  ‘You know,’ Luca says imploringly to Ben as they arrive outside the doctor’s apartment, ‘I don’t mind the hills, I like the flat, I enjoy Time Trials.’

  Ben pats him on the back and bids him a good night’s sleep, stressing the word sleep with a slyly raised eyebrow.

  ‘You’ll have a great Tour,’ Ben says, ‘and it won’t end there.’

  Luca grins and spins away.

  I want to have fun. I am twenty-four years old and I want the world to know who I am. Luca Jones and the Tour de France – awesome.

  Ben closes his apartment door and regards his suitcase, packed and waiting.

  ‘Let’s have a good race, boys,’ he says, wandering over to the window and rolling down the blind. He sits on the sofa and looks at his fingers. ‘I would rather they ride well enough and safe enough that I end up twiddling my thumbs instead of using healing hands.’

  I know what the team are doing with their hands right now, Ben muses as he slips naked between his sheets. Hunter and Travis are running them all over their fiancées’ bodies, with courtesy and their partners’ sexual gratification leading the route. Luca, no doubt, now has a minimum of two pairs of tits to choose from and grope. I’ll put money on him having cycled back to the bar. No amount of sport – indoor or outdoor – alters his testosterone levels.

  He switches off the light and wonders whether he’s too tired to masturbate or tired enough not to have to.

  Shit, when was the last time for me? And not by me? That girl in Paris with the gecko tattoo?

  What was her name, Ben?

  Annabel? Annie? It was three months ago. I can’t remember. Well, I can add another month now – I would say that there’s not going to be time for anything on the Tour de France unless it’s cycling-related.

  Cat’s mind is meandering while she deliberates over the pros and cons of a rucksack versus a suitcase for three weeks in France.

  It’s not so much an ‘if I meet Hunter or Travis’ as ‘when’ – because I know that they’re happy to talk to any journalist who expresses an interest in their ride. So, when I meet Travis and Hunter, what shall I ask them? Dare I tap into their feminine sides and ask about the importance of their girlfriends to their performance? Would that be acceptable? Maybe I could find the girlfriends and ask for their stories – that would be a great idea. I could branch out, perhaps pitch an article to a women’s magazine.

  Cat decides on the rucksack and proceeds to lay out the contents of her entire wardrobe on her bed, sectioning the clothing into don’t-take, might-take and must-take.

  Mistake? Is He thinking of me preparing? Is He impressed? Untouched? Is He ever coming back? Please let France enable me to let go, to move on. Please let the physical distance mean that I won’t have to think of Him as much as I do now, when we still share the same city and my home houses His ghost.

  Alongside shorts, cotton T-shirts and cotton short skirts, Cat chooses a couple of frocks but then wonders if she is being a little too hopeful. She knows there are dinners hosted by the teams, and parties on the Sunday evening of the Champs-Elysées finale. She should be ambitious.

  What the hell, they don’t take up much space and they won’t crumple.

  Yes, but you’ll need a suitable pair of shoes – trainers and pumps are certainly practical, but somewhat spoil the line of a nice little slip dress. And remember, the Alps and Pyrenees are prone to suddenly clouding over and becoming very wet and cold. You’ll need a fleece or two, and something highly waterproof. You’d better pack your Timberland boots.

  I hope Luca has a good Tour – he’s a great rider and so colourful. The Brits are as sceptical of him taking our nationality as they are about Greg Rusedski, but I think Luca could be a useful sidekick to Chris Boardman as a publicist for the sport in my country. Chris is the consummate champ – he is to cycling what Gary Lineker was to soccer. So Luca, with his trendy haircut and his haphazard speech and flamboyant losses and crashes and triumphs, could play a different role entirely. He’d be as useful to the profile of cycling in Britain, especially awareness amongst women, as the Hollioake brothers are to cricket. I want my girlfriends to say to me, ‘Cat, when’s the Vuelta? Will Luca be racing? He’s such a spunk – that photo Marie Claire published of him alongside your article – well!’

  You and me, Luca my boy, we can do something good for cycling – and, of course, for ourselves.

  Cat props the packed rucksack upright on her bed and shuffles herself within its straps. She meanders around her flat and kids herself that the pack on her back is really rather comfortable and not nearly as heavy as, well, as it is.

  It’s loaded – and yes, all symbolism absolutely intended.

  My God, France tomorrow. I hate ferries. I can’t believe I’m almost there, that I’m going, period, that I will indeed be there. Cat McCabe and the Tour de France. Please let it last for ever.

  SETTING THE WHEELS IN MOTION

  Wednesday. The English Channel. 10 a.m.

  How strang
e. On the ferry’s deck, Cat McCabe, who has fantasized about following the Tour for years, who has recently acknowledged that a change of country – if only for three weeks – would be a sensible and constructive option, has found that she is wishing she’d stayed put, that she could be back at home. She is very nervous, convinced she’s bitten off more than she can chew and fears she might choke. Oughtn’t she just to watch the Tour on Channel 4, in privacy at home as she always has? She could be on her settee, with a nice cup of tea, proclaiming aloud that the presenters, Phil Liggett and Paul Sherwen, should have their own TV series. Or run for Parliament. Or come over to her flat for coffee and a chat.

  Maybe it would just be better if I had no interest in cycling at all.

  Cat experiences lurches of homesickness when the white cliffs start to shrink. Wafts of the panicky emotion gust through her more strongly than the buffets of sea air which, she kids herself, are the sole cause for her smarting eyes. Having enjoyed umpteen imaginary conversations with real or fictitious characters in the months leading up to this day of departure, Cat suddenly realizes she has no idea where she’ll find the confidence to approach such people in the flesh.

  I haven’t the balls. Quite literally. They’ll take the piss, surely. Me – British and female – amongst all of them.

  Furthermore, she’s had her hair cut yesterday and, though merely a variation on her common theme of shoulder length plus fringe, she doesn’t like it and feels self-conscious. The blasts from the sea breeze seem alternately to blow and suck her hair into configurations she cannot see but is convinced are queer and most certainly unattractive. She gazes at the white cliffs for as long as she knows she can really see them, trying very hard to ignore the fact that she now feels seasick as well as homesick, attempting to focus instead on France France Tour de Bloody France and all it is going to do for her sanity, her career and her future.

  When does the English Channel become La Manche? Soon? Already?

  Only a good few moments after Dover has unarguably disappeared can Cat finally turn her attention from inward and England, forward to France and, for the time being, her immediate surroundings. She turns her back on all she is leaving and faces the direction of travel, France, forwards, ever onwards. She glances around the deck, simultaneously keen for someone to recognize her yet desperate that no one will.