by Freya North
He needs his soigneur. Or his doctor. It always gets me – on his bike, a rider looks so strong. Off it he appears almost vulnerable.
‘Have you a quote for me?’ Cat asks.
‘Sure,’ says Luca, hands on slim hips. ‘Where you staying, babe?’
‘Plouay,’ Cat replies.
‘You come round the hotel, to my room, I’ll give you soundbites,’ Luca says, his accent making her smile more than any ulterior motive detectable.
‘That would be great,’ Cat enthuses, ‘I’ll see you later.’
‘Ciao, bambina,’ Luca says.
Cat hovers.
I’d better go. I need the doctor. Where’s Ben?
There’s Ben. With a woman. She’s standing coyly with her back against the truck of that tree. He’s standing in front of her, as close to her as he was to Cat yesterday. Not so much invading the woman’s space as dominating it. There’s a difference – Cat has already experienced it. It’s subtle – the former would be undesirable, intrusive. The latter is disconcerting and compelling.
Poor Cat. This is not jealousy but despondency. There’s Ben, whom Cat has longed to see all day. But he has not been looking out for her. His attention has been caught by this other woman. Look at them now – Ben has cupped the woman’s face in his hands and is looking into her eyes intently. Look at her, all legs that are brown and a face that is perfect. It doesn’t matter that she is wearing a minuscule scarlet frou-frou frock, nor that her head is crowned with a ridiculous hat in the shape of a Coke bottle top. The point is, she is a podium girl and she is stunning. Cat is a journaliste in a pair of now creased khaki shorts, a vest from a children’s department and a white shirt with ink on the cuff and a coffee stain down the front. She is also wearing boots that might very well carry the Timberland seal of authenticity, but objectively they are what her Uncle Django calls ‘clodhoppers’.
Oh God. Uncle Django. I told Fen that if Sassetta won, she could tell Django about bloody Ben.
Cat turns her phone off, turns and walks away quickly but not briskly. There is no spring in her step. She takes herself off to an area behind the finish line where officials are busy dismantling the temporary grandstands. She finds a crate and sits down, head in hands.
Shit and double shit. Now everyone at home knows about Ben bloody York – whose attraction for me obviously doesn’t exist apart from in my delusions. Josh, whom I like and respect, now knows and defines me by a boyfriend who doesn’t exist – which leaves me vulnerable. For Ben York, though, I don’t exist.
Cat, you sound adolescent and rather pathetic.
I’m trying to fucking heal, to make my way forward.
Does that take a man? How about Luca then?
Fuck off. He’s a rider in the Tour de France. He’s superhuman. I absolutely wouldn’t dare touch him or even encourage him. Think of the consequences.
What about Josh?
I think I’ll end up adoring Josh. But for me, there’s no possibility there beyond good friendship.
‘I’m a journaliste,’ Cat says softly, repeating it louder. ‘I’m here working. I have an idea for an article for Maillot. I must phone them.’
Cat returns to the salle de pressé and phones Maillot.
‘Hullo, it’s Cat McCabe – how about a feature on podium girls?’
‘Podium girls?’ Andy responds.
‘Getting to the substance behind the skirt?’ Cat elaborates, a twang of desperation to her voice causing Josh to look up and regard her with a flicker of concern.
‘Perhaps,’ Andy says. ‘OK?’
‘OK,’ Cat says forlornly, ‘podium girls – who the fuck are they?’
‘Sure,’ says Andy, ‘let me think about it.’
STAGE 4
Plouay-Chardin. 248 kilometres
Ben was concerned about Didier. Didier LeDucq was an accomplished domestique; professional for four years, he was riding his second Tour de France in his first season for Megapac.
‘What worries me,’ Ben said to himself whilst examining his chin and wondering whether he need shave that morning, ‘is that Didier has been so damn quiet. Over meals he usually regales the team, all of us, with tales and anecdotes of his antics on bike and off. Yesterday he was all but silent. If he’s sickening, I wish he’d tell me now.’
I’d better shave. You never know whom you might come across.
Ben was concerned about Hunter Dean. Patting foam across his bristles, he stared at the vision of Santa Claus in the mirror. He bared his teeth, observing that they did not appear unduly yellow next to the shaving foam.
Hunter is so focused, he feels so much for the team, for the sponsors and his belief in himself is immense. Good. Great. But we’ve only had three days of racing. I can’t have him burn out. He’s a potentially brilliant all-rounder. He can delve into all the disciplines of pro cycling and come up with results. But I don’t want him riding like a sprinter. Or anywhere near them really. I’ll talk to the directeur. Maybe his soigneur too. I’ll talk to his girlfriend. Maybe I ought to talk to him. I’ll go down to the start today.
Looking out through the curtains, Ben saw clear skies and a breeze that gave the impression that the trees were breathing gently. He dressed in shorts, slipped bare feet into docksiders, wrapped a sweatshirt around his waist and headed out for the village.
I’ll breakfast there. The company is usually good.
‘Hey, Alex.’
‘Morning, Josh.’
At a rickety table in the breakfast-room of their hotel, which was really a glorified pension without the nice personal touches, the men rubbed bleary eyes and bemoaned the stream of beer which had found its flow down their gullets the previous night.
‘Have you seen Cat?’ Josh asked, picking up a croissant, scrutinizing it from various angles, before forsaking it in favour of a second cup of black coffee. Alex, who had a mouth full of croissant and lips coated with crumbs, shook his head.
‘Nah – not since she left the salle de pressé yesterday.’
‘Talking of the devil,’ Josh said, ‘morning, Cat.’
‘Morning,’ said Cat.
‘Have some breakfast,’ Alex said, offering her a croissant in his fingers and munching on it himself when she refused.
‘Coffee?’ Josh offered, pouring himself a third cup when she declined.
‘I’ll see you at the village,’ Cat said. ‘Are we going avant or arrière?’
‘Who’s driving?’ Josh asked.
‘I’m probably still over the limit,’ Alex said with a certain pride. Josh looked beseechingly at Cat.
‘I don’t mind,’ Cat said, ‘the route is pretty straightforward – shall we follow it?’
‘Avant!’ Alex proclaimed, like an army general.
‘Can you load my stuff if I leave it in reception? I’m going to stroll over now,’ said Cat, ‘we’ll meet by the Maison du Café stand at the second bell.’
‘Sure,’ said Josh.
‘Yes, ma’am,’ said Alex, saluting and burping simultaneously.
‘Is she all right?’ Josh asks Alex, glancing at Cat disappearing from view, thinking how this morning she looks somewhat deflated.
‘Huh?’ Alex responds, turning to scour the space she has left.
‘She’s all right,’ Josh declares.
‘Then why are you asking?’ Alex retorts.
‘I mean,’ Josh says, ‘I was sceptical initially but actually I rate her – her writing’s good and her knowledge is sound.’
‘I must admit,’ Alex nods, drinking the juice set for Cat, ‘I agree. She’s one of us – but with great tits. Which is refreshing.’
‘God, you’re a twat,’ Josh laughs.
‘Street cred for us in the salle de pressé,’ Alex shrugs. ‘I’ve seen the L’Equipe hacks regard us approvingly.’
‘We must remember that this is her first Tour,’ Josh reasons, ‘and that she’s a girl.’
Alex winces and tuts theatrically. ‘You sexist sod, you!’
&
nbsp; Josh is serious. ‘Fuck off. She is one of us but she is not one of us. I mean – she is a girl. And she is a novice. We must remember that and we should respect it. But don’t you think she seems a bit – I don’t know how you’d call the condition – quiet?’
‘Maybe,’ says Alex, reaching for the remainder of Josh’s croissant.
‘Hey, Hunter,’ said Ben, laying a hand on the rider’s shoulder.
‘Yo,’ Hunter replied. The rider was sitting on the steps of the Megapac van in a picturesque green, plotted and pieced by birch trees – near the start line. Just one rider from the group of 184 wondering how his day would pan out and how much control he could ultimately exact on the outcome.
‘You have a nice mention here,’ Ben said, holding up the Guardian.
‘What is that?’ Hunter asked.
‘A newspaper?’ Ben cajoled before answering honestly, ‘It’s British. Listen up. If Dean’s passion can be maintained even if the mountains mangle his muscles, he might well shine in one of the final Stages of la Grande Boucle. She terms your ride yesterday “heart-rending”.’
‘Who the fuck is “she”?’ Hunter asked.
‘The journalist – the British one.’
‘Oh sure, right,’ Hunter nodded, ‘Luca’s one.’
‘Luca’s?’ Ben asked quizzically.
‘Sure,’ Hunter shrugged, ‘he feels like she’s his – saves up his best quotes for her. I was in his room yesterday. He put on aftershave after dinner even though he hadn’t shaved. And clean track pants. Said he’d invited her for a soundbite.
‘And?’ Ben enquired.
‘She didn’t show,’ Hunter said. ‘Hey, let me read that.’ He scanned the article quickly, then folded the paper angrily and thrust it back at Ben. ‘I’m not waiting till after the fucking mountains to go for it.’
‘Hunter,’ said Ben sternly, ‘that’s the point – if you go for broke now, you’ll bonk – you’ll hit the wall – you’ll break. This first week is for sprinters, some of whom won’t even make it half-way up the first hill – you know that. Be consistent. You’re a rouleur. You’re team captain. Why else would the bunch insist on chasing you down? Your strength is known – you’re a rider to be reckoned with. And you’ve got to get yourself and the boys to Paris. What sort of example are you setting the likes of Luca, Travis even, if you don’t?’
Hunter regarded his legs, smooth, hard, glistening, and glanced across to Ben’s which looked unnaturally hirsute in comparison. It made him remember who he was and where he was and his function here, his purpose, his gift, his aim in life. He looked up at Ben and rose. ‘Sure thing, Doc. You’re right. I’ll ride as I should. I’ll lead the guys home.’
Hunter Dean, Ben marvelled as he tweaked the peak of the rider’s logoed baseball cap, when you hang up your pedals you can slip straight into Congress. Or Hollywood. You’re a star.
Ben went in search of Didier LeDucq. Luca said he’d seen him heading off towards the toilets. Luca looked at his feet. Then Luca told the doctor he’d heard the French rider throwing up before breakfast. Then he looked down at the doctor’s feet. When his doctor ventured off to track down his ailing equipeur, Luca winced.
If I felt shit, but I wanted to race, would I want my doctor to know? If I felt shit but I wanted to race, would I tell my team-mates? If I’d thrown up and chosen not to tell my teammates, would I want them to dob me to the doctor behind my back? Fuck me. I’m a jerk. I’ll go find Didier – before Ben. Oh. But not before I have a quick chat with my journaliste.
‘Gatto!’
Cat turned, wondering who was crying for cake. Luca walked towards her.
‘I’m calling you Gatto,’ he declared, kissing her somewhat startled cheeks once apiece. ‘I’m basically bilingual but Gatto is Italian for cat.’
‘Oh,’ Cat nodded, her eyes caught by the tan line on the rider’s arm, revealed by his jersey sleeve being a little bunched up. Seeing the glimpse of pale skin created similar maternal affection in her as witnessing the riders tottering in their cycling shoes.
I want to straighten his sleeve for him.
Go on then, no doubt he’d love you to.
Don’t be ridiculous.
‘I like pussy,’ Luca said, regarding her directly. Cat jolted and any feelings of maternal affection were swiftly replaced by consternation. She tipped her head to one side, hoping she was regarding the rider in a suitably stern way.
‘Is that a quote for me?’ she asked, matter of fact and tongue in cheek.
‘I mean,’ Luca said ingenuously, frowning for good measure, ‘I like “pussy” – but “gatto” is better. Italian is a beautiful language. Italian is really my mama tongue. I just speak English also.’
‘You could just call me Cat,’ the journalist suggested, ‘it’s simple English.’
‘No no no,’ the rider said emphatically, ‘I want a special name for you.’ Luca narrowed his eyes, straightened his shoulders and poked Cat gently in the stomach. ‘Last night, how come you didn’t want me?’
Cat clasped her hand against her mouth. The gesture was immediate and honest. She had indeed completely forgotten, having wrapped herself in her insecurity blanket just as soon as she’d reached her room. Luca grinned outwardly, felt appeased inwardly and was suddenly keen to find Hunter, to restore the American’s belief in Luca’s irresistibility.
‘I was knackered,’ Cat said apologetically whilst reprimanding herself. Unprofessional. Stupid. A wasted opportunity.
‘You were shagged,’ Luca elaborated very seriously. Again Cat jolted. Luca was a little alarmed. ‘It’s a good English expression – very, very tired. Right? Poor pussy Cat,’ he continued, ‘let me give it to you later. I want to.’
‘What?’ the journalist exclaimed quietly, her eyes skittering all over the rider’s face.
‘You come and see me – we’ll have a good long one,’ Luca shrugged, wondering why Cat continued to look less than ecstatic.
‘Pardon?’
‘We’ll go somewhere quiet,’ Luca said openly, ‘and I’ll give it to you there. You staying in Chardin tonight? I don’t know where the fuck the team are staying. You find me. You call me. We’ll take it from there.’
Cat stood and stared at the rider.
‘You want it – don’t you?’ he asked.
Though she was listening hard, Cat could not hear any lascivious undertone lacing what appeared to be genuine concern.
‘Come after dinner,’ Luca said, ‘I do it better on a full stomach. Ciao, Gatto.’ He walked away from her, turning his attention to Didier’s whereabouts.
Alex walked up to Josh, who was talking to Ben and Didier at the Coeur de Lion marquee in the village. Didier ambled a few strides away to his bike and cycled off slowly, through the village and back to the team van, via an undisclosed visit to the toilets. Josh had got to the rider before Ben had and now the rider had left before Ben had him alone.
‘He says he feels strong,’ Josh said, looking at his notepad. He looked at Ben. ‘He looks like shit.’
‘Who are we talking about?’ said Alex, now joining them.
‘LeDucq,’ said Josh.
‘He always looks crap,’ Alex said, laughing, ‘he should get rid of his stupid pony-tail. I’m going over to catch Max.’ Ben and Josh watched Alex join a small posse of journalists surrounding the ever popular Max Sciandri. Neither of them could see Cat amongst them. They turned their attention back to each other and the absent LeDucq.
‘I’m his doctor,’ said Ben, remembering he was talking to a journalist. ‘He’s fine – if he isn’t, I’ll know about it. That’s my job.’
‘It’s going to be hot today, I reckon,’ said Josh, still thinking LeDucq looked awful. Ben nodded. The men looked at the sky and noted the very few, high clouds that were there.
‘It’s bizarre, isn’t it?’ the doctor said. ‘Talking about the weather is never idle chit chat here at the Tour.’
Josh laughed and nodded. A bell rang. The VIPs started to gath
er together, leaving the village to be transported along the route to hospitality at the arrivée, wined and dined with elaborate packed lunches on the way in cars invariably driven by ex-Tour racers.
‘I think we’re staying at the same hotel tonight,’ Josh said.
‘Great,’ said Ben, ‘maybe we’ll have a few beers later.’
‘Providing Sassetta behaves,’ Josh reasoned. ‘Zucca are staying there too.’
‘There’s your colleague,’ Ben said, nodding towards Cat who had just appeared in the village, making her way straight to a booth and taking a long drink of juice. ‘Is she staying with you?’
‘Cat?’ Josh replied, glancing in her direction. ‘Yeah, she is, all the way. I didn’t know her before – shit, I’ve actually only known her a week. But she’s OK, she really is.’
‘Yes, she is. Her work’s good too,’ said Ben, flashing the Guardian as emphasis.
‘Yup,’ said Josh, ‘it’s great to have her on board.’
‘Makes a change,’ Ben said, his eyes not having left her.
‘Doesn’t it just?’ Josh agreed. They regarded her as she meandered from one stand to the next. She was wearing a short denim skirt and white pumps, a T-shirt and a Nike baseball cap. She looked preoccupied. Ben fixed his gaze on her face to no avail. Josh raised a hand in a futile wave. A few stands on, she caught sight of the two men. She stood stock still momentarily before turning on her heels, leafing with urgency through her notepad and walking with huge purpose out of the village.
Neither Ben nor Josh knew she’d gone directly to hide behind a tree, feeling knotted. Ben presumed she was gleaning gems from Luca. Josh assumed she was just going about her job.
‘Catch you later,’ said Ben, catching sight of Didier sitting with Travis, both with cups of coffee. Travis sipped his with his little finger extended genteelly; Didier just raised his cup, contemplated its contents and then replaced it. Ben was alarmed. Few riders forsake their legal caffeine entitlement.