by Freya North
‘Yes, this evening,’ said Josh, suddenly feeling the impact of the vast amount of restorative breakfast caffeine and thinking he really ought to piss before they set off, ‘we’ll have a few beers.’
‘Hey, Cat,’ says Rachel, the boot of the car open to reveal a veritable booty of clothing, bidons, food, and first-aid accoutrements. ‘I’m sorry about yesterday.’
‘Sorry?’ Cat asks. ‘For what?’
‘I was so stressed out I might have to borrow back the pencil sharpener,’ Rachel says, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. ‘Stefano is – well, he drives me mad, let me tell you!’
‘Do tell me,’ Cat implores.
‘Yeah, right,’ Rachel laughs, ‘but as a mate, as a fellow female – not as a journaliste.’
Cat holds her hand to her heart. Rachel beckons her closer until both women are leaning deep into the car. ‘When he won the Stage yesterday? He said to me – and excuse my accent – Where is Lomers? I want give him these flowers – I want say him “Hey Lomers – give these for your wife because she think you no love her because you no fuck her no more”.’
The women regard each other and then laugh in horror but not quite in disbelief.
‘What did you say?’ Cat gasps.
‘I said I would tell Jean-Marie Leblanc,’ Rachel says, referring to the revered and omnipotent Director General of the Société du Tour de France.
‘What did Stefano say?’
‘He gave me the fucking flowers and looked pretty sheepish. I massaged him viciously last night,’ Rachel declares with certain glee and sparkle, ‘viciously.’
‘What a character,’ Cat laughs, adding, ‘Bloody men!’ as an aside.
‘Stefano’s a prat,’ Rachel says, not unfondly. She tells Cat the name of the hotel that Zucca are staying at that night.
‘I’m pretty sure that’s where we are,’ Cat responds, delighted.
‘Cool,’ says Rachel, ‘let’s have a beer later.’
‘You’re on,’ says Cat.
‘Ciao, Cat,’ Rachel says, though Cat has gone. She slams the boot of the car, consults the map and heads for the feed zone midway along the route. Then she’ll head straight for the finish line, stocked with everything a rider could ask for after racing for 248 kilometres. Everything from antiseptic to a quick leg rub, from fresh socks to a banana, from tracksuits to a warm and welcoming smile.
‘You’re happy about driving on the wrong side of the road?’ Josh asked Cat as she took her seat behind the wheel.
‘I’ll take it slowly,’ she replied.
‘No you fucking won’t,’ Alex cried from the back. ‘To the salle de pressé – and don’t spare the horses.’ He leant forward, removed her baseball cap and thwacked the roof of the car with it. ‘Vamoose!’
Josh and Cat shared a quick glance of exasperation. Cat drove off, cautiously but at a pace that could not be castigated.
‘You OK?’ Josh tried.
‘Fine, thanks,’ said Cat from behind sunglasses.
‘You’re not your usual perky self,’ Alex said, replacing her baseball cap sideways on her head so she looked quite the little urchin. ‘Tell Uncle Alex what’s wrong.’
‘Alex, fuck off,’ Josh said, shaking his head, catching Alex’s glance in the rear-view mirror and giving him a loaded look. Cat removed her sunglasses, righted her cap and looked at both men, assuring them she was fine, just tired.
Bloody boys. Males. The lot of them.
She only swerved twice. First when Alex enquired, innocently enough, after what Luca had had to say that morning – all of which Cat was still trying to remember word for word, the intention in particular. Then she swerved again, with equal severity, when Josh remarked that both Zucca MV and Megapac were staying at their hotel.
‘Ben said to meet in the bar for a drink,’ Josh said.
‘Ben?’ Cat said.
Bloody Ben.
‘Yeah, you know, the Megapac doc,’ Alex said rather slyly, leaning forward between the two front seats and grinning at Cat.
‘I was talking to him at the village,’ Josh said. ‘We saw you and tried to call you over but you were on a mission.’
On a mission not to be seen by him. What did he say? Did he mention podium girls? What did you say? Did you mention my fake bloody boyfriend?
‘He asked after you,’ Josh continued.
‘Oh?’ said Cat, eyes on the road but mind far from it. ‘What about?’
I don’t want to know. I do want to know. What did he want to know? That I have a boyfriend? Please say you didn’t say so. Because I don’t. Oh, but what does it matter – Ben’s hardly interested anyway.
‘This and that,’ said Josh casually, ‘where you fit in – he’d read your report of yesterday.’
‘Oh,’ said Cat.
Mine? He searched it out and read it? What should I read into that? Shut up, idiot girl.
‘Anyway – he suggested beers tonight,’ Josh continued.
He did? With whom? All of us? Just me? Or minus me?
‘I’m having a beer with Rachel,’ Cat said, almost as a safeguard.
How on earth am I going to concentrate on the race, let alone write the report, with the distraction the impending evening poses?
COPY FOR P. TAVERNER @ GUARDIAN SPORTS DESK FROM CATRIONA McCABE IN CHARDIN
After just over sixteen hours of racing, with just under seven minutes between the maillot jaune of the leader and the Lantern Rouge of the 184th rider, the Tour de France left Brittany today for the Vendée with a 248 km road race from Plouay to Chardin. For 96 km, while the landscape masqueraded as Cornwall, a 30 kph north-westerly wind gave the peloton a helping hand, propelling the bunch forward together and providing light relief from a sticky 29 degrees. However, as the riders crossed over the mouth of the Loire via the stunning Pont du Saint Nazaire, no doubt they would have preferred high humidity to the sly crosswinds which slicked about the bridge, disturbing the bunch.
‘I’m stuck,’ Cat sighed, observing with envy that both Josh and Alex were not. ‘I’m going out for a breather,’ she said, disappointed that her colleagues were not just staying put but far too preoccupied to have even heard her.
What is going on with Luca? Cat wondered, walking fast to she didn’t know where. And Ben has suggested a drink to Josh. Is that why my work is slow today? Because I’m disconcerted? Some time with Rachel will be good.
She found a small café, ordered a latte and made a conscious decision to devote no more time to fretting about Luca, Ben, beer and her fabricated boyfriend.
I must head back and wrap up my report.
‘The bunch devoured the final 20 k of tarmac in twenty minutes flat,’ Cat marvelled out loud.
A very chic lady, sitting at the neighbouring table with a tiny dog on her lap and a Chanel handbag by her feet, looked at Cat. ‘That touch of wheels,’ she said, clearing her throat as if to lighten her accent to complement her very good grasp of English, ‘when the road drops with 500 metres to go!’
Cat smiled and nodded and suddenly her closing paragraph was clear. She asked for the bill but the lady waved her hand and insisted on paying. ‘Tomorrow,’ she asked Cat, ‘what are your thoughts?’
‘Keep an eye on Tyler Hamilton,’ Cat said.
‘Bonne chance, mademoiselle,’ the lady said.
‘Bonne chance, Tyler Hamilton!’ Cat laughed.
Cat slips back into the salle de pressé unnoticed by Josh and Alex, by anyone really. She doesn’t mind. She has work to do. She skims through the first chunk of her article and raps out the concluding paragraph with speed.
A touch of wheels with 500 m to go brought down the section of the peloton containing nearly all the key sprinters. While the speed meisters untangled themselves from each other, their lead-out men hammered ahead unaware. Luckily for Chris Boardman’s Crédit Agricole team, Australian Stuart O’Grady was not down under and utilized an excellent if wholly unintended lead-out from Zucca MV’s Gianni Fugallo to take the Stage. F
ugallo looked simultaneously staggered and quite horrified to see the befreckled Antipode on his wheel instead of his dark duke Stefano Sassetta. Jesper Lomers and Stefano Sassetta hold on to the yellow and green jerseys respectively. The next two Stages will suit them well but the Time Trial on Saturday will suit their team leaders Fabian Ducasse and Vasily Jawlensky better.
‘How bizarre,’ Cat says aloud, laying her palms on the trestle table and leaning back in the plastic chair.
‘Huh?’ mumbles Josh, swigging from one of the three Coke cans lined up in front of him.
‘You wha’?’ Alex mutters, not looking up from his laptop.
‘The Time Trial is on Saturday,’ Cat proclaims in a tone of disbelief. Her colleagues regard her. ‘Today is Wednesday – right?’ Alex and Josh look at each other. ‘How amazing!’ Cat declares.
‘What the fuck are you on?’ Alex asks, regarding her two cans of Orangina and a fairly decimated packet of Petit Beurre biscuits.
‘I forgot all about days,’ Cat says, offering the biscuits to the men. ‘To me, today is Stage 4, the day after tomorrow is Stage 6. None of this Saturday Sunday Solomon Grundy nonsense.’
‘Welcome to the Tour,’ Josh says, realizing he would have had no idea what day it was had he been asked.
‘What are you going to be like when we hit altitude?’ Alex teases affectionately, cramming a whole biscuit in his mouth, rubbing his hands and returning his fingers to the keyboard.
‘Is Taverner going to let me get away with “dark duke Sassetta”?’ Cat wonders. Josh roars with laughter. Alex buries his face in his hands.
Jesper Lomers and Fabian Ducasse walk down their hotel corridor to Jules Le Grand’s room to which they have been summoned for a strategy meeting. Apart from riding for the same team and being pretty much the same height, similarities between the two end there. The Dutchman is blond and brawny, the Frenchman dark and lithe; Jesper is courteous and temperate with the team, the peloton, the media, Fabian is indiscriminately temperamental. Jesper exudes a modesty for his successes, for which he is universally admired; Fabian’s arrogance when victorious augments his magnetic appeal. Jesper will actively try to put anyone at their ease (‘I’m just a guy who can ride a bike,’ he shrugged to Alex who interviewed him after his victory at Milan–San Remo), whereas Fabian relishes the fact that his stature and demeanour are famously intimidating (‘En Français!’ he demanded witheringly of Josh who merely wanted to congratulate him on winning the Dauphiné Libéré). Though they have little in common on a personal level, they are good colleagues, respectful of each other’s strengths and supportive during and after racing.
‘I am keeping the maillot jaune warm for you,’ comments Jesper, who knows he can never win the Tour de France.
‘Green’s more your colour,’ Fabian laughs, with deference to Jesper’s consistency as a rider – the domain of the maillot vert contender. Jesper knocks on Jules’s door but Fabian opens it and walks straight in.
If I venture out of my room, Cat considered, in her small room in a nondescript motorlodge on the ring road of Chardin, I might come across Luca or Ben. She unpacked the entire contents of her rucksack, hanging as many garments as she could. I don’t really want to see either as I really don’t know what to make of them. If I stay here all night, I’ll forfeit my drink with Rachel – which I’d really like to have.
She ran a bath, squirting in a little shampoo to give the semblance of bubble bath.
Luca bloody Jones. Was that humour or was I missing the point? Or did I have the point perfectly? Mind you, at least he’d like to give me one, which is more than can be said for his doctor.
Her bath was ready. The phone rang. It was Josh, informing her that he and Alex were driving in to town for dinner in half an hour.
‘I’m not really hungry,’ Cat said, ‘I stuffed myself at the press buffet and then all those biscuits.’
‘Are you OK?’ Josh enquired.
‘I’m fine,’ Cat said.
That’s kind of him.
‘Are you sure?’ Josh pressed.
‘Honestly,’ Cat stressed, suddenly wondering if his probing had a motive.
‘Women’s things?’ Josh attempted.
No, he’s just being kind.
‘Yes,’ said Cat smiling, glad that she didn’t have him wrong, ‘women’s things.’
After her bath, swathed in a towel pleasingly luxurious for the rating of the hotel, Cat phoned reception for Rachel’s room number. There was no reply from the soigneur’s quarters.
She’s probably in the team bus, preparing for tomorrow. I’ll get dressed and go for a recce.
‘Luca Jones!’ Ben exclaimed, coming across the rider in the foyer.
‘Hey, Doc,’ said Luca, ‘I’m fucking knackered.’
‘Have an early night, then,’ Ben said, as if to an imbecile, ‘it’s almost eight thirty.’
‘I’m waiting,’ Luca said.
‘For what?’ Ben asked.
‘For my journaliste,’ Luca said.
‘Who?’ Ben asked.
‘The lovely pussy Cat,’ Luca said openly.
‘I hope you don’t call her that to her face,’ Ben exclaimed.
‘Yeah,’ Luca said, ‘I tried but she didn’t seem to like it. I went for Gatto. She did say she’d rather just be a simple Cat but I won’t listen.’
‘Why are you waiting?’ Ben asked. ‘When are you meeting?’
‘Yesterday I asked her to come to me if she wanted one. This morning, I told her if she found me tonight, she could have it.’
Ben stared at him. ‘You said what?’
‘That I’d give her one,’ the rider shrugged, ‘a long one even. Somewhere quiet, I told her. After supper.’
‘You said that?’ Ben asked, not able to mask amazement.
‘Sure,’ Luca shrugged, ‘she told me she was shagged last night.’ Ben’s jaw dropped. ‘So,’ Luca continued, ‘perhaps tonight.’
‘And she’s on for it?’ Ben enquired nonchalantly.
Luca looked at him in amazement. ‘She’s a fucking journaliste – why wouldn’t she want an exclusive interview with Luca Fucking Jones? Man!’
Ben bit back laughter, nodded sincerely and then walked away.
I must find her. This is too good to miss. She can’t not go to Luca Fucking Jones if he wants to give her a big one somewhere private.
If I take the stairs, Cat theorizes, I can avoid bumping into anything I’d rather not.
She takes the stairs, forgetting it is the mode by which Ben chooses to travel upwards. She is humming the jingle played each day at the village. She skips down a flight, turns a landing, skips down another and all but collides with Ben on the next landing.
‘Miss McCabe,’ he says, staring at her measuredly, his hands on her shoulders to steady her but, in reality, making her quiver all the more.
‘Oh,’ says Cat, not able to look anywhere but right at him, ‘Ben.’
‘Where are you skipping to, all merry?’ he asks, removing just one hand from her shoulder.
‘I’m going to find Rachel McEwen,’ Cat says, wanting him to take away his other hand but also to leave it put. ‘We’re going to have a quick drink.’
‘A quick one,’ Ben plays with a wry half-smile. Cat frowns fleetingly. ‘And young Luca?’ Ben asks.
‘Luca?’ Cat responds, regarding Ben warily.
‘He tells me he’s going to give you one,’ Ben informs her, ‘this evening.’
Cat bites her lip. ‘I know,’ she says quietly.
‘What exactly did my rider say?’ Ben asks sternly, his voice low and doctorly and coursing through the blood in Cat’s veins like a tonic.
She drops her gaze to his lips fleetingly then regards him full on. ‘Your young rider invited me to come and find him tonight if I wanted it – that he’d take me somewhere quiet and give me a long one.’
‘Cat McCabe,’ Ben breathes, ‘my rider is waiting for you in the foyer. He needs an early night.
He needs minimal exertion. I think I’ll join you both on this one. Come on.’ Ben takes her elbow. ‘I promise to be just a silent observer.’
Cat is too stunned to respond, let alone stand her ground or insist on her intended path to Rachel.
‘Do you use a gadget?’ Ben asks, innocently enough. ‘The riders usually prefer them – it makes it so much quicker and smoother.’ He looks at Cat. ‘Don’t you agree?’
Poor girl – I am a sod.
In the foyer, Ben and Cat come across Luca talking to Rachel.
‘Hey, Cat,’ Rachel says. Luca stares intently at the journaliste who is trying to transmit to the soigneur desperate pleas for assistance via eye flickers, lip twitching and general woman-to-woman telepathy.
‘Luca tells me he’s having you to himself for a while,’ Rachel says. ‘I’ll meet you in the bar. How long will you be, Luca?’
‘As long as it takes,’ Luca replies, looking adoringly at the journaliste. ‘It’s up to my feline friend, hey?’
‘He won’t last long,’ Rachel whispers to Cat. ‘God knows why he wants to do it now – he’s shagged already.’ She winks. ‘I’ll leave you to it,’ she says to Luca and Cat, ‘see you in a while.’
Ben is hovering.
‘You want to join us?’ Luca asks him begrudgingly.
‘Cat?’ Ben asks her. She does not know where to look, what to do. She turns her head towards the bar. She cannot see Rachel.
‘You have that thing?’ Luca asks her, ‘the machine? The batteries?’
Cat shakes her head and upends empty palms. She is wearing an obviously pocketless tube skirt. She looks down, wondering if her knees are knocking. Certainly they feel that they are.
‘Oh,’ Luca says, ‘why not? It’s better for you, no? Personally, I like the machine – I prefer it that way – and it is better for you, no? The results are stronger, in my experience.’
Ben can’t bear it any longer. He is about to laugh uncontrollably and Cat looks like she is about to weep. ‘Call yourself a journaliste?’ he goads her gently, giving her shoulder a little shove. ‘It’s part of the job, isn’t it?’