by Freya North
Cat regards him blankly.
Bloody fucking men. I’m in the wrong fucking job.
‘Necessary equipment?’ Ben furthers, captivated by the sight of her heaving chest.
She’s not wearing a bra.
‘A dic-ta-phone?’ he enunciates clearly.
‘Ah!’ Luca responds cheerfully, ‘that’s the sodding word – dictaphone.’
‘How are you going to remember Luca giving you a long one if you don’t have a dictaphone?’ Ben asks her, crossing his arms and raising an eyebrow.
Cat’s jaw drops. She looks from one man to the other. Luca with his lovely, boy-beautiful open face; Ben, handsome and magnetizing. She could cry.
I could kiss them both.
But of course, she does not. She gives Luca a gentle shove. Then she gives Ben a sly, sideways glance coupled with a fleeting squeeze to his biceps. Just to steady herself. Just to feel. An exploratory squeeze? A gesture of gratitude? She’s not about to tell us, she’s far too absorbed by the fact that Ben’s hands are lightly at her waist and he has kissed very quickly, just catching the tip of her earlobe with his lips.
‘Luca,’ she beams, ‘you know what? I do want my dictaphone – and I want to speak to my boss about the slant of the interview. It’s late – it’s nine o’clock. Tomorrow is a short but intense Stage for you, the first Time Trial is looming too. I want you to have a good sleep,’ she says, looking from Luca to Ben and then moving back to Luca, ‘more than I want you to give me your big one in private.’
‘You are so much more than a journaliste,’ Luca praises her, ‘you care.’
‘I care about every pro cyclist,’ Cat says honestly, ‘you’re my heroes.’
Luca loves the compliment. ‘A good idea,’ he agrees, ‘let’s do it properly, let’s do it after the Time Trial. I’m going to bed. Buona notte.’
‘Good night,’ says Ben.
‘Sweet dreams,’ Cat says, waving as the rider disappears into the lift. ‘You’re a sod,’ Cat says to Ben, her eyes fixed straight ahead.
‘I couldn’t resist,’ says Ben, gazing at her neck.
Eyes meet and fuse.
Is it chemistry? Cat wonders, patting a hand unconsciously against the butterflies rampaging around her stomach. Ben’s lips part slightly as his gaze burrows further into her.
‘Cat,’ he says. She purses her lips and then licks them, observing how it releases his eyes from hers to focus on her mouth. ‘You’re having a drink with Rachel.’ It is a statement and not a query.
Cat nods.
‘I’m having a drink with Josh and Alex,’ Ben says.
Cat nods again. She clears her throat.
‘We could join forces,’ she suggests.
‘We could,’ Ben answers, ‘but where’s the fun in that? I’d rather have you to myself.’
His tone is matter of fact. His eyes have her captive again. ‘Another time,’ he says. He smiles at her and then heads off into the bar. Cat remains stock still.
Chemistry. Undeniably. I don’t need my O Level to tell me so.
But yesterday?
The podium girl?
He held her face and looked into her eyes?
Maybe he’s morally inept.
The thing is, my desire is so strong I’d probably sleep with him regardless. What would that make me? And where would that leave me? And what if Josh tells him about my non-existent boyfriend?
It was a relief to be with Rachel. Cat chose to sit with her back to Ben, Alex and Josh, who were at the other side of the bar. The room was crowded and noisy. Rachel was relaxed and she and Cat chatted easily, whiling away the evening, sipping Seize and eating garlicky olives. By the time they suggested they really ought to retire, they knew each other well. Well enough to kiss goodnight, to look forward to seeing each other the next day, to hoping that there’d be many more occasions both during the Tour and after when, as friends, they could indulge again in each other’s company.
Cat is knackered, shagged, bush-whacked, simply exhausted and desperate to ‘push some zeds’. She’s made the fateful move of flopping on to her bed fully clothed and is tempted to greet sleep dressed as such. So what if she hasn’t cleaned her teeth? So what if she hasn’t checked whether her mobile phone needs charging? So what if she hasn’t examined tomorrow’s route or found where she needs to be and when?
I’m so tired. What a day. Fucking Luca Jones. Bloody Ben York. Lovely Josh. Inimitable Alex. Fantastic Rachel. I’ll just have a quick shut-eye. Just for a mo’ or two.
No you won’t. You’ll sit bolt upright at the sound of knocking at your door. You’ll check your watch. It’s almost midnight. Heed the advice of Emma O’Reilly, the soigneur’s soigneur, passed down to you by your friend Rachel.
Yes, but it’s not midnight for another seven minutes.
Cat pads over to the door. There is no spy hole.
‘Hullo?’ she asks, through the wood, her hand hovering over the handle.
‘It’s me,’ comes the unmistakable voice of Ben York.
Oh fuck.
Cat bites her lip and regards her left hand on the door knob.
What do I do now?
It’s six minutes to midnight. You’re wasting time.
Cat opens the door a little and looks up to Ben’s face slowly, via his legs, quickly over his crotch, his torso, his gorgeous strong neck, over his chin, hesitating at his lips – parted and dark – and suddenly swiftly upwards, on and into his gaze.
‘What do you want?’ Cat asks softly.
‘What do you want?’ Ben echoes. They stare at each other. ‘I need to give you something,’ he is saying, making to take a step forward as Cat instinctively takes a step back. He has crossed the threshold. It’s OK. Midnight is still a few minutes off. He is inside the room. It’s OK. The door has not quite closed. ‘I need to give you something,’ he repeats, ‘before it is offered to you by anyone else.’ He steps towards her, glances down at her bare feet, up to her knees, lingers over her breasts. With one hand, he gently holds her neck so that his thumb is at the base of her throat, his index finger is behind her ear and the remaining fingers are encircling the back of her neck. Cat can’t breathe. He can detect her quickening pulse.
Fuck. It must be midnight.
No, not quite.
Ben dips his face down a little, comes closer, their clothing touches. He takes her wrist with his other hand and puts his lips against hers. They alight softly for just a fraction of a second and seem to heat on impact. Suddenly Ben is kissing Cat so intensely and she finds herself responding likewise. She’s grasping his neck. She’s grabbing his trousers. She’s pulled him against her and has herself been thrust against the wall. They are tonguing each other with abandon. Cat can taste toothpaste. Ben can detect beer, garlic. Who gives a fuck? They taste fantastic to each other. Ben pulls away.
‘I wanted to give you that,’ he says hoarsely, ‘I’ve been carrying it around with me since I first saw you.’ Staring at her, he backs out of the room and does not relinquish eye contact until the door is closed completely.
Cat regards the door. She takes the fingers of one hand to her lips, she places her other hand between her legs. She’s throbbing, she’s on fire; everywhere. She glances at her watch. It’s midnight.
STAGE 5
Nantes-Pradier. 210 kilometres
‘Cat? It’s Andy – from Maillot. Is this a good time?’
A good time? It couldn’t be better. I’m having a fantastic time, here in Nantes, in a particularly opulent village on a glorious morning, awaiting the off for the fifth Stage of this year’s Tour de France. It’s a shorter Stage today – which is a good job really, as Ben York has just brushed past me, turned and winked, and I can hardly wait for later, that we might track each other down long before midnight.
‘I can call back later,’ Andy was saying, ‘if it isn’t.’
‘It’s fine, Andy,’ Cat said. ‘How are you? I’m brilliant.’
‘You are, are you?’ Andy respond
ed. ‘Now, podium girls.’
‘They’re nothing,’ said Cat absent-mindedly, grinning as she placed herself far higher on Ben’s dais in her mind’s eye.
‘Sorry?’ said Andy.
‘What?’ said Cat.
‘No go, I’m afraid,’ Andy said, ‘we don’t feel there’s enough substance – not what the readers of Maillot want.’
Cat felt momentarily deflated, but then she heard Luca’s name being announced at the signing-on stage.
‘How about an exclusive interview with Luca Jones?’ she suggested brightly. ‘He’s keen. It’s all organized.’
‘Luca?’ said Andy. ‘Farrand did one last month – of course, he’s fluent in Italian. It’s coming out next issue.’
‘Oh,’ said Cat, ‘but mine would be different.’
‘How?’
‘A mid-Tour analysis?’ Cat clutched. ‘A woman’s perspective sort of thing?’
‘Sorry, Cat,’ Andy said, ‘just bad timing on that one. Look, your reports are good – I’m sure we’ll be able to find you something here at the end of it all.’
Cat went cold. ‘You mean the Features Editorship isn’t in the bag?’
‘We agreed it would be dependent on the quality of your race reports,’ said Andy, now sounding disconcertingly officious.
‘But you just said they were good,’ Cat all but whispered.
‘They are,’ Andy reassured her, ‘they’re excellent – even the “dark duke Sassetta” stuff. But the job is dependent on whether or not it exists, you see. Nothing personal.’
‘No,’ said Cat, quite cross and taking it personally, ‘I don’t see.’
‘We’re having something of a reshuffle – the staff, the layout – everything. But don’t worry – I’d love to have you in some capacity.’
‘OK,’ said Cat, appalled that she sounded so grateful and meek.
I’m bloody worth more than that.
‘Do you mind if I continue to bombard you with my ideas?’ Cat asked, wincing at her tone of near-desperate deference.
Andy laughed. ‘I wouldn’t expect anything less from you,’ he said.
Some hours later, Cat was feeling stressed and distracted in the salle de pressé, today a large marquee set up in the grand municipal park of Pradier. Josh and Alex had no advice for her – they assured her that her ideas for articles were sound, that no one at Maillot was remotely sexist.
‘You’ve chosen to fall in love with a minority sport in Britain,’ Josh said, by way of explanation, ‘that’s all.’
‘The audience is limited,’ Alex furthered, quite serious for once, ‘and there are more than enough freelancers touting ideas.’
‘With a track record,’ Josh elaborated, no offence intended or taken.
‘Stephen Farrand lives in Italy and has been involved with the sport for some time – if he interviews Luca Jones, editors know what they’ll get. They don’t know what they’ll get with you,’ said Alex.
‘Why can’t they give me a fucking chance?’ Cat declared.
‘Because that’s mag publishing in Britain,’ Alex shrugged. ‘Took me fucking ages.’
‘Me too,’ said Josh. ‘Don’t worry, I’m sure something will turn up.’
‘Jesus Fucking Christ,’ Alex shouted whilst around them, journalists fulminated equivalent blasphemies in their own languages. Everyone turned to the TV sets and stared. Riders were piling into each other, a couple were flung right out from the bunch, their bodies still attached to their bikes. Riders were lying all over the road, strewn like litter. They were in the ditches to the side, they were on top of each other. One somersaulted straight over the mêlée and landed smack on top of a flung bike. The salle de pressé watched in silent horror.
Not only the TV cameras and those of the press were trained on the carnage – an elderly lady stood in the road transfixed, her camera at her eye but her finger hovering above the shutter button. She’d only wanted to take a photo, that’s all. She’s from San Diego, here on holiday. Just wanted a snap of the bike race, that’s all. Didn’t mean to be a distraction. Didn’t mean to be a menace. Didn’t know the speed would be so fast. Didn’t mean for the men to fall off their bikes. Are they meant to do that? Is it like American football – part of the entertainment? Sure is exciting, and all.
The TV cameras, simultaneously vulturine yet providing essential service, focused mercilessly on the tangle of limbs and spokes. Gradually, the riders extricated themselves, retrieving their arms and legs from the knot of others, picking themselves up, sorting out their injuries and their bikes; spinning wheels, rubbing muscles, changing tyres. Most were remounted, pedalling off with a helpful running shove from their team mechanics or neutral service men. Two riders remained down. A Système Vipère rider was one of them, the snake encircling his body staring blankly at the TV cameras.
‘Ducasse!’ the murmur went round the salle de pressé.
‘Fabian!’ Cat exclaimed in horror.
Merde. I have to get up. I don’t want to eat tarmac. It tastes like shit. I must finish in the first group – as I have every day. I don’t want to lose a second before the Time Trial. It will make no difference if I do, but it would piss me off. I want my margin in the Time Trial to set the tone for the rest of the race. That is why I have ridden quietly this week, I have made no noise yet still I am up there, top ten. The day after tomorrow, I will take the lead. My body is so strong now, ready to Time Trial, eager to climb, fit to take me to the podium in Paris. So, Fabian, up you get. Carefully.
‘Ça va?’ the race doctor asks the rider, helping him to his feet. Ducasse looks himself over, straightens himself. Ça va? That’s a good question. How does he feel? Not broken but, having been hurled on to tarmac at 42 kph, somewhat winded all the same. But broken? Injured? No. At least, not enough not to go on. Jules Le Grand is at Fabian’s side, not saying anything, just standing tall in nubuck loafers the colour of Fabian’s bronzed legs. The directeur’s mind is racing – much faster, much harder than hitherto any of his riders have. And yet, there is nothing he can say or do – only Ducasse’s body can dictate what will happen next. It is one of the few things over which the directeur sportif of Système Vipère has absolutely no control.
‘Vélo?’ Ducasse says quietly at last, contemplating the somewhat mangled remains of his bike lying some metres away. Freddy Verdonk, who did not fall but has hung back to remain with his leader, pushes his own bike forward. Freddy rides anyway not at his measurements but at those of his leader so that he can be on standby for an occasion like this when it is quicker for Ducasse to change on to his faithful domestique’s bike. Verdonk can wait for his mechanic to bring a replacement. Patience and humility, rare in a team leader, being the defining qualities of the domestique.
The salle de pressé watch in hushed anticipation as Fabian Ducasse remounts. The race doctor is now looking him over, somewhat cursorily, as if Ducasse is a car that has been merely pranged. The wadge of gauze taped to the side of Ducasse’s knee will last the Stage through. This evening, the wound can be looked at more thoroughly. There is no reason why Ducasse shouldn’t carry on. Nothing is broken, not least his spirit. Jules Le Grand places his hand on Ducasse’s lower back and runs, pushing the rider for a few metres. Verdonk is given no helping hand; that’s OK, he doesn’t need it, he is the helping hand. Cat and the journalists watch in hushed reverence as Ducasse and Verdonk make their way through the convoy of team cars, past a posse of riders at the back, up and through a string of stragglers hanging like a tail to the back of the main bunch. Système Vipère are back in the race. Ducasse has lost no time at all; moreover he has gained publicity, popularity and respect. People will want to watch for him tomorrow, every day, a force to be reckoned with; they’ll be looking out for him, wishing him success. Hero.
The cameras pan back. The other rider is still on the tarmac, sitting up, hunched, head in hands. The woman from San Diego finally presses the shutter on her camera.
‘I got Bobby J!’ she says d
elighted to her husband. ‘That’s cool – I got Bobby J!’
In more ways than one.
Bobby Julich tries to stand. He manages it but he cannot walk. He is out of the race. His Tour stops here, but not his reputation. A battle-broken body leaves his heroism intact. There’s next year.
On the other side of the road, the cameras focus momentarily on two figures. One is an old farmer standing very still, clasping his cloth cap to his heart. The other is a young boy standing by his small, basic bike, holding on to the handlebars hard. His mouth is open, his eyes are huge. When I grow up, I will cycle the Tour de France. I will be that brave. I will be a hero.
It was just one more crash in the Tour de France but for Cat, the image of Ducasse fallen and then up and away, of Julich down and then stretchered away, lay resonant in her mind’s eye constantly. If the Stage had been as exciting, as traumatic, as exhausting for a mere journalist to experience, how can it have been for the riders? The atmosphere in the salle de pressé was thick and intense. It was also too hot, and somewhat odoriferous. Too many men with a dwindling awareness of personal hygiene, a slackening interest in the merits of laundry, an increasing appetite for nicotine and, Cat detected, for garlic sausages.
‘I need some air,’ she told Alex and Josh, ‘coming?’
‘Bring us a Coke, will you?’ Alex asked.
‘Just Evian for me,’ said Josh, eyeing up the line of empty cans in front of him.
It was still incredibly hot. Inland now, and with very little breeze, the peloton were currently racing in 30 degrees. Having been seated herself for almost three hours, Cat was stiff and sticky. Walking slowly amongst the trees, she chose a sturdy old trunk to lean her hands against, stretching out first her right leg then her left behind her. Then she picked up each foot in turn to hold against her bottom, giving the fronts of her thighs a good stretch. She put her hands on her hips and rolled her head very slowly about her neck. She reached up high above her head with arms extended, relishing the feeling of release from the pull on her waist. She swooped her arms down in an arc, holding them out horizontally at shoulder height before clasping them behind her back and pulling upwards. She held her pose and breathed deeply, her eyes closed.