by Freya North
Fabian set his pace and held it, averaging just under 51 kph. He chose a huge gear and stuck to it, enabling his bike to gulp as much tarmac with each turn of the pedals as possible. He maintained his prawn-like position all the way; folded aerodynamically, his head tucked lower than his shoulder blades, his knees close to the frame, shoulders steady. Technique, however, went only part of the way in securing his victory today, determination played much the key role.
A Time Trial is lonely to ride and heart-wrenching to watch. Tarmac is ever unfurling and the wind seems to relish buffeting a cyclist out there alone, with no shelter, no slipstreams, no stretch where he can ease the pressure. How was it for Megapac’s Didier LeDucq, standing on his pedals to contend with the climb an evil 15 km from the finish, to have Ducasse power past him sitting deep and steady on the saddle? Time Trialling requires supreme strength, it needs calculation and brains and, ultimately, dogged determination to discredit suffering. Acknowledging pain does not win Time Trials. If your pulse is racing at 180 bpm and lactic acid is forming in your muscles but there are only a few kilometres to go – so what? Your soigneur, glucose and electrolytes can help later. Health does not matter to a rider midway through a Time Trial. A rider who can calmly dismount and walk himself to his soigneur did not Time Trial. Jules Le Grand, directeur sportif of Système Vipère, literally carried Ducasse from his bike. Similarly, Rachel McEwen, Jawlensky’s soigneur, eased the rider away from his machine, her supportive embrace holding him up, holding him together, as she escorted him to the privacy of the team bus.
STAGE 8
Sauternes-Pau. 162 kilometres
Ben York awoke with an erection, as frequently he did, however this morning he knew it was not a physiological vagary of his reverie that caused it, but a lucid awareness of Cat’s existence down the road now replacing the image of her which had inhabited his dreamtime. He fingered his cock, gave himself a few soothing tugs and grinned, closing his eyes.
She’s quite something.
What are you going to do with her?
Something along the lines of what I did last night – but without the sand.
You have a sizeable grin on your face.
And a proportionately equivalent hard-on too.
You’re feeling pleased with yourself then?
Pleased? Yes. Happy.
You like her?
I’ve never met anyone quite like her.
You like her?
Yes, I think I do. I like the way that she’s a little naïve but feisty. She was so adorable all in a dither about Luca’s unintended innuendo a few Stages ago. And when she was mad at me with the Monique misunderstanding – all gorgeous fury and indignation in a see-through dress. Yet last night she blew my mind as much as she blew my cock. For one who’s so easy to wind up, she’s very sure of herself sexually. It’s surprising. I like that.
You like her.
I do.
Isn’t that something of a first for you? Recently, you’ve slept with women because you’ve liked what’s on offer more than you’ve considered whether you’ve liked their persons.
Touché. But true. I’ve had sex with women because I can. With Cat, I wanted to. I want to.
It was eight in the morning. Ben rose, showered, shaved, packed and then stood by the window of his hotel, its nondescript features providing an opportunity for his mind to wander approximately a kilometre away. He envisaged Cat sleeping soundly, her body supine, soft and at rest beneath the linen on the old iron bed in Auberge Claudette. He wanted to spy on her like that as much as he desired to be in the full throes of fucking her right now.
Is she awake yet?
‘I wonder if Ms McCabe would care to join me for breakfast.’
Fabian Ducasse awoke very much the accomplished pro cyclist with his mind settled, focused and full of his maillot jaune. Fabian also awoke very much the healthy virile man, his cock stiff and proud. He thought of his girlfriend. Fleetingly. He zapped through the television in search of porn but found only cartoons, quiz shows and the Tour de France. He began to masturbate but his right hand was not enough of a turn on, not even when coated with the hotel’s complimentary body lotion. And then he remembered one of the clerks at the desk. Fuck, remember her name. Shit, what was it. Ah! He remembered. He picked up the phone.
‘This is Fabian Ducasse,’ he barked with some irritation to the male voice which had answered. ‘Is Francine on duty?’
‘Oui, Monsieur Ducasse,’ the man informed him.
‘Give her to me then,’ Ducasse commanded.
‘Bonjour?’
‘Francine,’ Fabian drawled, ‘yesterday, you said if I needed anything, to speak to you.’
‘Bien sûr – what can I do for you?’
‘I need something in my room,’ Fabian explained. ‘You will come.’
‘Directly,’ said Francine, turning from her colleague to hide her flush and the surreptitious unbuttoning of her shirt by one notch.
Fabian assessed the room and looked at his watch. He would not be wanting her on the bed. Not least because, after he had done what he intended to do with her, he would sleep for another hour or so. He did not want her on the bed because he desired no intimacy. He had no need, no wish, for a woman to be curled up and languid under white cotton, not leaving. Fundamentally, he did not want her on the bed because it would add time and necessitate seduction; his time and his seduction skills were precious commodities Fabian was not about to waste.
There was a discreet knock at the door. Fabian padded across the room and let Francine in. He was a sight to behold; naked and with an erection so arrogantly defiant that it needed neither introduction nor justification. She was pretty with a lovely figure but Fabian hardly clocked the facts. All he knew was that she had previously offered her services which, he deduced, meant warm, welcoming pussy. That was enough. That was what he wanted. That was all he wanted. And if he knew women, or at least those who made overtures to him midway through a Stage Race, she would be pleased to be fucked by Fabian. So, everyone was going to be happy. Let’s get on with it, tout de suite.
He backed her up against the closed door, unbuttoned her blouse and feasted his eyes on her impressive cleavage. He wasn’t going to waste time unhooking and unfastening, he just yanked the bra cups down so that her breasts were squeezed out and on display. He reached up her short skirt and ripped down her panties. She wasn’t very tall so it was good that she was wearing high heels; they could stay on. The skirt would have to go, though, as it prevented her spreading her legs wide enough. But the clasp and the zip – too complicated. With a desirous growl, Fabian ruched the skirt up until it was bunched around her waist like a deflated life ring. He took a step back and regarded what was on offer. Great tits. High heels. Shaved pussy. Best of all, utterly silent. Yeah!
Fabian placed the palms of his hands on each of her inner thighs and spread her legs easily. He took his hands to her breasts and moulded and fingered and grabbed at them, fixating on her nipples between his finger and thumb. Then he grasped her buttocks, bent his knees and bucked up hard, entering her with what he assumed was pleasurable force. Certainly, her gasp would have him believe that. He fucked her hard and came in about ten thrusts. No doubt she came too, oui? He grinned triumphant, proud at the glazed response he’d caused in her. He righted her skirt, buttoned her blouse albeit wrongly, handed her the panties and kissed her on both cheeks. It was the first and only time his lips had touched any part of her.
‘Merci,’ he murmured, ‘merci bien.’
‘Bonne chance,’ she said, leaving his room.
He did not watch her walk down the corridor trying to restore order to her blouse and her mind despite the trickle of semen dribbling down her leg. The power Fabian experienced fucking the clerk had flooded him with strength he could utilize on his ride that day. But the desired result which he had attained fucking her was nothing compared to the power that saturated him when he put the maillot jaune on his back.
‘Better,’ Didier answered.
‘Completely?’ Luca probed.
‘No,’ Didier confided, ‘but I haven’t been sick for two days and my arse is – how do you say?’
‘Bricks instead of mortar?’ Luca ventured.
‘I like that,’ Didier laughed.
‘Zucca make bricks and mortar,’ Luca mused.
‘And I shit on all of them,’ Didier bantered.
‘I need to have a wank,’ Luca said, rising from the bed and disappearing courteously into the bathroom.
As Ben walked through the streets to Cat, he placed a hand against his stomach. He felt a little queer but diagnosis of the symptoms eluded him. He decided that hunger and lack of sleep were to blame, that breakfast with Cat and then perhaps a spell in her bed, or in her bed under her spell, might be curative measures to take. It was only when his stomach turned over, shot down to the soles of his feet and then rocketed up to the base of his throat when the auberge came into sight, that Ben deduced from what it was that he was suffering.
Butterflies. Fucking butterflies. When did I last have these? I’ve gone soft.
He was so disconcerted by the affliction that he very nearly bypassed the auberge. But not quite. Soon enough, he was knocking at Cat’s door with tiger moths rampaging around his abdomen. Then Josh appeared down the hallway.
‘Morning, Ben,’ he said affably.
‘Hey, Josh,’ said Ben.
‘Are you looking for Cat?’ Josh asked.
‘Yes, I am,’ said Ben, ‘actually, yes.’
‘I think Rachel said something about she and Cat having breakfast together on account of today’s afternoon départ,’ Josh informed Ben. ‘We had a great night last night – how come you didn’t show?’
‘Oh,’ Ben said breezily, ‘I had medical matters to attend to – bodies, rest and motion – you know the kind of thing.’
‘All in a day’s work,’ said Josh, nodding ingenuously. He regarded Ben. ‘Why do you want Cat?’
Because she’s gorgeous and sexy and I haven’t wanted anyone so much for bloody years.
‘She left her dictaphone in my room,’ Ben said.
‘What was it doing in your room?’ Josh asked, now just a little intrigued.
‘It was picking up the glinting gems which trickled like a golden waterfall from the ruby lips of one Luca Love Me Jones,’ Ben said wryly.
Josh laughed and then held out his hand. ‘Do you want me to give it to her?’
No. That’s my privilege – I’ll be giving it to her. And I’ll be returning the dictaphone too.
‘You’re all right, Josh,’ Ben said. ‘I feel I should deliver it to her myself – it’s safe in my hands, you might steal her scoops!’
Josh shrugged. ‘Ben?’ he called after the doctor who was about to descend the stairs. Ben turned and regarded him. Josh wavered and then waved the air dismissively. ‘Nothing,’ he said, returning to his room. Josh was going to say something, and he knew what it was he was going to say but the fact that he was unsure quite why he wanted to say it ultimately prevented its disclosure.
Josh always thinks before he speaks. Alex, however, does not. When Ben passed him on the stairs on his way out, Alex also asked his purpose in the auberge.
‘I’m after Cat,’ Ben explained.
‘Who isn’t!’ Alex exclaimed with an excited growl.
Cat McCabe had awoken early and sat up in bed gazing at her surroundings, already missing the room she’d have to check out of later. She committed the wallpaper design to memory, soaking up the beauty of the light filtering through from the bathroom like a waft of fine muslin. She felt so at home here and suddenly she thought of her family. She called Fen but there was no reply. She tried Pip but finding only her sister’s voice on the answering machine, albeit claiming to be Martha the Clown, she decided not to leave a message. Finally, she dialled Django.
‘Who’s there good God?’
Django only ever answered the phone like that when he was elbow-deep in some culinary venture. Forlornly, Cat cancelled the call. Less than a minute later, her phone rang.
‘No recipe,’ Django boomed, ‘no matter how intricate the instruction – regardless of milk curdling, sauce clogging or egg whites misbehaving – no recipe takes precedence over any of my nieces.’
‘Hullo, Django,’ Cat said.
‘What’s up, pretty girl?’ Django asked, slipping a wooden spoon, sticky with something resembling wallpaper paste, into the back pocket of his jeans.
Cat smiled small.
How can he tell?
‘I did something last night,’ she explained, with no shame, no embarrassment, but quietly.
‘With whom?’ Django asked, taking the spoon from his pocket and seeing whether it would stick to the glass pane in the kitchen door. It did.
‘With the doctor,’ Cat confided.
‘How lovely,’ Django enthused, because his other two nieces had provided enough details for him to deduce that the doctor was a very good idea indeed.
‘I know,’ Cat said, her voice faltering beyond her control, ‘I know.’
‘Why the tears?’ Django asked while all around him the sauce separated, egg whites collapsed and bananas went brown.
‘Because it means He’s gone,’ Cat said, ‘I’ve made Him go.’
‘Don’t capitalize that scoundrel,’ Django all but barked before softening his tone. ‘I know, darling. But you’ve let go because you could. Well done you.’
‘Haven’t I gone and scuppered any future chance?’ Cat asked, knowing the answer full well.
‘Catriona,’ Django said gravely, ‘that man deserved neither your future nor your sparkle. That he dared to try and strip you of the one means most certainly that he was never entitled to the other.’ Cat nodded. Django could sense it. ‘It’s good,’ Django continued, ‘believe me. Those who love you are so excited for your life – great things come to those who deserve them. Dr Who is one of them. Good for you.’
‘Think so?’ marvelled Cat on the verge of amazement.
‘Know so,’ Django declared.
Half an hour later, Cat all but skipped to the Zucca MV team hotel, forsaking forays into foyers in search of riders, for swift circumnavigation of the grounds to locate the Zucca team bus and soigneur. She found Rachel sitting on its steps, face up and eyes closed into the morning sun.
‘Rachel,’ Cat greeted.
Rachel opened her eyes and blinked, continuing to squint at Cat even when she could see her clearly. ‘Hey,’ Rachel said, ‘you look very chirpy.’
Cat smiled. ‘You wouldn’t have a spare pair of Oakley sunnies I could borrow?’
Rachel disappeared into the bus and came out with a pair of sunglasses. ‘They’re Vasily’s spares – I gift them to you for an hour!’
‘Thanks,’ said Cat, greatly honoured, putting the glasses on and seeing from her reflection in Rachel’s that she looked quite good in them.
‘So?’ Rachel probed, suddenly realizing how relieved she was for the excuse not to talk herself.
Cat tipped her head to one side. ‘It’s funny, isn’t it? The more you’re surrounded by men, the more you crave and value female company.’
Rachel frowned and cast her eyes down, suddenly realizing she’d love the excuse to talk, to confide her antics for constructive analysis.
‘Are you OK?’ Cat asked, suddenly sensing Rachel’s introspection. Rachel wiped her hands on her jeans and said she was fine and would Cat like to help mix the dextrose powder into the bidons? They performed their duty in affable silence until monotony made Cat’s mind meander.
‘Hey Rachel,’ she said, alighting on a fine topic, ‘pick up where you left off yesterday. You were talking about Vasily.’
Rachel was silent for a second too long.
‘Vasily?’ she replied in a way simply not noncommittal enough.
‘In th
e bar,’ Cat said in what she hoped was a tempting way, ‘in the loos?’
‘Vasily,’ Rachel declared, ‘nothing to say. Yesterday was the Time Trial. He wasn’t himself.’ Cat said nothing because Rachel needed to say nothing more. Cat knew that intonation, those kinds of sentences. She turned to Rachel, screwing on the lid of a drink bottle and giving it a good shake. ‘Tell me,’ she suggested, Rachel’s lack of eye contact confirming Cat’s hunch.
‘It’s nothing,’ Rachel said, fiddling with things that needed no attention, ‘it was nothing.’
‘What was nothing?’ asked Ben, suddenly at the foot of the bus.
‘Ben!’ Cat exclaimed with joy without checking.
‘Hullo, Ben,’ said Rachel, the briefest glance at Cat’s illuminated face telling her all she needed to know without recourse to the glint in Cat’s eyes which the Oakleys were hiding from view anyway.
‘Cat,’ said Ben quite formally, ‘here’s your dictaphone.’
‘Thanks!’ Cat said effusively.
‘Do you women want breakfast?’ Ben asked.
‘We’ve had,’ said Rachel, speaking for both, though Cat would have been quite content with a second sitting. Cat looked at Rachel. Slowly, she removed the loaned sunglasses and handed them to the soigneur. The girls conversed expertly by glances.
You’ve slept with Ben Bloody York, haven’t you!
I know! What do you think?
Go for it.
‘Wait up, Ben,’ Cat called after him but only once she’d been granted Rachel’s nod. Ben stopped a few yards off, the morning sunlight catching his features so aesthetically that Cat had to catch her breath.
‘Tell me,’ Rachel said connivingly, ‘why does he have your dictaphone?’
‘I must have left it in his bedroom,’ Cat said.
‘Oh,’ said Rachel, nodding sagely, ‘couldn’t he just have used his finger then, like a normal bloke?’
It took a while for Rachel’s jest to filter through Cat. When it did, she roared with laughter, nudged her friend, all but leapt from the bus and approached Ben most jauntily. As they walked away, Cat turned. Rachel was standing in the doorway of the bus, cleaning the Oakley sunglasses she had lent Cat, on the rim of her T-shirt.