by Freya North
‘I do so love you,’ Ben murmured to her, having locked eyes with her the whole session through.
‘And I do you,’ Cat responded.
‘I love it that sex between us can be either romantic lovemaking, all sensitive and sensual, or else we fuck each other’s brains out,’ Ben defines. ‘It’s good to feel so comfortable with someone.’
‘I love it that, whether making love or shagging each other senseless, post orgasm we frequently talk about some fine point of cycle sport,’ Cat muses.
Paris dawned bright, cloudless and absolutely freezing cold. Ben and Cat strolled through the courtyards of the Louvre, through the Tuileries gardens to the Place de la Concorde before catching a cab up to Porte Maillot, to the Palais des Congres de Paris for the launch of next year’s Tour de France. The foyer was packed. For Cat, it was like a family reunion and she wove her way through the throng, hugging and kissing and beaming at everyone; greeting people whom she had known previously by face alone but as if they were established close friends. The expansive grin that she wore, her face full of light and colour, contrasted with her sober black poloneck, black skirt of demure length, opaque black tights and black pumps. ‘I’m working!’ she had protested to a lengthy wolf whistle and a theatrical salute from Ben when she had dressed that morning. ‘I’m a journaliste, remember.’
Is it seemly that a member of the press corps, one who hopes for recognition and respect, should then scurry around collecting posters and goodie bags and swiping the branded anti-macassars from the seats?
But everyone does. See! Look at Josh, he’s asking Vasily Jawlensky for his autograph. And Alex has taken three copies of one poster. Those who follow this fabulous sport do so because they are passionate about pro cycling. We are fans foremost, the luckiest, most blessed of all supporters of the sport, for we are paid to indulge our love for it.
‘Ms McCabe, hullo.’
It was Jeremy Whittle from Sportsworld.
‘Hullo,’ she replied, shaking his hand warmly, ‘you know Ben, don’t you?’
‘Of course,’ Jeremy replied, giving the doctor a congenial slap.
‘How are you, Jez?’ Ben said.
‘I’m fine – but I want to talk business with Cat before the presentation starts.’
‘I’ve spoken to Rachel McEwen about a profile,’ Cat enthuses, ‘and can I do one on Biarritz – many young riders are choosing it as their base? And I thought, how about a physiological cross comparison of Vasily and Fabian – their resting heartbeats, height, weight, V02 max?’
‘They sound great,’ Jez said, ‘and as Assistant Editor of Pedal Power, you can write whatever you like, really.’
‘Please could I do Paris-Nice for you?’ Cat continued, Jez’s statement way too enormous to even hear, let alone contemplate.
‘As Assistant Editor of Pedal Power, you would be expected to attend,’ Jez tried again. It is a squeeze around her waist from Ben that jolts Cat into listening, absorbing and at once trying to fathom just what Mr Whittle means.
‘Pardon?’ Cat tries. ‘Assistant Editor? Of Pedal Power? Who?’
‘You,’ Jez laughs, ‘you’d be brilliant. It would mean moving to the States, of course.’
‘Me?’ Cat mouthed.
Jez nodded. ‘We’ll talk about salaries and the job spec after the presentation.’ He placed his hand on her shoulder. ‘Close your mouth, Cat,’ he said affectionately before walking away.
‘Morning, Cat,’ said Andy Sutcliffe from Maillot. All Cat could do was nod and try to command her brain to close her mouth. ‘Thanks for your e-mail,’ Andy was continuing, ‘I’d love to have you and I can provide you with a few perks too. The Features Editorship is yours, Cat. Shall we discuss it after the presentation?’ Away he went.
Bloody hell, Cat. Two job offers within five minutes. The opportunity to move to the same country as Ben. By the chasm of your dropped jaw, I’d say you are positively gobsmacked. What are your immediate instincts? What do you think you’ll do? We know what Ben would say. But what about Fen and Pip and Django? So much food for thought you’ll get indigestion. But you have this time in Paris to muse. And whatever decision you make, the army of people who love you so, will furnish you with their support and best wishes.
I can’t think about any of this now. I must go – the presentation is about to start.
Guess who has a large lump in her throat when footage of the recent Tour de France is beamed on huge screens?
The unveiling of the route for next year’s Tour de France reveals a clockwise grande boucle with a sortie into Italy. Alps first, then Pyrenees. A whopping 3,850 kilometres. Twenty-one teams of nine riders will be invited to compete for the maillot à pois, the maillot vert and of course the golden fleece itself, the maillot jaune. Of the peloton, there will only be three or four serious contenders for overall victory and yet 189 riders will race their hearts out. Mont Ventoux. A Time Trial at Futuroscope. A Stage finish in Bordeaux. Cat has whispered to Josh that they simply must stay at Auberge Claudette, that she will book ahead next week.
Jules Le Grand, top to toe in Armani, sockless even in October, still tanned even in October, is in the audience with some of his riders and dignitaries from Système Vipère’s sponsors. He glances across to the Zucca MV directeur. His gaze is returned. Steadily. The gauntlet is thrown down. Fabian Ducasse is already planning how and when he will launch his offensive to claim the yellow jersey for himself, for the glory of Système Vipère, for the pride of his country whose great race this is.
Having now seen the route, Ben York is devising and revising training schedules with the Megapac directeur. Megapac won’t be a wildcard team next year. They have had a fabulous season and will be one of the sixteen teams automatically entitled to race. Rachel McEwen has requested that the route be faxed to her at the Zucca MV headquarters as soon as possible. Ever keen and conscientious, she wants to start making lists already.
It might just as well be July right now for Cat McCabe. She is already there, in her mind’s eye, travelling through some of the most stunning parts of France following a bunch of brave boys on bikes. She is under no illusions that it won’t be at times exhausting, stressful; often physically uncomfortable what with the heat, freak cold and an infernal selection of two-star motels. Her diet will be lousy. But if she stays off the brie and baguette from now till next July, she might just tolerate it on a daily basis for three weeks.
Cat McCabe can hardly wait. So many of her good friends will be there. Rachel to gossip with, Alex to be teased by, Josh always looking out for her. Maybe Fen and Pip will visit again, they might even bring Django this time. And of course Ben will be there, snatching time with her whenever possible, sharing beds that are often rickety, or too small or, once in a while, as at Auberge Claudette, near perfect. There is even the chance to retrace their trip to the dunes at Arcachon. Where it all began between the two of them. When Cat changed her life for the better. Vive le Tour.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Back in 1991, whilst zapping through TV channels, I came across a bunch of boys on bikes. I had no idea what they were doing exactly, nor why they would want to scale a mountain in blistering heat by bicycle. However, it was the most hypnotic, compelling sight to me and soon enough I was obsessed. To be allowed to indulge my passion by basing a novel around the greatest sporting event in the world, I owe deep gratitude to my wonderful editor and friend, Lynne Drew, and my incredible agent and friend Jonathan Lloyd.
To the Société du Tour de France, for welcoming me into the fold and affording me so many privileges, I am truly honoured and immensely grateful. Personnel at the time included Agnes Pierret, Pascal Thomas, John Lelangue, Sonia Barjou-Rousseau and a special mention for Sophie del Rizzo. Teun van Vliet, thanks for the ride – I think I left my stomach somewhere on the descent of the Madeleine.
I’m indebted to the riders who were so helpful and generous with their advice, memoirs and anecdotes. Enormous thanks to Chris Boardman, to David Millar, to Graham
Jones. Also, to Stuart O’Grady, Magnus Backstedt, Jay Sweet and all the riders who let me witter on at the villages. At the US Postal team in general, many thanks to riders past and present: Viatcheslav Ekimov, JC Robin, George Hincapie, Tyler Hamilton and to Jonathan Vaughters for letting me sit in on his massage. I’m grateful to Johnny Weltz for memorable and informative rides in the team car, to mechanic Geoff Brown and PR Louise Donald. Also, to Jill Jemison for dispelling myths and for that restorative ice cream at the water’s edge in Aix-les-Bains. Much gratitude and love to Emma O’Reilly for incredible generosity with her frangipane and her time, both on and off duty – always a great craic.
In the salle de pressé, my thanks to all the journalists who were so friendly and helpful; in particular Sam Abt, Andy Hood, Leon Bignell, Michael Enggaard, Susanne Horsdal, Stephen Farrand, Alasdair Fotheringham, Graham Watson and Rob Lampard. Also Phil Liggett and Paul Sherwen at Channel 4 and Simon Brotherton, Joanne Corrigan and Graham Jones (again) at Radio 5 Live. Also Christi and Phil Anderson, Shelley Verses and Greg LeMond.
Huge thanks to Sally Boardman, Peter Woodworth and all at Beyond Level 4. Much gratitude to all at Sports for Television and everyone involved with the Prutour, especially Alan Rushton, Rita Bellanca, John Herety, Tim Harris, Joscelin Ryan, Gerry Dawson and Clare Salmon. Thanks to numerous McQuaids, specifically Pat at the UCI, Kieren for driving me Stage 1 of the 1998 Tour and Ann for back issues and enthusiasm. Thanks, too, to Harry Gibbings and Simon Lillistone.
At Cycle Sport and Cycling Weekly, many thanks to Luke Evans, Keith Bingham, Phil O’Connor et al.
At Procycling, and Tour Live to William Fotheringham for increasing my understanding of the sport and keeping me constantly entertained; to Jeremy Whittle for his support and enthusiasm, for checking my facts and figures and for being such a good friend both in the salle de pressé and out; to Andy Sutcliffe, for sending me that clutch of magazines back in 1996, for letting me ferret through his address book when I was ready to start my research and for the permanent loan (!) of books, back issues, videos and other stuff – my deepest thanks to you all.
This book is dedicated to the memories of Tom Simpson (1937–1967) and Fabio Casartelli (1970–1995), both of whom lost their lives during the Tour de France. Having battled cancer, Lance Armstrong won the Tour de France in 1999 and, for me, he personifies the essence of this great sport, this spectacular race. Triumph over adversity. Man against mountain. Whatever that mountain might be.
The Lance Armstrong Foundation, PO Box 27483 Austin, Texas 75755, USA
AFTERWORD
In January 1996, after four years happily writing in a little vacuum of my own making, developing a tough skin to fend off rejection slips from publishers and ignoring friends and family pleading with me to ‘get a proper job’, the unbelievable happened. Lynne Drew (then editor at William Heinemann and my editor to this day) offered me a three book deal. I’d completed Sally, I was halfway through Chloë and Polly was all planned. Jonathan Lloyd (my agent then and now) and I went to meet Lynne and her team. They wanted to know all about the books. Well, I said, my first novel is about sex and shenanigans in North London, my second is about love and lust in the UK at large, the third is a rampant romp through England and New England. And Cat, I said, well my fourth novel is set on the Tour de France. They looked at me a little blankly. Lashings of lycra? I offered. Thighs to make you sigh? I ventured. They were sold.
I’m often asked about when it first sunk in that the unbelievable had happened and that I was being paid to write and was a Real Author. It wasn’t when I struck my deal – I felt compelled to continue working as a temp, fearful to tempt fate. It wasn’t when Sally was first published in November 1996, nor Chloë the following year. It wasn’t even when I returned to New England for Polly on my first, official, tax-deductible research trip. The thunderbolt struck me in the Spring of 1998, in Manchester. I was there to meet world champion and Olympic gold medallist Chris Boardman – and it was possible not because I was a fan, but because I was a published author embarking on a novel set around his sport. Chris is an affable, down-to-earth chap – but when I spied him waiting in the hotel foyer, I had to nip into the Ladies to pinch myself and hyperventilate. The world had started to see me as a bone fide author – and, bizarrely, many people seemed as interested to meet me as I was to meet them.
For the next two summers, doors opened for me and access-all-areas passes were mine on the Tour de France itself. In fact, I set up quite a lucrative barter, trading cameo appearances in my novel for rides in team cars, being able to sit in on physio and massage, chats on team buses and a boogie at the end of Tour parties. Cat was the first of my novels which warranted an acknowledgments section at the back. Rereading it sparks vivid memories for me.
It was a very peculiar instance of life imitating art. I felt as if I was following in Cat’s footsteps rather than paving the way for her. I managed to secure commissions and felt just like Cat, sending copy back to the Sunday Times, the Guardian, Woman’s Hour and a couple of cycling mags too. I’ll never forget interviewing Magnus Backstedt for BBC Radio 4 Woman’s Hour – he generously sat with me in the village départ before the day’s stage began and we chatted for 15 minutes. Cheers, I said. You’d better get on your bike, I said. Have a good ride, I said. I didn’t, however, tell him I’d forgotten to switch on my Dictaphone.
Back then, prior to the Lance Armstrong years, the Salle de Presse was 1000 journalists, with very few English speakers and only 8 women. I was travelling with British journalist and writer Jeremy Whittle. We shared the driving and saved each other places in the press tent, we replenished coffees, grabbed the best on offer at the press buffets and gatecrashed Mario Cipollini’s toga party. I’m vegetarian – a concept the French resolutely refuse to embrace – so I ate a lot of baguette and a lot of omelette and a lot of Coeur de Lion cheese (one of the Tour sponsors). We stayed in some pretty grim motels – including one on the Belgian border where the rooms hadn’t been changed since the last guests checked out (some weeks previously, apparently). Planet Tour can be claustrophobic and surreal so I kept sane by running (many of the press take bikes with them and ride in the early mornings and evenings). I have an appalling sense of direction so I’d simply run in one direction for half an hour, stop, turn and run back.
It was boiling in Bordeaux and freezing in the Alps, it was raining in Pau and sun-drenched in Paris. Marco Pantani won that notorious 1998 Tour when the sport was blown apart by drugs scandals. Although he never tested positive, he was expelled from the Giro in 1999 because of irregular blood values. He became depressed and died from drug abuse in 2004.
Did I fall out of love with my sport while the doping scandals raged? Yes, I did a little. But I also know of the silent sighs of relief from other professional sportspeople that cycling had become the scapegoat. Cycling has the toughest doping controls of all sports – even an extra cup of coffee or spoonful of cough mixture can have a rider disqualified. But the more sophisticated the doping, the more frightening and depressing the consequences – not just for fair sport but for the health and lives of the riders too. I still watch the Tour avidly every year. I keep in touch with many of the people I met over a decade ago. But alongside marvelling at the peleton as it hoovers up the miles, scales extraordinary mountains and hurtles along trailing a blaze of colour and energy through France and school kids’ dreams, I do worry about those boys on bikes too. Vive le Tour.
Freya North
Spring 2012
Acclaim for Freya
‘Darkly funny and sexy – literary escapism at its very finest’
Sunday Independent
‘Secrets will make you smile, sigh and cheer as this story proves love can be found in the most unexpected places’
Sunday Express
‘… another sure-fire hit for Freya’
Heat
‘A breath of fresh air … fresh and witty’
Daily Express
‘A fab read’ Closer
‘Fast paced, page-turning and full of endearing, interesting characters. I defy anyone who doesn’t fall in love with it’
Glamour
‘Settle down and indulge’
Cosmopolitan
‘The novel’s likeable central characters are so well painted that you feel not only that you know them, but that you know how right they are for each other … the beauty of the North Yorkshire countryside contrasts convincingly with the bustle of London’
Daily Telegraph
‘North charts the emotional turmoil with a sexy exactitude’
Marie Claire
‘Freya North has matured to produce an emotive novel that deals with the darker side of love – these are real women, with real feelings’
She
‘A delicious creation … sparkling in every sense’
Daily Express
‘A distinctive storytelling style and credible, loveable characters … an addictive read that encompasses the stuff life is made of: love, sex, fidelity and, above all, friendship’
Glamour
‘Plenty that’s fresh to say about the age-old differences between men and women’
Marie Claire
‘An eye-poppingly sexy start leads into a family reunion laced with secrets. Tangled mother/daughter relationships unravel and tantalising family riddles keep you glued to the end’
Cosmopolitan
‘You’ll laugh, cry, then laugh some more’
Company
‘Freya North manages to strike a good balance between drama, comedy and romance, and has penned another winner … touching, enjoyable’