Читать книгу The McCabe Girls Complete Collection: Cat, Fen, Pip, Home Truths - Freya North - Страница 20

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!’

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 gather 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.

‘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. Fugallo 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.

<ENDS>

‘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?’

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.