Читать книгу The McCabe Girls Complete Collection: Cat, Fen, Pip, Home Truths - Freya North - Страница 29

Back in London, Pip, who’d hardly slept, phoned Django at 5.30 a.m.

‘Can you lend me some money?’ she said.

‘Jesus Christ – are you in trouble? Are you in jail?’ Django cried, throwing back the bedcovers, ready to dress in a second and pelt down to London at a moment’s notice even if his eyes were still firmly shut.

‘God, I’m fine,’ Pip laughed, ‘only I’m a bit broke this month. So can you?’

‘Can I what?’ Django asked, rubbing his eyes and his head and trying to massage his memory into recalling what his niece had phoned for.

‘Lend me some money,’ Pip repeated.

‘Money?’ said Django. ‘What for? Are you in trouble?’

‘God, no,’ said Pip, ‘I want to go to France to visit my sister.’

‘You want to go to France to visit your sister,’ Django repeated attempting, at this ungodly hour, to recall which niece was not in England and why.

‘Yes,’ said Pip, ‘Cat.’

‘Well, why didn’t you say?’ Django exclaimed. ‘Of course you can have some money – if I have some.’

‘You have lots,’ Pip prompted, ‘somewhere.’

‘Of course I do,’ Django said, as if thanking his niece for reminding him, ‘I’ll send some down.’

Pip phoned Fen immediately. ‘I have some money,’ she said.

‘That’s nice,’ said Fen blearily. ‘Fuck, it’s twenty to six.’

‘I have some money,’ Pip repeated, ‘so let’s go to France this weekend.’

‘Can’t afford it,’ said Fen, pulling the duvet up to her chin and keeping her eyes closed.

‘Bollocks!’ remonstrated Pip. ‘One of your boyfriends is loaded.’

‘But the other one is broke,’ Fen said softly.

‘Yes, but which one have you chosen? Who is it to be?’

‘I still don’t know,’ Fen wailed.

‘Yes, yes. But will you come to France?’

‘Sure,’ said Fen.

Luca lay in bed with an inordinately large grin on his face, his eyes wide open and sparkling, fixated with a particularly uninspiring run of cornice.

‘Come on come on come on!’ he chanted. Didier awoke.

‘Fuck it, man,’ Didier remonstrated, ‘it’s 6.30!’

‘I want to start!’ Luca declared. ‘I want to get going.’

‘Go to sleep,’ Didier mumbled, pulling a pillow over his head.

‘I can’t!’ Luca declared. ‘I haven’t slept a wink.’

‘Not amphetamines again,’ Didier exclaimed, hurling the pillow away and fixing an accusing stare on his room-mate.

‘Don’t be fucking stupid,’ Luca said, quite offended, ‘I’m as clean as they come. I want to win another Stage, goddamn it. Those feelings of euphoria, of adulation, of strength – they’re far more addictive, and much more effective too. I’m raring to go.’

‘Well,’ Didier reasoned, ‘you’re not going to win a Stage on no sleep, for fuck’s sake.’ He turned his back on Luca, mumbled, ‘Sweet dreams’ and then went off to have some of his own – mainly about glory in the mountains and winning a Stage himself.

Cat moaned when Ben woke her, not least because the awakening was rude in the extreme. She cupped her hands around Ben’s head and lifted his face from her pussy.

‘I don’t want to wake up,’ she lamented. Ben crawled up her body and she kissed him, tasting her own salty-sweetness on his mouth. ‘I’m dreading today,’ she confided. ‘How on earth am I going to manage the salle de pressé?’

Ben lay on his back and looked at her sideways. ‘Are you embarrassed?’

‘Embarrassed?’ Cat exclaimed, propping herself up on her side. ‘I’ve never been so humiliated in all my life.’

‘Yes, but are you embarrassed?’ Ben pressed. Cat frowned. ‘About whatever it is that’s going on here – between us.’ Ben was regarding her steadily.

‘God, no,’ Cat said quietly, gazing at him and punctuating her statement with an emphatic kiss to his shoulder.

‘Well then,’ said Ben, ‘you just lie back, close your eyes and figure out who is in the wrong, who has the dignity, who should be embarrassed, while I satiate myself on your gorgeous pussy.’

Rachel didn’t have any time with Vasily on the Rest Day. After his ride, he’d had deep massage from another soigneur, followed by a little ultrasound on an old knee injury. This morning, when she delivered clean gear to the team, she had a few minutes alone with him. She was hoping for quality time. When she gave him his lycra, she kissed his cheek; seductively close to the corner of his mouth, she hoped. She noted how, initially, he looked utterly startled until she saw the cogs of his memory start to turn. When he then kissed her back, on the lips with a tantalizing flick of his tongue, it was enough to put paid to the unease she had fleetingly experienced.

With the Tour over half-way through, Cat had long absolved many in the press corps for their diabolical taste in footwear, their deplorable typing skills and their excessive addiction to nicotine because, for the most part, they were a nice bunch with such passion for cycle sport that Cat could even turn a blind eye (if still-attuned nose) to their diminishing concerns for personal hygiene. There were individuals, however, who were simply not likeable; for smelling just too bad, for not loving cycling enough and for general antisocial behaviour that went far beyond footwear fancy and nicotine predilection.

A small man called Jan Airie was perhaps the most odious of all. He never went to the village, never ventured near the finish, let alone the scrum, never took his chance amongst the team vehicles or hotels; yet he always crept around scrounging quotes from the other journalists, wheedling his way up and down the banks of laptops, invariably clearing his chest or picking his ears. Sometimes, Cat sensed him scavenging from her screen over her shoulder; or rather scented him, for he was prone to belch with the force and regularity of a Tourette’s sufferer, his feet were spectacularly vile and oral hygiene was obviously of no concern. He made her jump. He made her skin crawl. She knew it would have been too much to hope that he hadn’t been in the salle the day before.

I’m too full of adrenalin to be able to digest even a spoonful of humble pie, Cat bemoaned to herself as Josh parked the car near the salle de pressé in Daumier.

‘I’m starving,’ yawned Alex, stretching expansively and clonking Josh on the ear as he did so. ‘You’re very quiet,’ he remarked to Cat who did not reply. Josh glanced at her from the rear-view mirror but she looked away before she could receive his supportive wink. Taking a few deep breaths, with eyes cast down though the serene and elegant town of Daumier well deserved her attention, Cat traipsed behind the boys to the salle de pressé.

‘Wait up,’ she said to Alex and Josh, ‘can you two flank me?’

‘Oughtn’t you be wearing sackcloth,’ Alex teased, ‘not that floaty little sundress – a bag over your head at the very least?’

‘But it’s hot,’ Cat remonstrated.

‘And the press gang’ll be even hotter,’ Alex remarked, eyeing her up and down.

‘I can’t go!’ Cat declared, coming to a standstill.

‘Come on,’ said Josh, linking arms with her. They escorted her in, which was a good job really as she was too busy scrutinizing the ground just millimetres in front of each foot fall to take notice of where she ought to be headed and obstacles to avoid.

Shit. Has everyone gone quiet? Or is my heartbeat just drowning out every other sound? I daren’t look up.

The boys sat her down between them and Cat started typing immediately; furiously and with her head close to the keyboard and masked by the screen.

COPY FOR P. TAVERNER @ GUARDIAN SPORTS DESK FROM CATRIONA McCABE IN DAUMIER

The memory of yesterday’s Repos faded fast (God, I wish it would – I’m going to have to relive it again when next I speak to my sisters) as the Tour de France headed for Provence. The deep massage and physiotherapy the riders would have had yesterday was in retrospect not so much to soothe their limbs from the exertion of 11 days of racing, as to prepare and cajole their bodies for a further 9 days. (Jesus – what’s that? Oh my God, people are clapping.)

Though a slow round of applause intruded on Cat’s concentration, she decided to give everyone the benefit of the doubt that maybe, just maybe, they were merely applauding a breakaway or hot-spot sprint. She was desperate to watch the race, the Repos had been very nice, thank you, but Cat had withdrawal symptoms for cycling. However, she didn’t dare raise her head though her neck was aching and her shoulders stiff. Josh sweetly whispered a running commentary and Alex supportively denounced the clap-happy posse as a bunch of tossers. Neither could do much about warning Cat that Jan Airie was leering behind her because he had slunk up unannounced, as was his wont.

‘Catriona!’ he breathed pungently and invasively close to her ear, forcing her to retreat even further into the questionable space offered by her laptop. ‘I do believe you interviewed young Luca Jones – I’d love to hear your tape – I’m sure it is very interesting.’ Then, though his humour stank and his laughter reeked, he wheezed himself silly at what he perceived to be his great wit. Cat wanted to throw up or hit him, but as the former would mess up her keyboard and the latter would entail face-to-face propinquity, she sat stock still. Airie, proud of himself, skulked off, taking a seat directly in front of Alex and taking a good look at the computer screens of his immediate neighbours. He helped himself to a cigarette from one and stole a swig of Coke from the other.

‘Vile!’ hissed Josh under his breath.

‘Loathsome,’ Cat agreed.

‘Total wanker,’ Alex contributed.

The three of them pulled themselves up primly and settled down to their work, sensibly ignoring Airie exclaiming, ‘Don’t stop! Don’t stop!’ in falsetto under the pretext of urging some Banesto rider’s bid for freedom.

With the high mountain Stages approaching, the main contenders for the yellow jersey will keep their energy expenditure to a minimum. With the Alps looming, the non-specialist riders can relish the chance to make a break and glean some glory before the Alps blow them away. Système Vipère, the team behind the yellow jersey of Fabian Ducasse, need to stay near the head of the bunch, to monitor the pace and control which riders they will tolerate in a breakaway. (Thank God for that, Jan Airie seems to have his imbecilic tendencies under check. Where was I? Oh yes, mountains and breakaways.)

But then Jan Airie started to sigh. And then he added a moan or two. Soon he was delivering a clangorous caricature of the female orgasm, soliciting the attention of the whole of the salle de pressé. Tittering developed into chortling which was soon full-blown laughter.

Cat is starting to feel angry. She feels something else too. Ben’s lips. They touch down first on the back of her neck and then along the stretch of her shoulder. The laughter subsides but Airie’s faked orgasm, which he is delivering with eyes shut, does not.

‘It sounds like you’re sick,’ Ben tells him very loudly.

‘He is sick,’ Alex confirms.

‘I think he needs help,’ Josh adds.

That shut him up! Cat marvels. Kiss me again, Ben.

Ben kisses her again and runs her hair through his hands, scooping it into a pony-tail, tugging it so her face tips back for him to kiss her forehead. Then he chats easily to Josh and Alex, massaging Cat’s shoulders all the while and fixing Jan Airie with a steely stare. And then, job done, he goes; telling Airie, very loudly, that if drugs don’t help a sanatorium might; telling Cat, very loudly, that he’ll see her later.

Darling boy, Cat thinks of Ben, as she gazes at the TV screens, noting that Hunter Dean is in a six-man break. Another darling boy.

The riders are racing in 36 degrees, with the sly winds of the region, the mistral and the tramontane, lurking in the wings as if deciding whether or not to have some sport and wreak havoc with the pack. (Ben York, Ben York – you’ve declared yourself my boyfriend; only how can you be if this is the Tour de France and in ten days’ time you’ll be in Colorado and I’ll be in Camden?)

‘That’s not my primary concern at this precise moment,’ Cat says to herself, eyes glued to the TVs, her concern and affection for the riders manifesting itself as a furrow to her brow and a swell in her heart. ‘Can my heart beat so hard in two places at once?’ she wonders quietly. Obviously it can.

‘It’s fucking hot,’ Luca says to Travis, ‘and the wind’s picked up – it’s north-westerly and it’s a bitch.’

‘I’d say it’s around 50 kph,’ Travis confirms. ‘It’s cool that Hunter’s in the break.’

‘Yeah,’ Luca agrees, ‘my legs feel great – I might go for a little gallop.’

‘Whatever,’ Travis says, ‘I’m happy hanging out with this lot.’

Just after the feed, Luca Jones jumped gear and tore away. Though he accomplished a minute’s lead on the bunch at one point, he made little headway on the 3-minute lead of the six-man break. 10 km later, aware of the TV helicopter hovering close behind him heralding the imminence of the bunch, Luca sat up and returned to the fold with dignity and his infamous grin.

‘Creeps!’ Travis hisses to Luca, referring to four young riders from four different teams taking turns to ride headfirst into the wind at the arrowhead front of the bunch.

‘I’d say they’re shrewd,’ Luca counters.

It was a day for young riders acting alone to take turns at the head of the peloton, hauling the Zucca and Viper boys along, to garner favour in the hope that it might be returned in the mountains. 22 km from the finish, the riders faced the second-category climb of the Col de Murs.

‘It’s a fucker of a descent,’ Travis warns Luca as they approach the mountain.

‘Too right,’ Luca agrees, ‘you can’t see where the hell you’re going.’

‘Careful!’ Travis calls to Luca who’s gone ahead again. ‘The publicity caravan leave slicks of rubber and diesel and crap – it can be pretty dangerous.’

With the mountains of the region being densely tree-clad, descents are fast and dangerous as it is difficult for the riders to judge the lay of the land, the severity of the hairpins, which way the mountain slips away around the corners. Travis Stanton was flung from his bike having hit a skid of diesel half-way down.

‘Nice road rash!’ Luca teases Travis once the road has levelled out into a wide lush valley of breathtaking beauty. Travis glances at his grazed, glistening forearm, his scraped, red raw knee. He pours water over his wounds and shrugs the sting off. ‘Where’s the break?’ he asks Luca who doesn’t know.

‘Where’s the break?’ Luca asks David Millar.

‘Still three minutes plus,’ the Cofidis rider replies. ‘You’ve got Hunter there, right?’

‘Yup,’ says Luca with pride, ‘he’s our main man and if I continue to send him my Stage-winning vibes, he’s gonna do it. Yo, Hunter!’

‘You’re a jerk, Luca,’ Millar laughs, riding ahead.

The breakaway streamed into the elegant town of Daumier where huge crowds had been chanting and singing all afternoon. The tight corners and barriers of a civic finish, plus the sudden change from unabated sunshine to tree-dappled light, enforcing the riders to steady their pace. With no true sprinter amongst them, psychology was going to decide the victor of the Stage. Though Hunter Dean hung back to judge when to go and who to take, all six riders stormed the last few metres abreast and fellow countryman Marty Jemison (US Postal) took the Stage by a rim, 2 minutes 32 seconds ahead of the main field. Fabian Ducasse takes his sixth yellow jersey but Vasily Jawlensky plays psychological warfare, still a mere 53 seconds off Ducasse’s lead. The peloton head for Grenoble tomorrow. Tonight they rest under the imposing presence of the Giant of Provence; the mighty, fearsome Mount Ventoux where Tom Simpson, English rider and yellow jersey wearer, lost his life in 1967.

<ENDS>

Pip and Fen watched the Tour coverage on Channel 4 television with their hearts in their mouths, their passports in their laps, their bags packed and a cab ordered. As soon as the programme finished, they charged to Waterloo, took the Eurostar to Paris, changed stations and boarded a train headed for Grenoble.

‘Should we have phoned Cat, do you think?’ Pip asked.

‘I wonder,’ mused Fen. ‘No, there’s nothing like a surprise.’

‘How will we find her?’ Pip asked.

Fen shrugged. ‘We’ll track her down,’ she said, wondering for the first time how on earth they would, ‘she said she’s one of only a dozen women there, after all. How difficult could it be?’

‘Where are we going to stay?’ Pip asked.

‘We’ll find somewhere,’ Fen assured her. ‘How difficult can that be in the land of gîtes?’

‘And pommes frites – I’m starving,’ said Pip.

‘Did you know,’ said Fen, looking up from her Channel 4 guide to the Tour de France, ‘the first ever yellow jersey was actually given in Grenoble?’

Pip shook her head and looked fascinated. ‘Oh yes,’ Fen continued earnestly, ‘in 1919. I don’t even know why it’s yellow.’

‘It is yellow,’ Pip discoursed, pulling her eyes away from her copy of Procycling, ‘because the race was sponsored by L’Auto, a newspaper whose pages were yellow.’

‘How interesting,’ said Fen, flipping through Cycle Sport, ‘and Eddy Merckx collected ninety-six yellow jerseys in his career.’

‘Listen to this,’ Pip said, consulting Maillot, ‘scandal and skulduggery! In the second ever Tour, the maillot jaune, Maurice Garin, was disqualified when it transpired he’d done one of the Stages by train!’

‘I think that was the Tour when the other top three riders were eliminated for having set up barricades and scattering nails on the roads!’ Fen contributed. She looked out of the window. Whilst hurtling through such peaceful countryside, it was hard to believe the huge, hermetic world of the Tour de France was just hours away. What was it going to be like? ‘I’m sure we’ll find Cat,’ Fen said, ‘and Fabian Ducasse.’

‘Of course we will, I hope we will,’ said Pip, referring first to her sister and second to the French rider. It was dawning on them that they hadn’t made the journey so much to spend time with their sister, but to see the boys on bikes in the flesh, to experience the Tour de France first hand.