Читать книгу Freya North 3-Book Collection: Cat, Fen, Pip - Freya North - Страница 19

‘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 responded. ‘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 delighted 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.

‘Fantastic tits, Catriona McCabe,’ said Ben York desirously, feeling the objects of his adulation gently and swiftly before Cat could open her eyes in amazement. She grabbed her breasts protectively, glanced around aghast for fear of witnesses, and had no idea how to respond.

‘Cat,’ she corrected, indignantly.

Ben held her face and kissed her lips, flicking his tongue tip over them before standing back and grinning at her broadly.

‘Ready to play?’ Ben asked. Cat shook her head solemnly. Ben regarded his watch and then raised an eyebrow. ‘I’d timetabled you in,’ he said, ‘my only free slot, young girl.’

‘I haven’t finished my work yet,’ Cat apologized, ‘old boy.’

‘Fresh air and a banana,’ Ben proclaimed, ‘brain food – mark my words.’

‘Trust me, I’m a doctor?’ Cat cajoled. Ben acquiesced with a tilt of his head. ‘Well, here’s the fresh air,’ Cat continued, ‘and I’ll grab a banana from the buffet. Promise.’

‘Let’s go and sit somewhere,’ Ben suggested, his hand lightly at the small of Cat’s back, guiding her through the park, down a deserted narrow side-street and to a small tabac on the corner with just two tables outside.

‘How much caffeine have you had today?’ Ben asked. Subconsciously, Cat pulled her bottom lip through her top teeth as she thought. When it sprung out, Ben’s mouth was there. He bit her bottom lip and then sucked it quickly. His eyes open, observing that hers were closed. Cat had to sit down.

‘Five,’ she said at length.

‘Five?’ Ben asked. ‘Out of five? Out of ten – are you grading my osculation?’

‘Coffees,’ Cat explained, licking her lips to lap up the taste of him.

Your kissing is way off any scale I know.

‘You’re on the Tour de France,’ Ben said gravely, ‘you’re over the caffeine limit.’ He ordered two citron pressés. ‘Had a good day?’ he asked.

‘No,’ said Cat forlornly, ‘poor Fabian, poor Bobby.’

‘But you,’ Ben stressed, ‘how’s your day been, journaliste McCabe?’

‘Not so good, Ben, not so good.’ Cat explained to him the uncertainties at Maillot in great detail. ‘I’m brimming with ideas and overflowing with passion.’ Ben raised his eyebrows in delight. ‘Seriously,’ Cat implored, punching him gently, jolting his glass and causing a dribble of citron pressé to course down his chin. She took her forefinger to it, ran it up to his lips and let him suck it. ‘I’d justified following the entire Tour as having supreme purpose: a dream job at the end of it. Now that is uncertain, being here feels like an indulgence. I’m barely covering my costs.’

‘Don’t go home,’ Ben said seriously. Cat’s look of utter distaste at the thought brought the doctor instant relief. ‘There are so many people here,’ he continued, ‘something’ll come up.’

‘Would Luca mind me interviewing him after the Time Trial?’ Cat asked. ‘Even if I can’t guarantee a publication date?’

‘Luca,’ Ben proclaimed, ‘would be delighted. Where are you staying tonight?’

‘I don’t know,’ Cat said. ‘Josh knows all that stuff. I just take my rucksack from his car to a different but basically interchangeable room each night.’

‘Well, I’m staying at the Ibis. Room 324. Finish your work, feed and bathe and revive yourself and then come to me. I’m going to have another pressé,’ said Ben.

‘I’d better have that banana,’ said Cat, feeling a little giddy. She rose and thanked Ben, leaning down to kiss his cheek and then taking her lips to his and giving him a hint of the tongue she intended to use to great effect in room 324 of the Hôtel Ibis later. He gazed after her as she walked away.

She looks quite lovely in shorts. And how I’d love to run my finger tips ever so lightly over the imprint the woven plastic chair has left on the backs of her thighs.

Ben looked at his watch. There was just time to enjoy his pressé before he went in search of Didier LeDucq’s soigneur to discuss the rider’s health.

COPY FOR P. TAVERNER @ GUARDIAN SPORTS DESK FROM CA TRIONA McCABE IN PRADIER

On a day when it seemed at times too hot for even the sunflowers to keep their heads up, the peloton rolled out of Nantes today at 11 a.m. this morning when it was 25 degrees in the shade, travelling south before scooping inland to Pradier. By lunch-time, when the bunch streamed past the feed station at Doré to pluck the cloth musettes filled with victuals held out by their soigneurs, it was over 30 degrees. It was here, at the 100 km mark, that Tyler Hamilton (US Postal) flew off, as if he had suddenly traded his bicycle for a 900 cc motorbike. The bunch were either too engrossed in the contents of their musettes or too sensible to exert themselves in such heat and so early in the race, Hamilton was thus left alone to establish a lead that at one time was just over 7 minutes. He needed to win by 1 minute 15 seconds to claim the yellow jersey. In the last 30 km, the peloton somewhat begrudgingly began to work to close the gap. Hamilton came in with 2 seconds to spare, the maillot jaune was his. Stefano Sassetta, lying a sulky second, is still triumphant in the green jersey two points ahead of arch rival Jesper Lomers. Jesper, however, lies two placings higher than his Italian adversary in the overall standings.

A horrendous crash at 34 km, just after the first sprint point at Courbet, took Bobby Julich not just out of contention but out of the race altogether. Fabian Ducasse was lucky; his was but a taste, albeit unsavoury, of tarmac. If he is sore tonight, racing to Bordeaux tomorrow will ease his joints and restore him for the Time Trial on Saturday when he will throw down the gauntlet to Zucca’s Vasily Jawlensky. Vasily has been as enigmatic as ever; keeping a low profile, riding quietly, steering away from the action, the cameras and Fabian Ducasse. He lies in twelfth place, just 18 seconds behind Fabian.

Tomorrow’s Stage will be the last opportunity for the pure sprinters to display their daredevilry and thrust their stuff at the finishing line before the toil of the Time Trial and the misery of the mountains will send some of them home.

<ENDS>

‘I need something,’ Cat wails, ‘can I have a quote?’ she asks Alex.

He rifles through his notepad and shrugs, ‘Can’t help you – I’m having enough trouble making mine fit.’

‘You owe me one,’ Josh says, moving his chair nearer to her. ‘I got Lomers at the media scrum. He said, “Good for Tyler. Strength is a system of will and fitness – he has the maillot jaune because he deserves it.” I’m using it, but you can too – there were quite a few people around him.’

‘Josh,’ said Cat whilst typing in the quote at the end of her report, ‘I love you.’

Josh looked rather pleased with himself. Alex looked somewhat taken aback and, after a surreptitious flick through his notebook, a little deflated too.

I need something, Fabian Ducasse thought to himself. I was down on the ground tasting dirt – that’s no place for me to be.

His body was sore and his psyche felt bruised. Sure, his soigneur could tend to the former, Jules Le Grand the latter, but Fabian knew his requirements better than anyone. He had to feel on top, in control; that he was a man who could dominate anything he wished. He needed to reassert his strength, his supremacy. He regarded himself in the mirror in his hotel bathroom. He needed a shave. More importantly, he needed to rid himself of the hint of unease he alone could detect in his eyes. Easy. It would take one thing. He pulled a baseball cap on low, donned sunglasses and a non-branded sweatshirt. He regarded his reflection again and nodded. He still needed a shave but he liked what he saw. He phoned one of the Système Vipère mechanics and demanded to be driven across Nantes to an insalubrious area he had discovered on a race some years ago, and had subsequently revisited on a few occasions since.

‘Wait around there,’ he ordered, watching until the mechanic was out of sight before opening a front door without knocking. Of course it was open. It was a brothel.

Fabian was out less than quarter of an hour later, the swagger in his step reflected in the burning glow of his steady eyes. He licked his lips and than spat in the gutter. He felt much better. Restored. And look! Only 8.45 p.m. He’d be asleep in an hour.

Cat was in her hotel room, doing as Ben had requested. She’d finished her work, wolfed down steak frites with Alex and Josh at a small brasserie just near their hotel, she had just had a shower and was contemplating what to wear and quite when to sneak out to the Hôtel Ibis when her mobile phone rang.

‘Darling?’

‘Django!’

‘Cat, my girl,’ Django said, ‘you sound quite awful.’

Cat was taken aback. ‘I feel,’ she told him, ‘fine. More than fine.’

‘Well,’ Django said, ‘you sound lousy. How is it all going? It was fantastically exciting today – all those bodies all over the place – and then that Yankee bloke winning.’

Cat smiled: that her passion for cycling should be so contagious was a delight. ‘I prophesied that – good old Tyler. It was a terrific Stage. Tomorrow should be more of the same – though rain is forecast here. How are Fen and Pip?’

‘Hooked!’ Django proclaimed. ‘We speak just before the programme starts, catch up briefly during the adverts and then have a full post-Stage analysis straight after. Are you eating? You do sound terrible.’

‘I’m fine,’ Cat pleads, ‘I just had steak and chips.’

‘I made pizza tonight,’ Django says proudly. ‘I had some bread that was going a bit off so I tore it up, added a little oil and beaten egg and a drop of ketchup, formed it into a base and baked the bugger.’

‘And?’ Cat asked, somewhat horrified.

‘Fantastic,’ Django swooned. ‘I added a topping of sardines, chicken liver, a little more ketchup and some Stilton.’

‘And?’ ventured Cat, clutching her stomach.

‘If I say so myself,’ Django proclaimed, ‘absolutely delicious. I’ll make it for you girls when you’re next here all together,’ he continued, ‘perhaps garnish it with a few pickled walnuts.’

‘Can’t wait,’ said Cat sincerely, about the visit more than the meal.

‘Darling girl,’ her uncle was saying, bringing her back from her family in Matlock to the bedroom in the hotel, ‘you really don’t sound good.’

‘I’m fine,’ Cat said, feeling her forehead and poking out her tongue at the mirror for good measure.

‘Well,’ said Django, ‘I rather think you should go and see the doctor.’

Cat and Django were quiet. As Cat watched herself break into a smile, she heard her uncle’s triumphant sniggers.

‘That is precisely what I’m about to do,’ she said.

‘Can I tell your sisters?’ Django asked.

‘If you can name the maillot jaune,’ Cat demanded.

‘Tyler Hamilton,’ Django replied, as if she was dim, ‘fellow US Postman Jonathan Vaughters is in polka dot and Stefano Sassetta in green. Must go, I have two phone calls to make.’

‘And I have a doctor’s appointment to keep,’ Cat said.

Cat needed to be incognito. Though she would have loved to have worn her floaty short bias-cut skirt and clingy little top, she opted for cream jeans and a denim shirt. She remembered Fen’s advice and chose underwear that gave her walk a wiggle and her eyes a sparkle. She took the fire escape stairs, ducked out into the night and walked very quickly down a number of streets just to put some distance between her and anyone who might know her. When she found a quiet bar and asked the whereabouts of the Hôtel Ibis, she discovered she had charged off in completely the wrong direction. Her composure remained intact and she enjoyed the walk to Ben’s hotel.

In the car park, she noted that the Cofidis team was staying there too and wondered if many journalists would be loitering for news on Bobby Julich. She could see the foyer clearly and that a number of people were milling about. She circumnavigated the building, found a side door, said a quick prayer that the entrance would not be alarmed and gave a pull. She was inside. She scaled the stairs. When she came to what she deduced to be the third floor, she stopped. She pressed herself against the wall, turning her cheeks one at a time against the cool concrete.

My heart is going fifty to the dozen. Am I about to have sex? It’s been so long – since I’ve had sex with a man other than Him, since I’ve had sex full stop. Shit, I don’t have any condoms – I’ll be telling Ben ‘if it’s not On, it’s not In’. Oh God, is this a good idea, a bad idea or a crazy idea? Is crazy good or bad? It’s ten past nine. Fuck, I’m excited. Deep breaths. Ready. Off I go. Wish me luck. And fun.

Cat is in the third-floor corridor of the Hôtel Ibis in Pradier. The carpet is new and makes the hallway smell vaguely like an aeroplane. She passes doors that are closed though sounds of life can be heard within: showers, television sets, animated conversation, singing. Then she passes doors that are shut but with the Megapac riders’ names tacked to them. There is nothing but silence emanating from these rooms. 329. Sweet dreams, Luca. 327. Other side, Cat. 328. How are you feeling, Didier? 326.

Oh God oh God oh God.

The door of room 324 is opening. A woman steps out into the corridor. She is laughing over her shoulder. She is out of the room. She turns back towards the door and waves; smiling, gorgeous. It’s the podium girl. The same one. The same fucking gorgeous, leggy, luscious woman. She’s laughing. She’s been in Ben’s room and now she’s leaving it, laughing. Not a hair out of place. Lips licked with lipstick, requisite almond eyes enhanced with a lash of mascara. She’s wearing a skirt shorter than that of her uniform. No daft hat to detract from her silken tresses. She’s been in Ben’s room, this vamp has. Number 324 at the Hôtel Ibis in Pradier. What is Cat meant to do? How is she meant to feel?

She feels sick. She turns on her heel and walks away, retracing every step that brought her here.