a posse of domestiques throughout and ensure he had at least two leadout guys for the final sprint. His directeur nodded his approval and team orders were given. Rachel, who had snatched a bowl of cornflakes two hours previously, was now hauling the team’s luggage from foyer to van.
‘Want a hand?’ Ben York, standing amongst the Megapac baggage, asked her.
‘No, you’re all right, Ben,’ Rachel replied.
‘Only all right?’ Ben teased.
‘In your dreams,’ Rachel responded, knowing full well that she’d never been in Ben’s dreams because, for the cycling fraternity at large, her gender went unnoticed.
The rain did not deter the crowds. The city of Rouen, birthplace of the great Jacques Anquetil, the first man to win the Tour five times, appeared to have turned out in its entirety. Cat went to the village, to the press stand to shelter and see if yesterday’s Guardian was there. It was. Taverner hadn’t cut a word.
‘Good work.’
She turned. Josh, in an extremely colourful cagoule, was reading over her shoulder. ‘Alex has wangled a ride in the Vitalicio team car,’ he continued, ‘so it’s just you and me. Shall we drive the route or the itinéraire direct?’
Cat beamed. ‘Route, please.’
Josh regarded her. ‘We might be able to nip in behind a break if we’re lucky – we’ll have to leave at the first bell, though. See you by the car.’
Cat felt back on track, read great significance in to the fact that the rain had abated, flipped over to a clean page in her pad and left the village to be amongst the teams.
‘Morning, Dr York,’ she said as she passed by, without stopping, without really looking.
‘Miss McCabe,’ he responded, businesslike in tone but with a glint in his eye which went unnoticed.
‘Cat,’ she said over her shoulder.
‘Ben,’ he called after her.
Ahead, Rachel raised her hand at Cat who waved back. Rachel beckoned her over.
‘Hey, Rachel,’ Cat said warmly.
‘I have something for you, Cat,’ Rachel replied, ‘hold on.’ The soigneur went to her team car and ferreted around in the glove compartment, retrieved what looked like a small make-up bag and rummaged around the contents. ‘This,’ she said to Cat, ‘is a talisman – and I think it’s my duty to pass it on to you.’ She proffered a closed fist. Cat held out her hand. A pencil sharpener.
‘The lovely Emma O’Reilly – US Postal’s soigneur, I’ll introduce you – gave it to me at my first Vuelta,’ Rachel explained, as if that was enough. ‘Now I pass it on to you.’
‘Thanks,’ said Cat, trying to figure out the symbolism.
‘It’s for your elbows,’ Rachel whispered, chuckling conspiringly. ‘I saw you yesterday, getting knocked and shoved and more than ignored. Bastards. Make sure your elbows are sharp. At our height, we can give a most efficient jab at their waist-height.’
Cat laughed and thanked her sincerely, touched by the gesture.
‘Keep it with you at all times,’ Rachel said.
‘You bet I will,’ Cat replied.
‘I have two more things for you,’ Rachel continued, ‘my mobile phone number and also some advice.’
Cat jotted down the soigneur’s number. ‘We could meet after school,’ Rachel suggested wryly.
‘Yeah, right,’ Cat responded, giving Rachel her number, ‘have a quick drink after work.’
‘Like normal people,’ Rachel said, shaking her head at such absurdity.
‘As if!’ they said, almost in unison.
‘Now for the advice,’ Rachel said. ‘This is also from the wise mouth of Emma.’
‘Shoot,’ said Cat, pen poised, feeling bolstered that there was a girls’ club.
Rachel regarded Cat, twitched her lips into a sly smile and whispered, ‘Never answer your hotel door after midnight.’
Then she winked, turned her hand into a telephone, turned from Cat and gave her attention to Stefano Sassetta who wanted more embrocation on his thighs.
‘So,’ said Josh, almost as soon as they’d driven out of Rouen, ‘who’s holding the fort for you?’
At first, Cat thought he said fork and had no idea how to answer him.
‘Fork?’ she asked, glancing around the Peugeot hire car that seemed the height of luxury after her clapped-out Beetle.
‘Fort,’ said Josh. ‘This rain is bollocks.’
‘The forecast says bright and dry later. I don’t have a fort,’ Cat added, regarding herself in the side mirror, noticing she looked tired already, ‘just a small flat.’
‘Who’s—’ Josh began.
‘I live by myself,’ Cat preempted.
‘Who’s keeping the home fire burning?’ Josh probed, peering through the windscreen wipers swiping at full speed.
‘I have gas central heating,’ Cat replied primly, now knowing exactly what he was searching for and wanting to deflect further investigation as politely as she could.
‘Got a boyfriend, then?’ Josh asked her.
‘Yes,’ Cat proclaimed. ‘You?’ It was a fair question to put to a man with fine features and closely cropped hair, who marvelled at bike boys.
Josh, however, swerved. ‘I’m bloody married,’ he said defensively. Initially, his information pleased Cat, made her feel safe and relieved. Then it worried her.
Oh shit, is he coming on to me? I’d better ask about his wife. Thank God I lied about having a boyfriend.
‘How does your wife feel about you being away so much?’
Why the fuck did I say ‘Yes I have a boyfriend’?
‘That’s cycling,’ Josh shrugged.
‘Par for the course,’ Cat defined, ‘riders and writers and mechanics alike, hey? A life on the road. Presence of partners rare, discouraged even.’
‘Exactly,’ Josh replied. ‘How does your bloke feel about you being out here? Surrounded by menfolk away from their womenfolk?’
‘He’s not bothered,’ Cat said quickly, wondering quite what Josh was trying to ascertain, ‘he knows that consummate athletes have very low levels of testosterone.’
Josh roared with laughter. ‘Should
