nor Alex were in their rooms but, aware that she was sharing the hotel with Megapac, her confidence and determination in fact bolstered by her potential future boss’s rejection, Cat left her room and, eschewing the lifts, meandered along the corridors as if that was the way to reception anyway. She was on a quote hunt; not quite brave enough to phone specific riders’ rooms, she was hoping to come across them accidentally-on-purpose.
She should have known that Megapac, by this hour, would mostly be asleep. She would not have known that Luca and his room-mate Didier LeDucq were deep in the pages of Penthouse and a Dutch magazine that made the former look like the Beano, but as all doors were shut, she was saved this unsavoury revelation. She found herself in reception with no real purpose at all. However, a huge rumble from her stomach suddenly gave her one. The humiliation of Ben York’s presence was almost enough to make Cat want to march purposefully back to her room but her hunger and his hypnotic eyes kept her exactly where she was.
‘Jesus,’ he said, ‘was that thunder?’
Cat swallowed down an embarrassed laugh but this lacked the substance and nutrition that her stomach needed so it groaned again, loudly in protest.
‘Yes,’ said Cat, surprisingly cool, ‘there it goes again.’
‘I was going to the bar for a quick drink,’ Ben said. ‘Do you want to join me?’
‘OK,’ said Cat, hoping she looked neither keen nor shy, for suddenly she was feeling a very odd combination of both. She was following Ben, just about to make small talk, when her phone rang. She stopped, Ben turned to her. She shrugged and regarded her handset.
Fen. It’s bloody Fen. No, not bloody at all. I have to take it.
Take it then.
‘Aren’t you going to take it?’ Ben asked, not moving a discreet distance away, if anything leaning towards her, appearing closer, invasive almost.
‘Hullo?’ Cat said.
‘Hullo!’ Fen replied.
‘Hey girly!’ Pip cried, from another extension. ‘We’re a bit drunk. We want to know about lycra.’
Oh God, thought Cat, holding the phone tight against her ear in the hope that her sisters’ voices were not transmittable to Ben who continued to stand close.
‘Please can you explain what on earth is going on?’ Fen asked.
‘And can you tell us what the jerseys are actually for?’ Pip interjected. ‘And why that gorgeous Dutchman took the yellow one from Chris Boardman today?’
Oh God, thought Cat, I don’t want to explain such rudimentary details. Not here, not now. Not at this time of night.
Not in front of Dr York?
What’s he got to do with it?
What’s the time got to do with it? It’s hardly late. What you mean is, you’d rather drink with your doctor than speak with your sisters.
Bollocks. He’s not my doctor. He’s physician to US Megapac.
‘How exactly do you win the Tour de France?’ Fen was asking.
‘Um,’ Cat replied, ‘what is it you don’t understand?’
Don’t turn your back on Ben, it’s rude.
Yes, but so is hovering. See? I’ve now turned my back and he hasn’t budged. It’s a bit – odd.
So move.
I can’t – it’s a bit odd.
‘What exactly is the yellow jersey?’ Pip all but whined.
‘Et le maillot vert,’ Fen said extravagantly, ‘oh, and that spotted one too.’
I’m not going to look at you, Ben. Stop it. I’m going to stare at your shoes and speak to my sisters.
‘At the end of each day, the race leader – the yellow jersey – is the rider who has spent the least amount of time in the saddle so far in the Tour,’ Cat said, trying to infuse her voice with a tone that would inform any eavesdroppers that she was having to assist some imbecilic person with no knowledge of the grand sport. She knew Ben was regarding her unwaveringly. For a split second, Cat wondered whether her answer had been wrong.
Go away, Dr York. This is not a good time. You’re off-putting.
‘And the green?’ Pip was asking. ‘Vert?’
‘Each day,’ Cat explained, ‘there are points to be won at hot spot sprints along the route, as well as finishing in the top twenty-five. The green jersey is thus for the most points, for the most consistent daily finisher. It’s the second most important accolade. Cipollini took sprint points along the way today, plus finished high – giving him green. Lomers has the fastest time – a further twenty seconds were deducted for him winning the Stage today – hence the yellow.’
Oh. Ben. You’re going.
‘So he’ll wear it tomorrow?’ Fen asked. ‘He’s winning?’
‘Who?’ said Cat, noticing that Ben was wearing a very nice polo shirt which caught his shoulder blades most becomingly.
‘The flying Dutchman?’ Fen prompted.
‘Yes,’ Cat expounded, ‘yellow is supreme.’
Is that the bar through there? Should I move in a bit?
‘And the dotty?’ said Pip, correcting it to ‘spotty’ to prevent insinuation from either sister.
‘Each day, the hills are marked according to their steepness,’ Cat explained most informatively. ‘Today, as yesterday, there were only fourth-category climbs. Climbing points are awarded to the riders reaching the tops first. Hence our David wearing the King of the Mountains jersey at this stage in the race.’
Maybe I should go back to my room and just order room service.
‘Who’s “our David”?’ Pip asked in a whisper as if, unbeknown to her, he might be related.
‘David Millar is a British rider in the French team Cofidis,’ Cat elaborated. ‘He’s not a specialist climber but a very promising rouleur – all-rounder. At this stage in the Tour, the hills are not taxing enough to be the exclusive domain of the grimpeurs, the specialist climbers, who are wiser to save their energy and steer clear of trouble in anticipation of the main mountain Stages later.’
If I say ‘I’d better go now’, they’ll ask why. If I tell them, they’ll make me go to the bar and not my room.
‘So it’s fifteen minutes of fame for Our David,’ said Pip.
‘I think he’ll have more than that,’ Cat said, ‘just you watch him in the Time Trials.’
