sound like a cheap package holiday. Timberlands it is, then.’
‘He’ll do you the same power of good – a golden tan from the sun equates with the healthy glow of a well-laid woman,’ Fen theorized earnestly.
‘Fen!’ Cat giggled. ‘What are you like? You loose lady, you – you who can’t decide between two – have you chosen yet?’
‘No,’ Fen said sadly after a long reflection. ‘Tell me more about Ben.’
‘He has odd eyes,’ Cat said with a swoon.
‘Odd?’ Fen reacted, imagining one brown, one blue, perhaps cross-eyed or else one lazy and staring.
‘I mean,’ said Cat, ‘strange – they’re the colour of Cadbury’s Dairy Milk and they hold your gaze.’
‘Think about your underwear,’ said Fen. ‘Not that he should be seeing it quite yet but your deportment is directly accountable to the pants you wear.’
‘He has odd hair,’ said Cat. ‘I’ll wear my Calvins.’
‘Odd?’ Fen asked, imagining a ginger bonce of unruly curls not dissimilar to the wig Pip wore when she became Martha the Clown.
‘Short,’ said Cat, ‘dark but not really – heavily flecked through with light.’
‘You mean,’ Fen deduced, ‘he’s going grey prematurely. Well, George Bloody Clooney watch your back! Calvins – definitely.’
‘I think he likes me,’ Cat said. ‘I won’t bother with a bra – my Gap Kids vest is supportive enough. And clingy.’
‘Go girl!’ Fen marvelled. ‘Of course he bloody likes you – why on earth wouldn’t he? Can I tell Pip?’
‘Isn’t that tempting Fate?’
‘Bollocks, Cat,’ Fen laughed, ‘have a little confidence.’
‘I lost it a while back.’
‘No!’ Fen said sternly. ‘It was stolen from you. You’re entitled to its return. Can I tell Pip?’
‘OK!’ Cat laughed. ‘Tell her about his eyes – and that he’s a doctor and all.’
‘Can I tell Django?’
‘Wouldn’t that be bad karma?’ Cat asked. Fen, who felt more for karma than she did for fate, pondered this quietly. ‘Tell you what,’ Cat said, ‘if Sassetta wins the Stage today, you can tell Django.’
‘Better make that the maillot vert, Cat,’ Fen said very seriously. ‘If he scoops up the intermediary sprints and finishes higher than Cipollini, he needn’t win the Stage to claim the jersey.’
Cat smiled. Her sister had caught the bug. There was no cure. It was in her blood. She would never be rid of it.
Where’s Ben? Dr York – ou es tu? And can I ‘tu’ you or ought I to ‘vous’ you? You’re not with the Megapac entourage.
Cat was milling about the teams enclosure with hundreds of other journalists, Tour and team personal.
Oh, there’s Mario Cipollini.
‘Mario! Ça va?’
‘Buon giorno!’ said Cipollini whilst wondering who this girl was who greeted him with such warmth and familiarity. How charming. ‘I’m well – today SuperMario to be LionKing again – compris?’
‘Oh, compris very well, Cipo,’ said Cat, not giving the abbreviation a second’s thought. ‘Bonne chance.’
‘Merci, grazie,’ said the flamboyant Italian before brandishing his best English, ‘thank you so very much, signorina.’
Cat brazenly waved her hand as if to say heck, Mario, don’t mention it. Off she went in search of Dr York, smiling directly at Laurent Dufaux on her way. Jan Svorada, Jose Maria Jimenez, Jacky Durand all raised a hand at a girl they had never met, who was wearing a pair of shorts as flattering as her smile and who gave them salutations of great feeling as she strode past.
Where are you, Dr York? Might you be in the village? I’ll go and check. Bugger off, Alex, I’m on a mission. I’m thirsty. Ah, the Maison du Café stand. I’ll have an espresso, please. Merci beaucoup. Good God – Eddie Merckx – good God himself.
‘Bonjour, Monsieur Merckx.’
‘Eh? Ah oui – bonjour, mademoiselle.’
‘Café?’
‘Pour moi? Merci.’
Don’t mention it. It’s on tap. I can get another. Where are you, Ben? I’ll circumnavigate once. Well, if that’s Luca, his doctor surely must be close to hand.
‘Hey, Luca,’ Cat beamed, ‘how are you? Bloody good ride yesterday.’
‘Thanks, babe,’ said Luca, delighted to see her but wracking his brains for her name and squinting behind his Oakleys to try and read it from her pass.
‘Any thoughts on today?’ Cat asked.
Any idea where your doctor is?
‘Well, Catriona,’ said Luca, most pleased with himself, ‘it’s a weird finish – you hit Plumelec and then have to do a 12 k circuit before an uphill home stretch. Not really sprinter’s domain – but if anyone wants to win it more than Delongue, whose birthday it is, it’ll be Sassetta – he’s out to kill, man, out to kill. You know what I mean, Catriona?’
‘Luca,’ Cat reprimanded the rider lightly, ‘you really can call me Cat. You take care today.’
And tell your bloody doctor I’m looking for him.
Luca tipped his head. ‘Thanks,’ he said. Cat’s ‘Take care’ was so much more humane than the perfunctory ‘Good luck’ from most journalists. ‘Come find me at the finish – I’ll give you the scoop of the day!’
‘That, Luca, would be an honour,’ said Cat. ‘Promise?’
Make sure your bloody doctor’s there.
‘Sure,’ Luca shrugged. He tipped his Oakleys on to his forehead, flashed excellent teeth, held out his hand and kissed Cat’s when she took it.
If I feel this floaty from Luca’s kiss to my hand, how am I going to feel when Ben takes my mouth?
With Stefano Sassetta, he of the spectacular thighs, on the war path for a Stage win, or the green jersey, potentially both, Cat and her fellow journalists took the itinéraire direct to the salle de presse in Plumelec to scrutinize the race from the bank of televisions there. On the way, they pooled notes about the buildings changing in colour from grey to beige, that the small
