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.
