other one.’
Cat looked puzzled.
‘Ben’s a really nice guy,’ Rachel continued, ‘I’ve known him for a few years now.’
Cat grinned, reading this as Rachel’s seal of approval which she was flattered to receive.
‘So?’ Rachel prompted.
Cat shrugged.
‘This guy?’ Rachel continued. ‘Back home?’
‘Who?’ said Cat, genuinely confused.
‘Josh was telling us you are deeply involved with a guy back home.’
Cat was rooted to the spot, her jaw had dropped and her eyes were flitting all over Rachel’s face.
‘Us?’ Cat said in hushed horror, half-knowing what she’d hear. ‘Who was the “us”?’
‘Me,’ Rachel said, ‘and Ben.’
‘Oh God,’ Cat cried, turning away and then back again. ‘Oh fuck. Jesus. I’ve got to go.’ Rachel watched her jog away. She’d learnt no more. In fact, she felt she now knew Cat less. That upset her.
Alex and Josh told Cat she ought to drive the route to gain a true feel of the drag of the mountains and the plummet of the descents. Although she had wanted initially to confront Josh immediately, she was ultimately glad of the chance to restore her composure and concentrate on being a journaliste on the Tour de France.
Everything happens for a reason, she told herself in Django’s words and tone as they reached the base of the fearsome Tourmalet. What the reason might be, she was as yet unsure. The Tourmalet not only provided welcome distraction, it absorbed her entirely. She was driving the 18½ kilometres to the 2,115 metre summit of the mighty mountain. There was nothing average about the gradient; 7.7 per cent was the mean and it was just that.
How are the boys going to get up this, with the Aubisque coming right before? And the d’Aspin and Peyresourde after? In this rain and mist? With thousands of fans clinging to the slopes like birds on a cliff and the tifosi – the truly obsessed – thronging either side of the road as the summit nears; crowding in, yelling and running alongside, making it all so narrow, so claustrophobic, so treacherous. How can the riders descend as fast as they can, but safely? Far faster than a car can manage. Look at these bends, the drop. It’s wet. I can hardly see. How are my boys going to cope?
With wills of steel, legs of iron, the snap-quick eye reflexes of an eagle, hearts of a lion, and no nerves to mention.
The terrible grandeur of the mountains elicited fulminations from Alex so colourful and effusive that Cat wondered if he was suffering from Tourette’s syndrome. Josh was capable of little more than whistles and tuts. They made it in one piece to Luchon knowing full well that some of the riders would not.
If Cat had found the drive itself a physical and mental trial, watching the riders do battle with themselves, with each other, with the awesome gradients up and down, was emotionally exhausting. She swallowed down a sob as she watched the excruciating but not unfamiliar sight of a rider weave semi-deliriously all over the road at a snail’s pace half-way up the Tourmalet. Despite the impassioned pleas and helpful if illegal running shoves from fans, the rider finally stopped, quit his bike and the Tour, had his race number ceremoniously stripped from his back by an official before he was escorted to the ignominy of the broom wagon which transports deserters funereally along the route behind the race.
‘How on earth can you put into words what we’ve just witnessed?’ Cat marvels to Alex once the Stage has finished. ‘I’m utterly exhausted, I’m speechless. I want to cry and go to sleep.’
‘Fuck off and stop being so girlie,’ Alex declares, envious of Cat’s entitlement and ability to express emotions mirroring his own but which bravado in the salle de pressé dictates he should keep close to himself.
‘I know,’ Josh says sympathetically, giving her arm a squeeze, ‘I know.’
You know nothing, Cat thinks miserably, suddenly wanting to be shot of her work so she can enlighten Rachel and appease Ben. In privacy.
Her phone rings and she goes to the back of the salle before answering it.
‘Oh my God,’ Fen all but wails.
‘I can’t believe it,’ Pip whispers.
‘Jesus, what’s wrong?’ Cat gasps. ‘Is it Django?’
‘Django?’ Fen retorts, ‘God no. He’s fine. He’s having to have a stiff brandy though – we’ve just phoned him.’
‘Today, stupid,’ Pip cries, ‘how did they do that? Why were they made to do that?’
‘Huh?’ says Cat.
‘The Tour de Bloody France,’ Pip protests.
Cat grins.
My two sisters. In the fold. Part of the fraternity.
‘That guy – the weeny Spanish climber,’ Fen says, ‘how did he do that on the final climb? It was like there was suddenly a motor on his bike. Was it my imagination or did he actively choose the steepest part to suddenly power away from the faltering?’
‘Strategy,’ Cat replies, ‘undoubtedly – Velasquez always bides his time and then attacks. Imagine the effect it has on those he pulls away from.’
‘And all for a spotty jersey,’ says Pip contemplatively.
‘And Jawlensky finished ahead of gorgeous Ducasse and diminished the Frenchman’s lead to a minute,’ Fen rues. ‘Did I pronounce Vasily’s surname correctly? With a “y” not a “j”?’
‘Perfectly,’ Cat confirms. ‘What with Velasquez – that’s a “th” not a “z” at the end of his name – in polka dot, and Lomers and Sassetta still at loggerheads for the green jersey, this Tour is being waged on a personal level between Système Vipère and Zucca MV.’
‘But it was so cold, so misty and grim today,’ Pip says plaintively.
‘And that boy went careering off the side of the mountain,’ Fen remarks.
‘David Millar?’ says Cat. ‘He’s fine – thanks to a bush. He lost his bike but managed not to lose too much time.’
‘What do you think will happen tomorrow?’ Pip asks.
Suddenly, Cat wonders. ‘Today changed many things,’ she says, ‘tomorrow, I would say, even more so.’
‘What do you mean?’ Fen probes.
‘Read my report – it’s all in my concluding paragraph.’
‘Er, Cat,’ says Pip, her mind switching from lycra and bikes to flesh and beds, ‘how’s Ben?’
‘Fuck,’ Cat bemoans.
‘What?’ Fen says.
‘It’s
