you’re thirsty, it’s basically too late.’
‘Who rode the most Tours?’ Josh enquired, as if he had temporarily forgotten.
‘Joop Zoetemelk,’ Cat reminded him kindly, ‘sixteen in all.’ She regarded Alex, who was obviously musing over some taxing question. She saved him the trouble. ‘Maurice Garin,’ she said, ‘won the first Tour in 1903. Of course, the free wheel wasn’t invented until practically thirty years later,’ she added as an aside.
‘How many hairpin bends on L’Alpe D’Huez?’ Alex asked.
‘Twenty-one,’ replied Cat.
‘Fastest time trial?’ Josh pumped, raising an eyebrow at Alex over Cat’s split-second silence.
‘I reckon that would be Greg LeMond in 1989 – I think he averaged a fraction under 55 kph.’
‘Name the infamous Uzbekistan rider who won the green jersey and was—’
Cat interrupted Josh: ‘and was thrown off the 1997 Tour for testing positive?’
‘Him,’ Josh confirmed.
‘In fact,’ Alex mused, ‘spell him!’
Cat laughed. ‘I’ve named my two goldfish after him. Phonetically speaking, “jam-ollideen abdoo-jap-arov” have to be the most delicious words to roll off the tongue. Ever.’
‘Want a coffee?’ Alex asked, a certain reluctant admiration on his face. She nodded. He went off and brought back just the one, just for Cat. Josh took another chunk of baguette, laid two slithers of brie within it and proffered it to Cat. She accepted graciously.
Respect!
Friday. Zucca MV press conference. 12 p.m.
‘Come on, guys, or you’ll be late. Massimo – where’s Stefano? And where’s Vasily?’ Rachel McEwen was irritated; swinging the keys to the Fiat loaned to Zucca by the Tour de France, around and around her index finger. She had so much to do. Retrieving errant riders was not on her list.
Vasily Jawlensky, last year’s winner of the Tour de France, walked in a leisurely way across the car park. Rachel could never be cross with Vasily as he never intended to upset anyone.
‘Vasily,’ she said in a theatrical whimper, ‘where have you been?’
‘Viz my bike,’ Vasily replied as if Rachel really should have known the answer. Rachel smiled, nodded and laid a hand on his shoulder. She should have known. The majority of riders finish a race or a Stage, dismount and have no idea, or interest, in what happens to their bicycles. Most riders have little technical knowledge of their machines. But not Vasily. His first love, no doubt his dying love, is the bicycle.
Frequently, after his massage, he will venture to the car park of the hotel, to the team truck, and see to the wash-down and check-over of his bicycle himself. It helps him relax. He loves the company of the team mechanics. He is relaxed among them. When he looks back at the newspaper cuttings, the photos and film of his brilliant career, he does not look at himself, at the grimace of pain or the expression of elation he might be wearing, he does not look at the colour of the jersey on his back, or which rider is in front of him or, more likely, behind him. Unlike his team-mate Stefano Sassetta, Vasily would never consider analysing the dimensions of his thighs, the condition of his physique, the aesthetic merits of his categorically handsome face. Vasily Jawlensky’s attention in such instances is purely for the bike that is carrying him. He is the jockey, they are his transport to success.
To women, Cat most certainly amongst them, Vasily Jawlensky is a most gallant, enigmatic knight in shimmering lycra. For Vasily Jawlensky, his cycles are his magnificent steeds, his high-modulus carbon fibre and titanium chargers. He salutes them.
‘Just Stefano now,’ said Rachel, looking at her watch and then at Massimo and Vasily, who looked a little sheepish for having upset his soigneur whom he respected and liked. She unlocked the car and ushered the two riders in to the back.
‘You two,’ she said sternly, as if to a pair of dogs, ‘stay!’ They watched her sprint back into the hotel and, a few minutes later, pelt out again. She ran around to the side of the hotel where the team trucks were parked, disappearing from view just as Stefano appeared from the front of the hotel. He sauntered over to the team car and slipped into the front seat.
‘Ciao,’ he nodded to his team-mates.
‘Buon giorno,’ Massimo said.
‘How are you?’ said Vasily with great thought. The two riders communicated warmly but sparely in pigeon English.
Rachel reappeared, her hair loose and all over the place. She saw the laden car and walked briskly to it, settling herself in to the driver’s seat, studiously ignoring Stefano.
‘Ciao, Rachel,’ Stefano beamed, ‘where the fuck you been, hey?’ Rachel knew this scenario well. Accordingly, she switched on the ignition calmly and drove away. However, the frequent screech of brakes, the taking of liberties as she took corners, coupled with her loaded silence and wild hair told Stefano all he needed to know. He sat quietly and listened to Vasily and Massimo read all the signs they passed.
‘Bou-lang-er-ie.’
‘Mon-o-prix.’
‘Lin-ger-ie.’
Stefano tittered.
Rachel escorted her precious load to the conference room, swinging the car keys around her fingers. She smiled at Vasily. She smiled at Massimo. She even smiled at Stefano. When he took her hand to kiss, she stared at him very coldly, kept her hand to herself and marched away.
‘Where were you?’ Vasily asked Stefano as they took the stage in the conference room.
‘In the bar,’ Stefano shrugged, ‘coffee. With a nice girl.’
‘What are Vasily Jawlensky and Stefano Sassetta saying? Can you lipread?’ Cat urges Josh, who sits beside her. He shakes his head forlornly. ‘Can Alex?’ Cat implores, looking past Josh to the other journalist.
‘Only if the language is foul enough,’ Josh whispers, ‘or the topic suitably scandalous.’
Alex leans across them and giggles. ‘What a cunt!’ he exclaims; the fact that, being so tall has indeed brought his face about in line with Cat’s nether regions is momentarily alarming for the young journaliste who has known him for less than twenty-four hours. But Alex talks quickly and Cat, to her relief, discovers his foul fulmination is in fact peculiar praise for Stefano Sassetta. ‘He just said to Vasily that he was in a bar all night surrounded by women.’ Chinese whispers on this year’s Tour de France have begun.
Alex can speak Russian, Italian and French; his German is good, he can get by in Spanish and understands Portuguese. Zucca MV have no French riders and though they are predominantly an Italian team, the presence of their leader Vasily Jawlensky, last year’s yellow jersey, ensures that English is their chosen language when in any country other than Italy. Alex, however, giving Josh a nudge which, from its severity, is passed through his body and on to Cat, decides that familiarity will win him friends. And friends in the peloton will be an enviable commodity. So, in Russian, he asks
