Stages of la grande boucle.
Tomorrow, the 184 riders of the Tour de France will race 248 km from Plouay to Chardin. With wide, flat roads, the winds could well be strong and potentially disruptive. The peloton should devour the tarmac and rebuff the wind with textbook team riding – a pleasure for the spectators to observe but in truth the only way the riders are going to get from A to B as unscathed as possible.
<ENDS>
‘Because of the bloody cricket, Taverner gave me only 350 words today,’ Cat says petulantly to Josh. ‘I chose to slip in the rosebay willowherb, rather than to mention that Millar gave the polka dot jersey to US Postal’s Jonathan Vaughters.’
‘Alan Titchmarsh will be pleased, but you’ve probably blown your chance of a ride in the US Postal team car,’ Josh said before returning his focus away from horticulture and chit-chat, back to his laptop.
‘I’m going out for quotes,’ said Cat, leaving.
To try and find Luca. For his promised soundbite. And his doctor. Oh – there’s my friend Rachel.
‘Hey, Rachel,’ said Cat, standing by smiling, watching Rachel wipe down the legs of the team’s super-domestique, Gianni Fugallo, with a wet flannel.
‘Not a good time,’ Rachel said, barely looking up. Though momentarily taken aback, Cat quickly reminded herself where she was and why she was there and thus held her hands up in affable surrender, telling Rachel she’d give her a call.
‘Cheers,’ said Rachel, who was hot and tired, ‘that’d be great.’
There’s the Megapac lot. Where’s Luca? There’s Hunter.
‘Hullo, Hunter,’ says Cat, ‘great ride.’
‘Hey, thanks,’ says Hunter, vaguely recognizing her.
‘Yo, Catriono!’
Luca!
‘It’s Cat,’ she says, delighted none the less. ‘How are you?’
‘I’m good,’ he says, looking very tired, his eyes a little bloodshot, their sparkle somewhat dulled, his blond curls slightly lank, ‘thanks. Cat.’ He approaches her, his hard shoes giving his walk a Chaplinesque gait, and at once she wants to gently put her arms around him, to lead him to a chair, sit him down and put his brave legs up. She notices a fleck of dried spittle on the corner of his mouth, grime on his calves; the paradox of the impressive musculature of his legs against the fragility of his gait which six hours of racing have caused.
He needs his soigneur. Or his doctor. It always gets me – on his bike, a rider looks so strong. Off it he appears almost vulnerable.
‘Have you a quote for me?’ Cat asks.
‘Sure,’ says Luca, hands on slim hips. ‘Where you staying, babe?’
‘Plouay,’ Cat replies.
‘You come round the hotel, to my room, I’ll give you soundbites,’ Luca says, his accent making her smile more than any ulterior motive detectable.
‘That would be great,’ Cat enthuses, ‘I’ll see you later.’
‘Ciao, bambina,’ Luca says.
Cat hovers.
I’d better go. I need the doctor. Where’s Ben?
There’s Ben. With a woman. She’s standing coyly with her back against the truck of that tree. He’s standing in front of her, as close to her as he was to Cat yesterday. Not so much invading the woman’s space as dominating it. There’s a difference – Cat has already experienced it. It’s subtle – the former would be undesirable, intrusive. The latter is disconcerting and compelling.
Poor Cat. This is not jealousy but despondency. There’s Ben, whom Cat has longed to see all day. But he has not been looking out for her. His attention has been caught by this other woman. Look at them now – Ben has cupped the woman’s face in his hands and is looking into her eyes intently. Look at her, all legs that are brown and a face that is perfect. It doesn’t matter that she is wearing a minuscule scarlet frou-frou frock, nor that her head is crowned with a ridiculous hat in the shape of a Coke bottle top. The point is, she is a podium girl and she is stunning. Cat is a journaliste in a pair of now creased khaki shorts, a vest from a children’s department and a white shirt with ink on the cuff and a coffee stain down the front. She is also wearing boots that might very well carry the Timberland seal of authenticity, but objectively they are what her Uncle Django calls ‘clodhoppers’.
Oh God. Uncle Django. I told Fen that if Sassetta won, she could tell Django about bloody Ben.
Cat turns her phone off, turns and walks away quickly but not briskly. There is no spring in her step. She takes herself off to an area behind the finish line where officials are busy dismantling the temporary grandstands. She finds a crate and sits down, head in hands.
Shit and double shit. Now everyone at home knows about Ben bloody York – whose attraction for me obviously doesn’t exist apart from in my delusions. Josh, whom I like and respect, now knows and defines me by a boyfriend who doesn’t exist – which leaves me vulnerable. For Ben York, though, I don’t exist.
Cat, you sound adolescent and rather pathetic.
I’m trying to fucking heal, to make my way forward.
Does that take a man? How about Luca then?
Fuck off. He’s a rider in the Tour de France. He’s superhuman. I absolutely wouldn’t dare touch him or even encourage him. Think of the consequences.
What about Josh?
I think I’ll end up adoring Josh. But for me, there’s no possibility there beyond good friendship.
‘I’m a journaliste,’ Cat says softly, repeating it louder. ‘I’m here working. I have an idea for an article for Maillot. I must phone them.’
Cat returns to the salle de pressé and phones Maillot.
‘Hullo, it’s Cat McCabe – how about a feature on podium girls?’
‘Podium girls?’ Andy responds.
‘Getting to the substance behind the skirt?’ Cat elaborates, a twang of desperation to her voice causing Josh to look up and regard her with a flicker of concern.
‘Perhaps,’ Andy says. ‘OK?’
‘OK,’ Cat says forlornly, ‘podium girls – who the fuck are they?’
‘Sure,’ says Andy, ‘let me think about it.’
STAGE 4
Plouay-Chardin. 248 kilometres
Ben
