Ben fixed his gaze on her face to no avail. Josh raised a hand in a futile wave. A few stands on, she caught sight of the two men. She stood stock still momentarily before turning on her heels, leafing with urgency through her notepad and walking with huge purpose out of the village.
Neither Ben nor Josh knew she’d gone directly to hide behind a tree, feeling knotted. Ben presumed she was gleaning gems from Luca. Josh assumed she was just going about her job.
‘Catch you later,’ said Ben, catching sight of Didier sitting with Travis, both with cups of coffee. Travis sipped his with his little finger extended genteelly; Didier just raised his cup, contemplated its contents and then replaced it. Ben was alarmed. Few riders forsake their legal caffeine entitlement.
‘Yes, this evening,’ said Josh, suddenly feeling the impact of the vast amount of restorative breakfast caffeine and thinking he really ought to piss before they set off, ‘we’ll have a few beers.’
‘Hey, Cat,’ says Rachel, the boot of the car open to reveal a veritable booty of clothing, bidons, food, and first-aid accoutrements. ‘I’m sorry about yesterday.’
‘Sorry?’ Cat asks. ‘For what?’
‘I was so stressed out I might have to borrow back the pencil sharpener,’ Rachel says, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. ‘Stefano is – well, he drives me mad, let me tell you!’
‘Do tell me,’ Cat implores.
‘Yeah, right,’ Rachel laughs, ‘but as a mate, as a fellow female – not as a journaliste.’
Cat holds her hand to her heart. Rachel beckons her closer until both women are leaning deep into the car. ‘When he won the Stage yesterday? He said to me – and excuse my accent – Where is Lomers? I want give him these flowers – I want say him “Hey Lomers – give these for your wife because she think you no love her because you no fuck her no more”.’
The women regard each other and then laugh in horror but not quite in disbelief.
‘What did you say?’ Cat gasps.
‘I said I would tell Jean-Marie Leblanc,’ Rachel says, referring to the revered and omnipotent Director General of the Société du Tour de France.
‘What did Stefano say?’
‘He gave me the fucking flowers and looked pretty sheepish. I massaged him viciously last night,’ Rachel declares with certain glee and sparkle, ‘viciously.’
‘What a character,’ Cat laughs, adding, ‘Bloody men!’ as an aside.
‘Stefano’s a prat,’ Rachel says, not unfondly. She tells Cat the name of the hotel that Zucca are staying at that night.
‘I’m pretty sure that’s where we are,’ Cat responds, delighted.
‘Cool,’ says Rachel, ‘let’s have a beer later.’
‘You’re on,’ says Cat.
‘Ciao, Cat,’ Rachel says, though Cat has gone. She slams the boot of the car, consults the map and heads for the feed zone midway along the route. Then she’ll head straight for the finish line, stocked with everything a rider could ask for after racing for 248 kilometres. Everything from antiseptic to a quick leg rub, from fresh socks to a banana, from tracksuits to a warm and welcoming smile.
‘You’re happy about driving on the wrong side of the road?’ Josh asked Cat as she took her seat behind the wheel.
‘I’ll take it slowly,’ she replied.
‘No you fucking won’t,’ Alex cried from the back. ‘To the salle de pressé – and don’t spare the horses.’ He leant forward, removed her baseball cap and thwacked the roof of the car with it. ‘Vamoose!’
Josh and Cat shared a quick glance of exasperation. Cat drove off, cautiously but at a pace that could not be castigated.
‘You OK?’ Josh tried.
‘Fine, thanks,’ said Cat from behind sunglasses.
‘You’re not your usual perky self,’ Alex said, replacing her baseball cap sideways on her head so she looked quite the little urchin. ‘Tell Uncle Alex what’s wrong.’
‘Alex, fuck off,’ Josh said, shaking his head, catching Alex’s glance in the rear-view mirror and giving him a loaded look. Cat removed her sunglasses, righted her cap and looked at both men, assuring them she was fine, just tired.
Bloody boys. Males. The lot of them.
She only swerved twice. First when Alex enquired, innocently enough, after what Luca had had to say that morning – all of which Cat was still trying to remember word for word, the intention in particular. Then she swerved again, with equal severity, when Josh remarked that both Zucca MV and Megapac were staying at their hotel.
‘Ben said to meet in the bar for a drink,’ Josh said.
‘Ben?’ Cat said.
Bloody Ben.
‘Yeah, you know, the Megapac doc,’ Alex said rather slyly, leaning forward between the two front seats and grinning at Cat.
‘I was talking to him at the village,’ Josh said. ‘We saw you and tried to call you over but you were on a mission.’
On a mission not to be seen by him. What did he say? Did he mention podium girls? What did you say? Did you mention my fake bloody boyfriend?
‘He asked after you,’ Josh continued.
‘Oh?’ said Cat, eyes on the road but mind far from it. ‘What about?’
I don’t want to know. I do want to know. What did he want to know? That I have a boyfriend? Please say you didn’t say so. Because I don’t. Oh, but what does it matter – Ben’s hardly interested anyway.
‘This and that,’ said Josh casually, ‘where you fit in – he’d read your report of yesterday.’
‘Oh,’ said Cat.
Mine? He searched it out and read it? What should I read into that? Shut up, idiot girl.
‘Anyway – he suggested beers tonight,’ Josh continued.
He did? With whom? All of us? Just me? Or minus me?
‘I’m having a beer with Rachel,’ Cat said, almost as a safeguard.
How on earth am I going to concentrate on the race, let alone write the report, with the distraction the impending evening poses?
COPY FOR P. TAVERNER @ GUARDIAN SPORTS DESK FROM CATRIONA McCABE IN CHARDIN
After just over sixteen hours of racing, with just under seven minutes between the maillot jaune of the leader and the Lantern Rouge of the 184th rider, the Tour de France left
