forward together and providing light relief from a sticky 29 degrees. However, as the riders crossed over the mouth of the Loire via the stunning Pont du Saint Nazaire, no doubt they would have preferred high humidity to the sly crosswinds which slicked about the bridge, disturbing the bunch.
‘I’m stuck,’ Cat sighed, observing with envy that both Josh and Alex were not. ‘I’m going out for a breather,’ she said, disappointed that her colleagues were not just staying put but far too preoccupied to have even heard her.
What is going on with Luca? Cat wondered, walking fast to she didn’t know where. And Ben has suggested a drink to Josh. Is that why my work is slow today? Because I’m disconcerted? Some time with Rachel will be good.
She found a small café, ordered a latte and made a conscious decision to devote no more time to fretting about Luca, Ben, beer and her fabricated boyfriend.
I must head back and wrap up my report.
‘The bunch devoured the final 20 k of tarmac in twenty minutes flat,’ Cat marvelled out loud.
A very chic lady, sitting at the neighbouring table with a tiny dog on her lap and a Chanel handbag by her feet, looked at Cat. ‘That touch of wheels,’ she said, clearing her throat as if to lighten her accent to complement her very good grasp of English, ‘when the road drops with 500 metres to go!’
Cat smiled and nodded and suddenly her closing paragraph was clear. She asked for the bill but the lady waved her hand and insisted on paying. ‘Tomorrow,’ she asked Cat, ‘what are your thoughts?’
‘Keep an eye on Tyler Hamilton,’ Cat said.
‘Bonne chance, mademoiselle,’ the lady said.
‘Bonne chance, Tyler Hamilton!’ Cat laughed.
Cat slips back into the salle de pressé unnoticed by Josh and Alex, by anyone really. She doesn’t mind. She has work to do. She skims through the first chunk of her article and raps out the concluding paragraph with speed.
A touch of wheels with 500 m to go brought down the section of the peloton containing nearly all the key sprinters. While the speed meisters untangled themselves from each other, their lead-out men hammered ahead unaware. Luckily for Chris Boardman’s Crédit Agricole team, Australian Stuart O’Grady was not down under and utilized an excellent if wholly unintended lead-out from Zucca MV’s Gianni Fugallo to take the Stage. Fugallo looked simultaneously staggered and quite horrified to see the befreckled Antipode on his wheel instead of his dark duke Stefano Sassetta. Jesper Lomers and Stefano Sassetta hold on to the yellow and green jerseys respectively. The next two Stages will suit them well but the Time Trial on Saturday will suit their team leaders Fabian Ducasse and Vasily Jawlensky better.
<ENDS>
‘How bizarre,’ Cat says aloud, laying her palms on the trestle table and leaning back in the plastic chair.
‘Huh?’ mumbles Josh, swigging from one of the three Coke cans lined up in front of him.
‘You wha’?’ Alex mutters, not looking up from his laptop.
‘The Time Trial is on Saturday,’ Cat proclaims in a tone of disbelief. Her colleagues regard her. ‘Today is Wednesday – right?’ Alex and Josh look at each other. ‘How amazing!’ Cat declares.
‘What the fuck are you on?’ Alex asks, regarding her two cans of Orangina and a fairly decimated packet of Petit Beurre biscuits.
‘I forgot all about days,’ Cat says, offering the biscuits to the men. ‘To me, today is Stage 4, the day after tomorrow is Stage 6. None of this Saturday Sunday Solomon Grundy nonsense.’
‘Welcome to the Tour,’ Josh says, realizing he would have had no idea what day it was had he been asked.
‘What are you going to be like when we hit altitude?’ Alex teases affectionately, cramming a whole biscuit in his mouth, rubbing his hands and returning his fingers to the keyboard.
‘Is Taverner going to let me get away with “dark duke Sassetta”?’ Cat wonders. Josh roars with laughter. Alex buries his face in his hands.
Jesper Lomers and Fabian Ducasse walk down their hotel corridor to Jules Le Grand’s room to which they have been summoned for a strategy meeting. Apart from riding for the same team and being pretty much the same height, similarities between the two end there. The Dutchman is blond and brawny, the Frenchman dark and lithe; Jesper is courteous and temperate with the team, the peloton, the media, Fabian is indiscriminately temperamental. Jesper exudes a modesty for his successes, for which he is universally admired; Fabian’s arrogance when victorious augments his magnetic appeal. Jesper will actively try to put anyone at their ease (‘I’m just a guy who can ride a bike,’ he shrugged to Alex who interviewed him after his victory at Milan–San Remo), whereas Fabian relishes the fact that his stature and demeanour are famously intimidating (‘En Français!’ he demanded witheringly of Josh who merely wanted to congratulate him on winning the Dauphiné Libéré). Though they have little in common on a personal level, they are good colleagues, respectful of each other’s strengths and supportive during and after racing.
‘I am keeping the maillot jaune warm for you,’ comments Jesper, who knows he can never win the Tour de France.
‘Green’s more your colour,’ Fabian laughs, with deference to Jesper’s consistency as a rider – the domain of the maillot vert contender. Jesper knocks on Jules’s door but Fabian opens it and walks straight in.
If I venture out of my room, Cat considered, in her small room in a nondescript motorlodge on the ring road of Chardin, I might come across Luca or Ben. She unpacked the entire contents of her rucksack, hanging as many garments as she could. I don’t really want to see either as I really don’t know what to make of them. If I stay here all night, I’ll forfeit my drink with Rachel – which I’d really like to have.
She ran a bath, squirting in a little shampoo to give the semblance of bubble bath.
Luca bloody Jones. Was that humour or was I missing the point? Or did I have the point perfectly? Mind you, at least he’d like to give me one, which is more than can be said for his doctor.
Her bath was ready. The phone rang. It was Josh, informing her that he and Alex were driving in to town for dinner in half an hour.
‘I’m not really hungry,’ Cat said, ‘I stuffed myself at the press buffet and then all those biscuits.’
‘Are you OK?’ Josh enquired.
‘I’m fine,’ Cat said.
That’s kind of him.
‘Are you sure?’ Josh pressed.
‘Honestly,’ Cat stressed, suddenly wondering if his probing had a motive.
‘Women’s things?’ Josh attempted.
No, he’s just being kind.
‘Yes,’ said Cat smiling, glad that she didn’t have him wrong, ‘women’s things.’
After
