a chemical, hormonal, non-cerebral, male response. Shit, maybe it was the talcum powder itself. Maybe there’s a substance in it that’s banned. But it wasn’t me. It can’t have been. I’m just his soigneur. How can he know me as Rachel? He does not know Rachel at all.
You should get moving. You have a million and one duties to attend to.
I need to sit a while.
‘I know what I need,’ Rachel said, standing, glancing around the interior of the van, ‘I need a girlfriend – I need the insight of a woman. I need female company, complicity – a confidante.’
Contre la montre.
What a lovely phrase. It was Cat’s chant that morning as she gathered together her wits and her work effects. She was running late, having not been able to leave her bed for all the reliving of the night before and the projected ponderings for the day ahead. Sex? Perhaps. More than likely. Hurry up! Contre la montre. Against the clock. Morning, Josh. Morning, Alex. Hurry up, Cat. Sorry. Sorry. Allons!
‘You’re perky,’ Josh remarked, pleased that she was.
‘I had,’ Cat reasoned, ‘a very good – night.’
‘Moi aussi,’ Alex said, ‘like a fucking log. Out for the count.’
‘I slept really well too,’ Josh added, glancing in gratitude at Auberge Claudette before driving away.
‘Me too,’ Cat recapitulated.
I am going to sleep with Ben tonight and I’ll be most wide awake.
‘I’m interviewing Luca this afternoon,’ Cat said. ‘He’s riding early so I’ll disappear for an hour or so. Will you fill me in?’
‘Sure,’ Alex said, looking to the back seat where Cat was sitting and staring out of the window with an inordinately expansive smile on her face, ‘as long as you share any juicy Luca-isms.’
‘Where are you going to do him?’ Josh asked, curtailing any insinuation from Alex by stamping on the brakes to allow the race commissaire’s car priority.
‘In his hotel room,’ Cat replied. Alex tittered. The others didn’t.
The only time Jules Le Grand was going to leave Fabian Ducasse’s side was when the Système Vipère rider and overall contender for the maillot jaune was actually on his bike riding the course. The rider had all but sleep-walked to his directeur’s room at four in the morning to say one thing.
‘The Time Trial is a test of truth.’
For all Fabian’s outward arrogance and confidence, he needed the support of his directeur if he was to take yellow at the Time Trial that afternoon and define the ultimate outcome on the podium in Paris a fortnight later. Though Fabian had returned to bed and, amazingly, to a deep sleep, his directeur stayed awake for him. In silk pyjama bottoms, Jules had gazed out of the window witnessing night simper into dawn.
Fabian needs me to yell ‘Allez allez allez!’, to torment him, to demand that he ride harder for fuck’s sake.
Jules showered and shaved and treated his underarms and cheeks to liberal applications of Gucci toiletries.
Fabian also needs me to listen attentively when he repeats his concerns arid strategy for the course.
‘Often he does so in silence but it is always audible to me,’ Jules said out loud, wondering if 6 a.m. was too early to phone Système Vipère’s eponymous sponsor. He would leave it half an hour. No doubt his favoured journalist on L’Equipe would be glad to take a call.
‘Ultimately, it is the paternal support of the directeur sportif that the rider requires after a Time Trial,’ Jules said down the line to the reporter, ‘to lift his spent body from his bike, to be there for him whatever the outcome.’
‘Merci,’ said the journalist, hoping Jules Le Grand had not heard him stifle a yawn, could not envisage him as he was, crumpled, in bed and still half-asleep.
Jules was dressed in Gucci top to toe. He phoned the team sponsors.
‘Whatever the outcome, today,’ he told them, ‘Ducasse will ride the Stage as if his life depends on it which, to him, it does. The team are pleased that you will visit today to watch the Stage. It will be good for Jesper Lomers to see you.’ There was a pause. ‘Yes, yes, he is on the verge of renewing his contract – of that I’m sure.’
He’d better be – or Anya will have me to answer to. Not that she’s answered any of Jesper’s calls, I am informed. At the moment, that is not good for my rider’s morale. But I can turn it to the team’s advantage, I’m sure of it. When the time is right.
Jules Le Grand plucked at grapes from the fruit bowl and sipped at Evian from the minibar. He phoned L’Equipe again, making a well-rehearsed soliloquy sound positively conversational; so eloquent that the journalist could quote him word for word.
‘Today, Fabian Ducasse will not be merely going to work, doing his job, earning his salary. For Fabian, this Time Trial will determine his purpose on this mortal coil. He will challenge the demons within himself. He will emerge triumphant.’
Jules ended the call.
If not – then what? he contemplated quietly, bursting a grape against the roof of his mouth. What will it all mean? Who would Ducasse be? What would be the point?
‘He needs me,’ Jules said, leaving his room at 7 a.m. to check on the soigneurs, the mechanics and the weather.
Cat McCabe saw Fabian and Jules on her way to the village. Full of the bounce and confidence that the headiness of new passion can instil, she approached the two men.
‘Bonjour,’ she said, turning back on herself so she could walk their way a while. ‘How are you feeling? What is your optimum time? If you don’t take yellow today, can the Tour still be yours?’
Fleetingly, Fabian looked at her darkly, frowning, turning to his directeur for support, to make her go away. Intrusion. Distraction. Pointless. Jules Le Grand glanced at Cat. He’d seen her around. English journaliste. Any other day, he would have granted her a suave smile, an audience with himself, with his riders. Today, though, at this time, he regarded her with undisguised contempt.
‘Leave Fabian,’ he commanded, his hissed order rooting her to the spot while the men walked away from her and ever onwards towards their fate.
Josh looked up from his laptop.
‘Hullo, Rachel,’ he said in amazement, ‘what brings you here? Fugallo had a great ride. Are you here to watch Vasily?’
‘Actually,’ Rachel said, ‘I was looking for Cat.’
‘She’s interviewing Luca,’ Josh informed her. He glanced at his watch. So did Alex.
‘She’s been bloody hours,’ Alex remarked, ‘little minx.’
‘Is she coming back here?’
