sprinters so familiar last week will now be gone from sight. They’ve passed the baton to the grimpeurs – lithe, wiry, crazy, brave boys. Watch what the mountains do to them. Watch what they do to the mountains.’
‘The fact that she changed the subject in a way she thought was so subtle—’ Fen starts, replacing the handset, finishing the coffee and reordering her piles of papers.
‘Means one of two things,’ Pip completes.
‘Either the sex was a bit disappointing and reality has let her daydream down,’ Fen theorizes.
‘Or,’ Pip continues for her, ‘Cat’s gone and fallen for him.’
‘In some ways,’ says Fen, very slowly, ‘I rather hope she hasn’t.’
‘I know,’ says Pip, ‘I do too. She’d be safer.’
‘But I rather think it’s the latter,’ Fen clarifies, ‘and I don’t want her to be hurt.’
‘I mean, he’s probably a really lovely guy with honourable intentions,’ Pip says, ‘and has massive desire for Cat, which is great for her – but if she is falling for more than his ability to bring her to orgasm, she is somewhat vulnerable.’
‘And I don’t want her to hurt,’ Fen states, ‘she’s had enough of that.’
Pip was staring at Fen’s calendar from the Musée Rodin.
‘The Eternal Idol, 1899,’ Fen whispers rather hoarsely. ‘Isn’t that clit-quiveringly wonderful?’
‘Huh? Oh yes!’ Pip says, changing her focus to observe the photo of the sculpture. ‘But I was thinking – fancy a weekend in the Alps?’
Fabian Ducasse has spent the least accumulative time in the saddle which is why he is wearing the yellow jersey. He’s been racing for eight days and has covered over 1,570 kilometres in 41½ hours riding. He has over 2,000 kilometres to go, twelve further days in the saddle with two rest days during which he’ll be on his bike, of course. Fabian Ducasse, twenty-nine years old, will climb five mammoth Pyrenean passes today. Tomorrow, another five. All in all, there are seven days in which mountains are to be tackled. By our boys. On their bicycles.
As Cat told her sisters, we have new characters to meet who have spent the last week wisely sheltering safe in the air bubble at the centre of the bunch, conserving their energy for the mountains. The pure sprinters have now had their apportionment of fame. Their current concerns are merely to survive the next week if they are going to make it to Paris at all. Last week, they surged and pumped hard at the front of the peloton in front of the world, now they’ll gladly join the grupetto, the bus of riders that forms the back of the bunch, just keeping together, keeping going, living to ride another day, riding for a living though it nearly kills them. Jesper Lomers and Stefano Sassetta will continue to duel for the green jersey to prove who is the Tour’s most consistent daily finisher; one who can cope with the mountains in the second week, as much as he shone at sprinting in the first. Jesper’s wife Anya has not yet made an appearance. Jesper is doing battle with himself to keep his professional and personal lives separate. And he is at war with Stefano. A handful of points separate them.
We met the two major contenders for the polka dot King of the Mountains jersey before the race but we’ve hardly seen them since. Donna magazine’s ‘Sexiest Man on Two Wheels’, Zucca MV’s dashing Massimo Lipari; the face of a popular chocolate-hazelnut spread and a familiar fixture in the Italian music charts each summer when he releases synthetic Europop in honour of the Giro, his nation’s Grand Tour. Massimo has been King of the Mountains for the last two years. However, the man that Système Vipère transferred at great expense to put a stop to Massimo’s run is the Pocket Rocket – small but charismatic Carlos Jesu Velasquez. A Spaniard riding for a French team, he is taciturn, a family man. Lipari and Velasquez’s style on bike and off are vastly different. Their ability this year is neck and neck. Their aim is the same. The polka dot jersey. A slip of white lycra, spotted red, well worth the pain of pelting up peaks for points.
‘The hills are alive!’ Luca warbled at breakfast, the rest of Megapac regarding him with a mixture of pity and contempt. ‘Come on, guys,’ he continued quietly. Ben looked at him unseen, sensing the rider’s bravado was but a thin veneer laid unconvincingly over his truer anticipation, dread and fear.
‘Eat,’ Ben said, eyeing the plates of pasta. ‘Your bodies are going to use a lot of energy keeping warm today.’
The team were well aware of the rain teeming down the windows. ‘Climb every mountain,’ sang Luca, rather forlornly. Hunter pointed his knife at him but said nothing.
‘It’s wet but all of you must drink as often as you can,’ Ben said, ‘and lots of Vaseline on your feet so wet socks won’t rub.’
‘It’s too wet and cold for bikinis,’ Luca rued, taking more pasta though he wasn’t hungry in the slightest, ‘such a shame. Maybe there’ll be some wet T-shirts instead, hey guys!’ Travis shot him a withering look that went unseen.
‘Luca,’ Ben said, rising from the table, ‘take your negligible brain cells from out of your dick and stick them where they’ll serve you best. Jesus, you can be a bloody headache sometimes.’ Ben left the dining-room, refusing to acknowledge Luca’s look of hurt. Returning to his room, Ben hated himself for foisting his own unrest upon his young rider. He stood still in the centre of the bedroom, then switched on the TV, turning the volume high on whatever channel came on. He didn’t want silence; ironically, he wouldn’t be able to hear himself think. With the TV droning away, he began to bundle his clothes into his case.
‘Would I have felt differently about Cat had I not found out she has a bloke back home?’ he asked himself, sniffing at a shirt and tucking it deep down into the case. ‘Is it the fact that she is unavailable that makes me want her more?’ Ben sat on the edge of the bed for a moment before moving to the chair and then to the window-sill against which he rested the small of his back. ‘Is that what disconcerts me?’ He pushed himself away to lie down on the unmade bed. ‘Bloody women. It’s proof – as if I needed it – that any involvement that goes beyond a mere physical exchange is hassle I don’t need.’
Ben left the bed and went to the bathroom. He looked at himself. ‘Who the fuck said I was involved anyway?’ But the two images of Cat which solicited him in quick succession answered him. The first was watching her, unseen, engrossed in her work in the salle de pressé; her foot tapping, her lips moving – parting into a smile at certain sentences, into a pout when vocabulary eluded her – her whole self focused, a little frown now and then, a twitch of her nose, the brace of her back, accepting a drink from Josh, a quick banter with Alex, a glanced smile at an Italian journalist. She was in a little sundress that day, white pumps and a white, tight T-shirt. Ben had left the salle and walked away with a grin to his groin. The other image accosting him was of Cat climaxing last night, her eyes never leaving his, just glazing over with the pleasure and gazing deep into him. He’d found it an incredibly intense moment. She had been straddling him, gyrating to her peak, moving around and down on to him; his hands had been on her thighs, at her waist, cupping her breasts, and then she stilled herself, gasping and staring at him and he felt her sex suck him deep inside her, her gaze drawing him into her. And then she all but crumpled down on to him with post-orgasmic exhaustion and he wrapped his arms around her, tenderly encircling her as her throbbing subsided. She had smelt wonderful. He could have feasted on the scent of her, the sight and sound of her and never have had his fill.
That any imagery, let alone two vivid and contrasting ones, were deeply ensconced in his soul and mind’s eye, was a disconcerting
