The McCabe Girls Complete Collection

by Freya North

  What had happened to the ice was initially of little relevance for Cat. Rather, she was transfixed by line upon line of connected trestle tables on which, at regular intervals, an army of laptops were positioned, gaping like hungry mouths eager to gobble down the information in any language as long as the topic was cycling. At the front and to either side, a brigade of industrial-sized televisions was mounted on tall stands, surrounding the journalists and perusing the scene like phantasmagorical invigilators.

  If I’m not at Durham University, then I’m in a George Orwell novel or a Terry Gilliam film. Am I really at the Tour de France? It’s all so vast – anonymous, even. What on earth am I meant to do now? Where should I sit? This is my workplace for the next three days, how am I ever going to be able to concentrate?

  Cat felt much sicker and far less steady on her feet than she had for any exam, or even on the ferry. But she made it to a space on a run of trestle conveniently close and which, to her relief, had an expanse of at least three metres between where she set up and the next journalist.

  I’m in Babel. Did no one say hullo in Babel? Isn’t my pass enough – do I need a password too?

  After a quick, furtive scout around, Cat plugged in her laptop, positioned her mobile phone near by and fanned out a selection of the booklets she had been given at accreditation.

  See, now my workspace looks no different from any of those around me. I’m one of them, now. So, now someone should say hullo. I’m going to busy myself I’d like to scrutinize this one: ‘Les hotels, les equipes’ – see if any of my other hotels during the Tour might house teams too. Better not – that’s something I can look forward to doing later tonight when I’m in my room pathetically deluded that Jimenez or Lipari might come and find me.

  I’ll start by flipping through this booklet – ‘Les régions, la culture’. Fuck, it’s all in French. I’ll just skim the pages as if I’m speed reading – oh God, but if I do, they might presume I’m fluent and come up jabbering away at me. PR packs from the teams. That’s better. I’ll start with Zucca MV.

  She was staring at photos of the team when her mobile phone rang, causing her to jump and fumble with the handset.

  ‘Hullo?’ she whispered, her hand guarding her brow, her eyes cast unflinchingly down towards the keys on her laptop.

  ‘Bonjour!’ boomed Django so loudly that Cat glanced around her expecting to find the entire press corps listening in, knowing it wasn’t work, that she was but a pseudo journaliste. However, her presence, let alone that of Django’s voice, was obviously still undetected. Now she was relieved.

  ‘Hullo,’ she said, ‘Django.’

  ‘How are you?’ he asked, slurring his words in his excitement. ‘Where are you? What’s happening? Keeping a decorous distance from all that lycra, I do hope?’

  Though she’d hate herself for it later, Django’s enthusiasm irritated Cat.

  I’m working. This isn’t a holiday. Take me seriously.

  Ah, but don’t deny it is a pleasure for which you yourself cannot believe you are being paid.

  I bet nobody else’s uncles are phoning them.

  Well then, you should pity them.

  ‘I’m fine,’ Cat said quietly, ‘but busy – press conferences, deadlines – and then some.’

  Haven’t actually been to a press conference. My first deadline is tomorrow.

  ‘And the people?’ The pride in Django’s voice caused Cat’s eyes to smart. ‘Are they nice? Have you made friends? And the riders, girl – have you met and married?’

  ‘Oh,’ Cat sighed, swiping the air most nonchalantly, unaware that it was a gesture wasted on Django, ‘loads – great. Everything.’

  ‘Well, I’ll phone again,’ Django said gently, sensing her unease. ‘Just had to make sure that you’re really there – now that I hear you, I can continue with my jam-making. I’m trying damson and ouzo. I thought an aniseed taste and an alcoholic kick might be an interesting addition to an otherwise relatively mundane preserve. There’ll be a jar, or pot, probably plural, awaiting your return.’

  Django’s culinary idiosyncrasies suddenly touched Cat. She closed her eyes and listened. It was like a voice not heard for a long while and yet its immediate familiarity was so comforting it was painful.

  ‘Thanks, Django,’ Cat said, smiling sadly, ‘but I have to go. Bye.’ She switched off, stared hard at the phone and forced herself to switch off. Back she was, in the formidable ice rink.

  Too many people were smoking too many cigarettes. A man with a handlebar moustache was smoking a cigar. A large one.

  He looks like an extra from a spaghetti western. What do I look like? A journaliste? I don’t think I’m noticeable at all. Do I want to be? And I haven’t done any work, I haven’t even switched my laptop on.

  And there’s the Système Vipère press conference in ten minutes.

  Good, I can get out of here.

  Thursday. Team Système Vipère press conference. 1.30 p.m.

  Cat just sits and stares. Her physical proximity to Fabian Ducasse is causing her to hold her breath. It is as if she fears that if she doesn’t, unless she keeps utterly still, he’ll disappear and all of this will have been some tormenting apparition. And what a shame that would be, with Fabian currently smouldering at the press corps, his mouth in its permanent pout, his eyes dark, his focus hypnotic. He is taller, broader, than Cat had previously assumed from television appearances. His skin is tanned, his hair now very short and emphatically presenting his stunning bone structure. His cool reserve, the aloof tilt of his head draw all present to his every move, his every word, at the expense of his equally hallowed team-mates sitting alongside. The conference is conducted in French and fast and, to Cat, the very timbre impresses her far more than the specific words she can pick out and string, if not into a sentence, into the gist of one. The room is charged. Or is it? Is it Fabian Ducasse’s doing? Or is it just Cat?

  On the platform at one end of the conference room, Jules Le Grand has flanked himself with Fabian Ducasse, Jesper Lomers, Carlos Jesu Velasquez and the youngest member of the team, Oskar Munch, whose first Tour de France this is. Oskar appears as awestruck as Cat – if they caught sight of each other they could exchange empathetic gazes. This, though, is unlikely to happen in a room of at least two hundred people.

  For Oskar, I’d like to write a piece about domestiques, the unsung heroes who work away selflessly for the greater glory of their leader, their team.

  Carlos is about to speak.

  Fuck, all in bloody Spanish! Mind you, he’s a man of few words and his grunts are unilaterally understandable. He’s probably just been asked if he feels in any way compromised riding for a French team. That shrug-mutter I take to mean ‘Amigo, I am doing my job – a fine company wishes to employ me, to pay for my skill – where’s the conflict or compromise?’ Ah Oskar, someone’s asked you your ambition for the Tour.

  ‘Paris!’ Oskar announces as if to an idiot.

  Shall I ask him about preparation? How well he knows the route? How much is a technical, theoretical study of alpine gradients and Pyrenean cross-winds, how much is physical familiarity with specific climbs? Oh, and mental attitude – will his spirit ensure entry into Paris even if twenty-one arduous days have broken his body?

  Yes, Cat. Go for it.

  Me? No. Maybe tomorrow.

  This is Oskar’s press conference today.

  In twenty-one teams, there are approximately six domestiques in each. I’ll have my pick.

  You’re contradicting yourself – you just said how much you respect domestiques as riders in their own right. I think you should go for Oskar.

  This is my first press conference. Give me a break.

  The Guardian newspaper is giving you your break, remember.

  Thursday. Salle de presse. 2.30 p.m.

  There’s a lot of bad typing in the press corps and a quite startling array of awful footwear, thought Cat on returning to the press room and making it back to her seat without anyone ack
nowledging her presence, which, in truth but to her surprise, caused her a little consternation. All around her, mobile phones were bickering to outdo each other with terrible jingles in place of regular ringing tones.

  Cat opened a new file in her laptop and plugged an earpiece into her dictaphone, swooning slightly and smiling broadly at Hunter’s American tones. The blank screen was far too intimidating so, etching an expression of utter concentration over her face, Cat looked up and around her, as if deep in thought rather than analysing the particulars surrounding and distracting her.

  I mean – look at him, very thin and pale, wearing too short shorts, no socks and shiny black brogues. And that one looks like something out of a Brothers Grimm fairy-tale in those suede pixie boots. And with toes like that, that man there should certainly refrain from putting them on public display.

  Cat placed her fingers rather primly on the keys, then took them off again. What to write, what to write? What on earth was everyone else writing?

  I don’t want to start – not that I know where to. I’m surrounded by two-digit keyboard bashing and inefficient finger knitting – how can they manage entire articles using the index finger of their left hand and the third finger of their right? There again, I can touch-type – and fast – but I can’t write a bloody word.

  Cat was subsumed by an illogical fear that, as soon as she started typing, there’d be silence and all eyes would be on her, assessing how fast she types, how she types, what she writes, even what shoes she wears. She stared at her screen then glanced around her, momentarily bolstered by the fact that though everyone’s screens were on view, it was impossible to discern what they’d written, never mind in what language. Her fingers hovered and then alighted softly on the keys. She cocked her head, as if Hunter had said something of supreme interest, and allowed her fingers to skitter randomly over the keyboard.

  akdjoii sdiuej fdiknvoiq=- jdoaign kdjlau SODIJA L.upoadj lkduflakdkruoqemma d OKLAKEUR .kdug; ae#q, dkafp9cekjr9 diuarslkqjwlfreO dpsofiqawe.wer fdfpiaduf lksadurmq pe9981ek cagl9igdam.s .. diew r l;sie. 932 ..xouawpoe w.e;

  She looked away from the screen and was momentarily staggered, soon relieved, as she realized her hot flush and racing heart were pointless. No one met her gaze, no one laughed at her work, everyone was utterly preoccupied with all things other than Cat McCabe, journaliste. Cat allowed herself a smile, looked at her screen and thought, well – it could be Finnish, deleted the lot and started to transcribe Hunter’s soundbites. Her typing speed matched the pace of his voice perfectly.

  Now I’m going to sketch out a piece for the Guardian focusing on the non-European element of the Tour de France – mention Luca Jones and whether winning a Stage in the Giro D’Italia can translate to winning one at the Tour de France.

  ‘Hullo.’

  I might do an ‘introducing Megapac’ – use my Hunter quotes, bring the riders of this wildcard team to the public’s notice.

  ‘Bonjour?’

  In fact, it would be interesting to do a piece as an exposé of the cliques in the peloton according to nationality or language.

  ‘Buenos dias?’

  There’s often inter-team friction, or factions, due to language – how does that change within the peloton at large?

  ‘Buon giorno? Guten Morgen? Hola!’

  Cat looked up with a jolt.

  ‘Bonjour,’ she mumbled, wondering if she’d been talking her ideas out loud. She glanced at the man and was able to assess immediately that he appeared, physically at least, non-intimidating and relatively normal. For a start, he was wearing khaki shorts of decent dimensions and had a pen rather than a cigarette between his fingers.

  The man flicked over a page of his notebook, squinted and then spoke.

  ‘Cat-riona McCabe?’ he asked. ‘Guardian?’

  And he’s British.

  ‘Yes,’ Cat beamed, standing up and shaking his hand.

  ‘I’m Josh Piper,’ he said, extending his hand.

  ‘Oh – Josh-ua!’ Cat proclaimed, with a familiarity and joviality that made her cringe because they far exceeded the mere expression of recognition and relief she’d actually intended. ‘You’re English and you’re Joshua.’ She shook his hand anew.

  ‘Er, yes,’ he said, regarding her quizzically, ‘but please – it’s Josh and I’m relieved you’re Catriona McCabe – I’ve been standing here for ten hours saying hello in every language I know and some I probably don’t. You were miles away – where were you? Half-way up L’Alpe D’Huez already?’

  Cat gave a guilty grin. ‘Not quite, but I was preoccupied. I’m sorry.’ To emphasize the point, she sat down again and stared concertedly at her screen.

  Noticing that she still had her earpiece in place and that the dictaphone appeared still to be whirring and that her fingers were over the keys, Josh put his hands up in surrender.

  ‘You’re going to share the driving with us – right?’ His hands were now on his hips, as if it aided him in assessing her potential behind the wheel.

  ‘Yup, absolutely, thanks so much,’ Cat rushed.

  ‘This is your first Tour,’ he told her.

  Am I that transparent?

  Cat shrugged and nodded, trying to wipe the daft grin from her face.

  But this is my first Tour – I’m here at the Tour de France – automatic smile drug.

  ‘It’s my seventh,’ Josh continued. ‘I read your Tour of Britain report for Cycling Weekly – I thought it was quite good.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Cat smiled, closing her eyes temporarily, revelling in such praise from a seasoned and respected journalist.

  ‘Good,’ Josh said. ‘How’s Taverner doing at the Guardian?’

  ‘My boss?’ Cat smiled on. ‘He’s fine – stressed out, as ever, but fine. Still racing a fair bit, winning not a lot but forever exhibiting his war wounds!’

  ‘I bet he was pissed off having to delegate this job out – it would have been his thirteenth tour.’

  God, I have so far to go. So much to catch up on. Shoes to fill. A spectre to cast off. An impression to make.

  ‘Well,’ Josh continued, ‘nice to meet you. I’ll see you around.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Cat, watching Josh blend with the press corps and suddenly kicking herself for not asking for his mobile number, or where they should meet on Sunday for Stage 1, or what she should do with her bags and what sort of car it was she was to help drive.

  Why didn’t he invite me to sit by him? Or suggest coffee or sandwiches? Or ask where I’m staying?

  Because you’re at work, not at a dinner party. Anyway, he was friendly and he did come to find you. Now write. Work.

  I don’t know where to start. I’m still starving. Anyway, it’s the Saeco-Cannondale press conference in twenty minutes and I want to get a seat near the front so I can concentrate on Mario Cipollini.

  Ten minutes later, as Cat was on her way out of the main ice rink to the press conference room, she came across Josh Piper headed in the same direction. It transpired they were staying at the same hotel.

  ‘Cipo, Cipo,’ Cat whispered as they took their seats and waited for the team. She turned to Josh and regarded him earnestly. ‘Mario Cipollini,’ she said, eyes asparkle. The sentence was complete, the profundity of its meaning and the depth of associated emotion were encapsulated in those two words.

  ‘I fucking love Cipo,’ said Josh, ‘I love him.’

  ‘So do I,’ Cat breathed, ‘I love Cipollini too.’

  Josh shook her hand. ‘Can I call you Cat? We should meet for dinner this evening,’ said Josh, ‘there’s a few of us at the hotel.’

  ‘That would be lovely,’ said Cat earnestly, ‘and of course you can. Can I have your mobile number?’

  Josh tipped his head. ‘Won’t it be easier if I just call your room from my room?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Cat, biting her lip and hoping that a grin might, in some way, counteract her inanity. Josh looked ahead and nudged her. She grinned at him again.

  I have a fr
iend!

  She nudged him back. He turned to her, swiftly regarding her with a flicker of a frown, tipping his head towards the platform at the front, giving her a sharp nudge. Cat followed his gaze.

  ‘Cipo!’ Cat proclaimed involuntarily, her voice hoarse and regrettably loud. The two rows in front of her turned and stared. Mario Cipollini, however, nodded at her. Josh nudged her. She could feel him smile. Cat swelled.

  Friday. Salle de presse. 10 a.m.

  The press room wasn’t quite so unnerving, did not seem nearly as cavernous or quite so cacophonous the next morning, nor did the press corps seem as intimidating. Not least because there were now two faces known to her. Nevertheless, Cat set up her work space, settled herself down, opening a file and typing a few lines, before she scanned the mêlée and finally recognized the backs of Josh and also Alex Fletcher a few rows in front of her. She grinned at their shoulder blades, felt settled and keen to work.

  I do hope Jimenez and Lipari weren’t twiddling their thumbs and at a loose end last night – because I was otherwise occupied. Josh did indeed call my room and we went out for a meal, with Alex Fletcher who is also travelling with us. Alex is very tall but his stature seems disproportionate to his demeanour – he’s like an excitable schoolboy – deplorable expletives every other word and a quite staggering lack of respect for his expense account. I had heard he can be brusque, that he requires an ego massage. But I like him, he’s amusing – it might even be fun with the three of us in the car.

  ‘Morning, Cat,’ said Alex, right on cue and towering above her, ‘fucking shit night’s sleep last night.’

  Cat wasn’t quite sure how to respond, because she had slept very well, so she gave what she hoped was a sympathetic tip of her head. Alex loped off. Cat returned her attention to her still ominously blank screen.