by Freya North
What a day!
She returns to the main hall and searches out Josh.
‘Coffee?’ she asks.
‘Can’t,’ he says, looking frazzled.
‘Alex?’ she offers. He’s typing so hard he does not answer, so she does not press.
‘I’m through,’ she says apologetically to Josh who regards her accusatorially as if she can’t possibly be a bona fide journaliste then.
‘Lucky you,’ he says, not unkindly.
‘I thought I’d phone Maillot,’ Cat whispers, ‘see if they’ll take an article. I so want that Feature Editor position, I thought some earnestness now wouldn’t go amiss.’
Alex and Josh nod politely but she sees they’re too engrossed in their work to be especially interested in her career development so she goes to the hotel to make her call.
‘Sutcliffe.’
‘Andy? This is Cat – um, McCabe.’
‘Hi Cat, how’s the Tour?’
‘Fine, brilliant – have you seen my daily reports?’
‘All two of them?’
‘Oh. Um. Well – I’ve had an idea for an article for Maillot, can I run it past you?’
‘Are you sucking up to me?’
‘No! Well – I’m serious. About the job – I know I don’t have it yet, that I have to earn my position, I know I’m out here for the Guardian, but I’m thinking ahead, thinking laterally.’
‘Shoot.’
‘Well,’ Cat clears her voice and wonders whether this conversation is as bad an idea as foisting even more work upon herself, ‘how about an interview with Rachel McEwen – Megapac’s soigneur?’
‘I know who Rachel McEwen is,’ Andy replies in a tone of voice Cat can’t really decipher, ‘but I don’t think it’s fleshy enough.’
‘OK, not an interview,’ says Cat, not wanting to sound disheartened but not wanting to sound like she’s clutching at straws either, ‘how about an article on soigneurs?’
‘I’ve asked Josh to do something along those lines.’
‘Female soigneurs?’ Cat specifies.
‘There are only two.’
‘Women in cycling?’
‘Why don’t we discuss your ideas after the Tour?’ Andy suggests. ‘See how it goes.’ There’s not a lot Cat can say to this. She nods at her hotel room walls and says OK as brightly as she can.
I’m not going to give up. Nor am I going to be fobbed off. I’m going to formulate my ideas and bloody bombard Maillot again. Before the end of the Tour.
It was nine thirty. Neither Josh nor Alex were in their rooms but, aware that she was sharing the hotel with Megapac, her confidence and determination in fact bolstered by her potential future boss’s rejection, Cat left her room and, eschewing the lifts, meandered along the corridors as if that was the way to reception anyway. She was on a quote hunt; not quite brave enough to phone specific riders’ rooms, she was hoping to come across them accidentally-on-purpose.
She should have known that Megapac, by this hour, would mostly be asleep. She would not have known that Luca and his room-mate Didier LeDucq were deep in the pages of Penthouse and a Dutch magazine that made the former look like the Beano, but as all doors were shut, she was saved this unsavoury revelation. She found herself in reception with no real purpose at all. However, a huge rumble from her stomach suddenly gave her one. The humiliation of Ben York’s presence was almost enough to make Cat want to march purposefully back to her room but her hunger and his hypnotic eyes kept her exactly where she was.
‘Jesus,’ he said, ‘was that thunder?’
Cat swallowed down an embarrassed laugh but this lacked the substance and nutrition that her stomach needed so it groaned again, loudly in protest.
‘Yes,’ said Cat, surprisingly cool, ‘there it goes again.’
‘I was going to the bar for a quick drink,’ Ben said. ‘Do you want to join me?’
‘OK,’ said Cat, hoping she looked neither keen nor shy, for suddenly she was feeling a very odd combination of both. She was following Ben, just about to make small talk, when her phone rang. She stopped, Ben turned to her. She shrugged and regarded her handset.
Fen. It’s bloody Fen. No, not bloody at all. I have to take it.
Take it then.
‘Aren’t you going to take it?’ Ben asked, not moving a discreet distance away, if anything leaning towards her, appearing closer, invasive almost.
‘Hullo?’ Cat said.
‘Hullo!’ Fen replied.
‘Hey girly!’ Pip cried, from another extension. ‘We’re a bit drunk. We want to know about lycra.’
Oh God, thought Cat, holding the phone tight against her ear in the hope that her sisters’ voices were not transmittable to Ben who continued to stand close.
‘Please can you explain what on earth is going on?’ Fen asked.
‘And can you tell us what the jerseys are actually for?’ Pip interjected. ‘And why that gorgeous Dutchman took the yellow one from Chris Boardman today?’
Oh God, thought Cat, I don’t want to explain such rudimentary details. Not here, not now. Not at this time of night.
Not in front of Dr York?
What’s he got to do with it?
What’s the time got to do with it? It’s hardly late. What you mean is, you’d rather drink with your doctor than speak with your sisters.
Bollocks. He’s not my doctor. He’s physician to US Megapac.
‘How exactly do you win the Tour de France?’ Fen was asking.
‘Um,’ Cat replied, ‘what is it you don’t understand?’
Don’t turn your back on Ben, it’s rude.
Yes, but so is hovering. See? I’ve now turned my back and he hasn’t budged. It’s a bit – odd.
So move.
I can’t – it’s a bit odd.
‘What exactly is the yellow jersey?’ Pip all but whined.
‘Et le maillot vert,’ Fen said extravagantly, ‘oh, and that spotted one too.’
I’m not going to look at you, Ben. Stop it. I’m going to stare at your shoes and speak to my sisters.
‘At the end of each day, the race leader – the yellow jersey – is the rider who has spent the least amount of time in the saddle so far in the Tour,’ Cat said, trying to infuse her voice with a tone that would inform any eavesdroppers that she was having to assist some imbecilic person with no knowledge of the grand sport. She knew Ben was regarding her unwaveringly. For a split second, Cat wondered whether her answer had been wrong.
Go away, Dr York. This is not a good time. You’re off-putting.
‘And the green?’ Pip was asking. ‘Vert?’
‘Each day,’ Cat explained, ‘there are points to be won at hot spot sprints along the route, as well as finishing in the top twenty-five. The green jersey is thus for the most points, for the most consistent daily finisher. It’s the second most important accolade. Cipollini took sprint points along the way today, plus finished high – giving him green. Lomers has the fastest time – a further twenty seconds were deducted for him winning the Stage today – hence the yellow.’
Oh. Ben. You’re going.
‘So he’ll wear it tomorrow?’ Fen asked. ‘He’s winning?’
‘Who?’ said Cat, noticing that Ben was wearing a very nice polo shirt which caught his shoulder blades most becomingly.
‘The flying Dutchman?’ Fen prompted.
‘Yes,’ Cat expounded, ‘yellow is supreme.’
Is that the bar through there? Should I move in a bit?
‘And the dotty?’ said Pip, correcting it to ‘spotty’ to prevent insinuation from either sister.
‘Each day, the hills are marked according to their steepness,’ Cat explained most informatively. ‘Today, as yesterday, there were only fourth-category climbs. Climbing points are awarded to the riders reaching the tops first. Hence our David wearing the King of the Mountains jersey at this stage in the race.’
Maybe I should go back to my room and just order room service.
‘Who�
��s “our David”?’ Pip asked in a whisper as if, unbeknown to her, he might be related.
‘David Millar is a British rider in the French team Cofidis,’ Cat elaborated. ‘He’s not a specialist climber but a very promising rouleur – all-rounder. At this stage in the Tour, the hills are not taxing enough to be the exclusive domain of the grimpeurs, the specialist climbers, who are wiser to save their energy and steer clear of trouble in anticipation of the main mountain Stages later.’
If I say ‘I’d better go now’, they’ll ask why. If I tell them, they’ll make me go to the bar and not my room.
‘So it’s fifteen minutes of fame for Our David,’ said Pip.
‘I think he’ll have more than that,’ Cat said, ‘just you watch him in the Time Trials.’
‘Not another bloody jersey,’ said Fen.
‘No,’ said Cat, ‘no jersey for Time Trials.’
‘I think we understand,’ said Pip, ‘do we?’
‘Yes,’ said Fen, ‘we’ll ring Django and tell him. Who should we look for in tomorrow’s Stage?’
‘I’d better go now,’ said Cat.
‘Why?’ said Pip. ‘It’s our call – we don’t mind.’
‘I’d better go to my room,’ said Cat, who’d noticed that the bar was filling up.
‘Why?’ Fen probed.
‘Where are you?’ Pip asked.
‘In the foyer,’ Cat said, a little deflated, ‘near the bar.’
Both her sisters were silent.
‘So?’ said Fen.
‘Sounds good,’ Pip commented.
‘Don’t you scurry away,’ Fen said, ‘you’re no mouse, Cat.’
‘I know that,’ Cat remonstrated, ‘but it’s a tough call, trying to carve a niche in unfamiliar territory – especially in a new world where everyone but me seems so at home, so au fait with the routine.’
‘But you said they’re a friendly bunch,’ Fen said.
‘He is,’ said Cat, quickly changing it to ‘They are.’
Back in England, Fen winked at Pip who grinned back.
‘Who is he?’ Pip whispered.
‘Just a team doctor,’ Cat whispered back.
‘Just!’ Pip shrieked.
‘Just have a drink,’ Fen said nonchalantly, glowering at her sister who was doing a jubilant handstand against the wall.
‘OK,’ said Cat, who quite liked being told what to do.
Cat has switched her phone off. She has taken two deep breaths. It took courage not to go back to her room. It’s going to require pluck to walk in to the bar. In she goes. There he is. He’s sitting on a small settee in front of a low table. He is sipping from a bottle of beer. Cat doesn’t really want to notice that he has lovely forearms.
‘Sorry about that,’ says Cat, ‘my sisters are watching the Tour for the first time.’
‘And they are calling on your expertise,’ Ben reasons, ‘can’t say I blame them.’ He smiles at her. It is unclear to Cat whether this is a compliment for her knowledge, or a critique on the vagaries of the Tour de France rules.
‘Let me get you a beer,’ Ben says, going to the bar before Cat can say she’d prefer a glass of wine. He comes back with a bottle of Kronenbourg 1664. ‘Some advice,’ Ben says, whether she wants it or not, holding the bottle aloft, ‘if you want to impress, you abbreviate it to Seize.’
Do I want to impress? Cat wonders.
Of course you do. Sip Seize sexily, Cat. Ben does so quite inadvertently.
He does. He keeps his eyes on me while he swigs, they narrow slightly. They open when he licks his top lip.
Ben York is interested in Cat. He asks her many questions. The beer is cool and fizzy and, for Cat, on an empty stomach, pleasantly tongue-freeing. She answers him happily and slips in questions of her own. First about Megapac. Then about Luca. Soon enough about Ben. Momentarily, she is disappointed that it was not a love of cycling that saw him search out such a job, but she is impressed that his reputation as a physician saw Megapac approach him. Anyway, he speaks with enthusiasm and in depth about the sport and he is a kindred spirit for sure. Ben is friendly and attentive and she wonders whether he is flirting with her. She tells herself she must be imagining it, that it must be the beer. Certainly, it’s something of a novelty for her. It’s refreshing for Cat, having been the brunt of constant criticism and no praise for such a long time.
I’m in France. On the Tour. Away from home. Away for the summer. Away from Him. I’m glad I came. I’m pleased I didn’t go back to my room.
‘Croque monsieur, mademoiselle?’ Ben asks, raising an eyebrow which seems to insist his lips part.
‘Only if you have one too,’ Cat says, really quite coyly. They allow a look between them to linger before Ben grins and Cat grins back. He goes to the bar to order and her eyes follow him before she glances around the room as if to see who has observed. There are quite a few people but none seem remotely aware of or interested in her presence or the chemistry she feels she and Ben surely must have been exuding like a visible glow. He returns.
‘Do you like olives?’ he asks.
‘I love olives,’ Cat enthuses.
Ben leans towards her with a dish of olives; black, green, stuffed, glistening with oil, permeated with garlic, enhanced with rosemary.
‘Excuse me,’ says Cat, her thumb and forefinger hovering before selecting a particularly plump specimen.
‘What for?’ says Ben.
‘No,’ says Cat, still chewing, standing up, ‘I mean, excuse me but I’m going to the toilet.’
She takes a stone from her mouth and plinks it daintily in the ashtray. Off she goes, trying to walk slowly, trying not to wiggle, or wondering if she does indeed wiggle and whether it’s becoming. She sits in the cubicle and regards left hand and right hand like Fen tends to – but she has no dilemma on her hands, she is not searching for advice or answers. She just wants to collect herself, calm down and return to the bar, to Ben’s restorative and compelling company. When she washes her hands, she catches sight of herself in the mirror. She gives herself a little shrug, a little smile.
It’s OK. This. It’s good. I’m having a great evening. I think he really is flirting with me. I’m not sure. It’s been a while. Is he?
Go back and see.
Oh. Alex and Josh are sitting by Ben. Eating olives. Drinking Seize. Oh.
‘Hey, Cat,’ Alex says, a little dishevelled in the hair and somewhat wild about the eyes.
‘Finito completo,’ says Josh, who looks utterly exhausted.
‘Hullo, guys,’ says Cat, taking her seat, glancing at Ben and wondering if that really was a glimmer of a remorseful shrug he’s just given her. ‘I’m having croque monsieur,’ she announces as if her fellow press men had been pondering a reason for her presence at the table with Ben and his olives and the strong beer.
‘So are we,’ says Josh.
They eat. They talk. Cat concentrates only on Josh and Alex, studiously avoiding any eye contact, any direct anything, with Ben, though she so wants to. Ben, however, ensures he speaks to Cat directly; he buys her another beer, he even answers on her behalf.
‘No,’ he tells Josh, ‘the guy at Maillot didn’t seem very interested in her ideas for an article on female soigneurs.’
Josh yawned. ‘Shit,’ he said, ‘I forgot to phone home.’
Cat wonders whether this has been said for her benefit and wonders again whether Josh has designs on her. And she wonders if she has designs on Ben and whether it’s presumptuous or OK for her to wonder whether this is reciprocated. And then she thinks what utter nonsense. This is the Tour de France. It’s work. Her livelihood. Absolutely no room for anything else.
‘Beer?’ Alex asks.
Ben yawns. ‘I’d better push some zeds,’ he says.
‘Pardon?’ Cat says.
‘You know,’ Ben explains, with a chuckle at his wit, touching her arm, ‘like a cartoon character asleep with “z”s coming out of their mouth.’
Cat finds this funny. So do Alex and J
osh. But Cat laughs longer, and more loudly. In fact, she gives Ben’s knee a quick push and wonders whether that’s OK. It felt OK to do it. More than OK. Was it OK for it to be felt by Ben? Witnessed by the other two?
Can’t we stay a while longer?
Alex stands and stretches and blasphemes whilst yawning. Josh rises too and does the same, without the choice epithets. Ben stands up. He doesn’t yawn but he clasps the back of his neck drawing Cat’s eyes to his elbows before they meet his. Cat is disappointed.
Please stay. I’m enjoying myself. This is what I was hoping for, camaraderie. Colleagues becoming friends. That we’d work hard and earn evenings like this.
Exactly. You’re all here working. So there will be tomorrow. Indeed, just under three weeks of tomorrows.
‘Night all,’ Ben says, heading for the stairs.
‘Later!’ says Josh, as is his wont.
‘See you,’ says Alex through a yawn, pressing for the lift.
‘Night, Ben,’ Cat says, though he has now gone.
‘I think you’ve pulled there,’ Alex goads, leaning against the mirror in the lift, regarding Cat quizzically.
‘Don’t be a wanker,’ says Josh, rubbing his eyes, his bristled chin, ‘she’s got a boyfriend back home.’
STAGE 3
Vuillard-Plumelec. 225 kilometres
I don’t want Josh to fancy me and I don’t want Josh to tell Ben, thought Cat, quite urgently when waking with a start in the early hours. I don’t want Ben to think that I have a boyfriend. Because, of course, I do not. Oh. But that means I actively want Ben to know I’m single. If I fancy Ben, which I do, it must mean that I now feel single. If I’m feeling single, it is the lid on the coffin of my time with Him. To fancy another, to want another, to be with another, would symbolize the ultimate sealing nail in that coffin. How do I feel about all that?
Her meanderings led her to a thick sleep for a couple of hours. She awoke again, still way before dawn.
Fancying Ben might allow me to bury my past relationship, those intrusive memories and my deluded hopes of Him. That would be wise.
Cat slept for an hour more and then rose before six thirty.
Bullshit, Cat. Ben has no purpose, nothing to do with Him back home. The point – and it is indisputable – is that I fancy Ben, full stop. He turns me on. I want him.
