The McCabe Girls Complete Collection

by Freya North

  Ben was driving very slowly.

  And me. I will too. Hurt. Miss her. Like I’ve never experienced.

  Tell Fen. Just say it out loud.

  No. Not until I’ve told Cat.

  Ben is back at his hotel by eleven o’clock. Cat is asleep in his bed. He slips between the sheets quietly and spends a few minutes observing her; moonlight sifting into the room through ill-fitting curtains and whispering silver highlights over her body. Gently, he hovers his hand over her bare shoulder and then lets it rest lightly on her skin. She makes a small noise in her throat and it makes him smile. He strokes her arm with his fingertips and brings his body close to hers. He breathes deeply into the top of her head.

  I know that smell. It’s not shampoo. It’s Cat McCabe. She says she knows my hands. Well, I know her scent off by heart.

  STAGE 16

  Gilbertville-Aix-les-Bains. 149 kilometres

  The Tour de France lasts for six more days. In that time, loose ends need to be tied and those currently knotted need to be unravelled. The race is now about loss and gain. Both on the bike. And off. The riders of the peloton have each now lost an average four pounds in muscle which their bodies have resorted to pillaging for energy. Luca lost his nerve but found it again. Fabian has lost his yellow jersey but has designs on gaining it back. Vasily wears the yellow jersey and has no intention of losing it. Jesper Lomers wonders whether his marriage is lost. He leads Stefano Sassetta by just a few points. However, though Jesper defended his jersey ruthlessly in the mountains, Stefano rode strategically. Consequently, the Rotterdam Rocket Viper Boy is tastily clad in green lycra, but Dark Duke Thunder Thighs has ridden without the pressure of defending a jersey and has thus conserved crucial energy. Vasily Jawlensky leads the race with a 2 minute 33 second lead over Fabian Ducasse. Of the 161 riders remaining, the Lantern Rouge of the Tour de France is the twenty-year-old Portuguese rider, José Ribero. He is 3 hours 5 minutes and 18 seconds behind the maillot jaune.

  When Jules Le Grand dressed this morning, he dressed for business. He chose a lightweight navy suit, a silk shirt in sky blue and fine leather loafers which he wore sockless. Though he would be driving the team car along the route and his clothing would become creased and crumpled, he has enough suits in pristine condition to last until Paris. During the first two weeks of the Tour, Jules’s presence in the village each morning had a public relations function for Système Vipère; he had made himself readily available and consistently charming to journalists, officials and VIPs alike. This final week, Jules will go to the village as directeur sportif to the world’s number-one professional road racing team. He has no interest in journalists, officials and VIPs; in fact, he is all but blind to their presence, even contemptuous of their overtures. His sole mission, the raison d’être for his presence, is to seduce riders, to lure them into his fold. Other directeur sportifs will see him at work, stalking, talking, schmoozing, perusing. Short of keeping their entire teams tethered, they will be unable to prevent Le Grand’s inveiglement. They might avert their riders defecting providing they outdo Jules in the wage packets and flattery stakes. Jules is well aware that other directeurs will approach his Viper Boys, but he is confident that his team will remain loyal; apart from one domestique whose contract he has not renewed, and Jesper Lomers whose contract still needs signing.

  Luca Jones visited the barber’s stall in the village for a haircut. Pleased with the result and buoyed by the glances from many a bella signorina (and signora too), he went to the Maison du Café stand for a cup of sweet coffee.

  ‘Allow me,’ said Jules Le Grand, suddenly at Luca’s side, fanning three sachets of sugar, adding the contents to the rider’s plastic cup without relinquishing eye contact or saying anything else. ‘I know what you like,’ Jules continued once he was stirring the cup which Luca held, ‘coffee with three sugars – right?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Luca, off his guard and self-kickingly dumbstruck.

  ‘Come,’ said Jules, walking well ahead, knowing, without turning, that the young rider would follow. They walked past the giant omelette stand, past the Coeur de Lion cheese extravaganza, to a small, open marquee to one side where there was a table with two chairs free towards the back, the others having been taken by local dignitaries and VIPs. Jules held back a chair for Luca and sat down himself once the rider was seated.

  ‘Yesterday,’ Jules started, ‘I witnessed something extraordinary. Something which once again filled my heart with passion for this great sport of cycling.’

  Luca nodded earnestly. ‘Fabian,’ the rider interjected, ‘is an awesome rider. To suffer so much, to lose the maillot jaune and then to come back the very next day and win the Stage – incredible.’

  ‘I am not talking of Fabian Ducasse,’ Jules said surprisingly derisively, ‘I am talking of a young rider on his first Tour de France who suffered to the depths of his being on the heights of L’Alpe D’Huez.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Luca, thinking he should sip his coffee and make use of the caffeine, but wondering when he might need to speak again.

  ‘I am referring,’ Jules continued, ‘to a rider who shows more than promise. Indeed, this rider has the promise of sheer brilliance. He recovered supremely yesterday – his morale was high and his legs were strong. He rode sensibly and scaled the General Classification by eight positions.’ Luca nodded and thought he really ought to drink the coffee if he was to manage to pee and then absorb two more doses of caffeine.

  ‘Please,’ said Jules, ‘drink – I know what you need, what you like. Coffee with three sugars.’

  Luca drank; a little faster than he’d like, but with Jules now silent and staring intently at him, relaxing over coffee was not a possibility.

  ‘This rider of whom I speak,’ said Jules rather theatrically, looking to the middle distance as if seeing a vision of his subject there, ‘has enormous talent. But it must be nurtured, it must be nourished, loved. It must be developed and honed. True potential must never be wasted.’ He paused till he knew he had Luca’s gaze. ‘Sometimes true talent can remain untapped.’ He paused again. ‘Travesty!’ he spat. Luca nodded earnestly, now needing to pee rather urgently. ‘This rider I speak of,’ said Jules, ‘is you, Luca Jones. You are a good rouleur but you could well be fantastic. You have the makings of a true champion. Système Vipère would be honoured to have you as a team member.’

  Luca Jones almost pissed his shorts and his coffee very nearly fountained out of his mouth. But he crossed his legs and swallowed hard so he could murmur, ‘Fucking hell!’ instead. Jules was standing. ‘Think about it, Luca,’ he said. ‘I would of course say “name your price” but once I tell you of what I have in mind – the salary, the apartment, the bikes, the Système Vipère super micro hi-fi – I don’t think you will need to negotiate.’ He laid his hand on Luca’s shoulder, bent to his ear and spoke a figure that was roughly double Luca’s Megapac wage. And then Jules was gone. And Luca sat immobile, murmuring, ‘Fucking hell!’ desperate to phone Mama, to find Ben, to piss, to absorb caffeine, to run around the village yelling. ‘I have the makings of a true champion! I have enormous talent as long as it’s nourished and nurtured!’ Of course he did none of these. He sat alone, utterly speechless apart from ‘Fucking hell!’ whispered to himself at regular intervals.

  There’s a Viper Boy, Luca remarked to himself as he was leaving the village. I could be riding with Jesper Fucking Lomers.

  ‘Ciao, Jesper!’ he greeted, making a detour, presuming, for some reason, that the whole team must have colluded on the potential acquisition of Luca Jones.

  ‘Luca,’ Jesper acknowledged, a little baffled at the magnitude of the young rider’s smile but pleased to respond to this likeable newcomer to the peloton. Briefly, Jesper watched Luca go on his way, before making his own way to Maison du Café. He took his coffee and went to sit with a posse of Dutch riders from various teams who liked to gather at one of the marquees each morning to sit in affable silence or chat quietly and usually, for some reason, in
English. Today, Jesper chose silence but his was more reflective than sociable and the others sensed this and steered tactfully away from intrusion. Jesper looked around the village.

  This is my world. It is all I have ever dreamed of, wanted, worked to have.

  Metres away, he watched as a young woman was approached and embraced by a man.

  Or is my world with my wife? Where is that world? Who am I within it? Where is Anya?

  Suddenly, Jesper longed for a woman, for feminine tenderness and attention.

  Just what is it that defines me? What is it that makes me feel whole? My bike? My woman?

  He reflected on the irony that, as second in command in Système Vipère, he had privileges not afforded to the lesser riders. His own room. The company of his woman if he really required it.

  And yet the domestiques sneak in pussy to their shared rooms and my wife has not made one appearance.

  En route to the village for a quick cup of coffee, Ben was concerned to spy Didier LeDucq engrossed in furtive conversation behind a generator. Didier was in bad company. Jan van Loth wa a Flemish rider with a flagrant lack of respect for clean riding and a notorious ability to keep a step ahead of the dope controls.

  Van Loth saw Ben before Didier and stealthed away in an instant. When Didier saw his doctor, he smiled and raised his hand in an atypical display of affection and hastily employed innocence. As Didier approached, Ben racked his conscience for how best to handle the situation. His job was to oversee the riders’ health and well being, his duty was to maintain their confidence and trust.

  It is an exceptionally delicate balance and I’m holding fragile scales in hands which are unsteady.

  But the only way for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing.

  ‘Bonjour, Ben,’ said Didier, all smiles, standing tall, the picture of innocence and a curse upon anyone who would dare think anything else of him.

  ‘Hullo, Didier,’ said Ben breezily instead, ‘lovely morning for it.’

  Ask him what the fuck he thinks he’s doing. What is he thinking of taking. And when.

  ‘A lovely morning,’ said Didier, still smiling easily, ‘indeed. I saw Luca being talked to by Jules Le Grand.’ He raised an eyebrow, a gesture which Ben returned.

  And I saw you talking to Jan van Loth.

  ‘Didier,’ Ben said, ‘there are just five days of racing left now.’

  The rider shrugged and nodded and retied his pony-tail.

  ‘My elbow’s sore,’ he told his doctor.

  ‘I can fix most things, Didier,’ Ben said, manipulating the rider’s elbow, ‘it is my job. Your health is in my hands.’

  ‘Merci,’ said Didier.

  He watched the rider lope away and kicked himself for feeling so impotent. And then he caught sight of Rachel and knew at once how he could help Didier. She was leaning against a tree and, visible from some distance, was the sparkle she was bestowing on a man. Ben was amazed. Zucca MV and Système Vipère were all but entwined. It was so public. So scandalous. Key figures in the support staff of two rival teams flirting in full view. Should he leave them to it? She was his friend after all. He stopped and looked around him. No sign of Cat. Nor of Luca – what was it that Didier had said? Where is Didier? It was scandal overload on the morning of Stage 16 of the Tour de France and Ben felt enormously tired.

  Oh, for the life of a regular doctor. With a surgery in a suburb. And a receptionist. And a legion of elderly people with gout and hypochondria. Perhaps a Well Woman clinic every Tuesday. Prostate awareness once a fortnight. Flu jabs. And a desk. With a photo of my wife and two kids. And my spaniel. I could have a Saab parked outside in a reserved space.

  ‘Hey, Ben,’ said Rachel, bringing him back to the balmy present of picturesque Gilbertville, to the sounds, the scents, the sense of excitement of the Tour de France. Ben closed his eyes and took a deep breath, acknowledging how, though fleeting, his daydream was not just deluded but utterly suffocating and essentially undesirable. There was only one place he wanted to be, and only one way he could possibly practise medicine.

  ‘Have you met André Ferrette?’ Rachel continued, eager that Ben should. The men shook hands.

  ‘I need your help,’ Ben said, prophesying that Rachel might well need his when the respective directeurs discovered that their staff were mingling.

  ‘Sure,’ said Rachel, sensing instantly that he required her capacity as friend.

  ‘I’ll see you later,’ André said, taking her hand. Rachel beamed and Ben noticed how she now radiated femininity and allure, having kept such qualities invisible until she saw fit to unleash them on the man of her choice. So very Rachel. Strong. Sussed. Independent. Nobody’s fool. Her own boss.

  ‘What’s up, Yorkie?’ she said, reverting to the demeanour and look of Ben’s friend, the Zucca MV soigneur.

  ‘It’s Didier,’ said Ben gravely, ‘and Jan van Loth.’

  ‘You need Vasily,’ Rachel said astutely, ‘he rates Didier. I’ll see what I can do.’

  Ben felt easier but was still apprehensive. Though Rachel understood the urgency and gravity, he longed for Cat. His job was highly stressful. He wanted to talk through, to unwind, to offload, to be soothed. But it was 11 a.m. and, dependent on developments in the Stage, Cat would not be off duty until the evening.

  ‘What’s the time?’ Cat asks Josh.

  ‘Almost nine,’ he replies. ‘Are you through?’

  ‘Yup.’

  What happened in the Tour today, Cat?

  It was utterly bizarre. Vasily lost a whole bloody minute. He didn’t so much lose it but threw it away. No one knows why – there was no press conference. It must be strategy – but certainly not as we know it. Fabian and Carlos streamed off at the foot of the middle climb and Vasily just sat in a chasing group not actively pursuing at all.

  So he is only 1 minute 33 ahead of Fabian?

  Yes. And Carlos Jesu Velasquez took the polka dot jersey today with a truly ruthless ride. Poor darling Massimo suffered a double puncture on the first Col and fell off pretty badly on the descent. Though it violated race etiquette, Carlos took full advantage and zipped away. Massimo really floundered after that – he was incapable of mind over matter and there were no domestiques to raise morale and physically lead him back. Zucca were catastrophically lax today.

  So his dream of a King of the Mountains hat trick has vanished?

  I know. And I can’t get hold of Rachel to find out how he is. Her phone’s switched off. And I know her well enough to know there must be a reason for that. And I’m hoping the reason is that, for once, she’s prioritizing herself. If Rachel’s phone is not on, it’s a blatant Do Not Disturb sign. And I’m happy to respect that. As long as she gives me a full report in glorious Technicolor tomorrow.

  ‘What’s the time?’ Rachel asks André whilst she folds and refolds the batch of laundry just retrieved from the dryer in the Zucca MV team truck.

  ‘Nearly nine,’ he replies, checking his watch fastidiously. ‘Your team had a very bad day.’

  ‘My job is not to judge, not even to comment,’ Rachel responds, ‘but you’re right. Your boys must be pleased – Fabian taking a minute from Vasily and Carlos taking the polka dot jersey from our Massimo. Poor Mass, he’ll probably shave his goatee off. Or dye it.’ She leans out of the truck and pulls the door shut, locking it from the inside. ‘I really should be tucked up in bed,’ she muses, taking an empty bidon to her lips and sucking thoughtfully.

  ‘Early massage for the boys, early night for Rachel?’ André laughs, hoping she won’t take him literally.

  ‘That’s what I told them,’ Rachel says a little guiltily, wondering whether a white lie warrants comeuppance. André glances around the truck. It’s pretty much identical to the Viper’s. He turns the taps on and off at the sink and Rachel fiddles with a scrunched-up piece of cling film.

  Just bloody kiss me, you bastard!

  André, however, is expressing polite but excessive interest in the quality of the mel
amine fittings.

  ‘Your English is very good,’ Rachel says as huskily as she can. André responds to the flattery not with a lunge for her breasts, as she rather hopes, but with a chronological account of his schooling.

  Oh fuck it, Rachel thinks to herself, I’ll bloody kiss you then.

  André is saying something about something or other when Rachel flicks off the light in the truck and, knowing the layout of her second home off by heart, finds the mechanic, holds his face and presents her lips to his.

  There’s something about the situation, the furtiveness of it all; the scent of the almonds from the frangipane, the hum of the washing machine, the smell of chain grease, the confinements of the truck interior, the build up of a few days of glances, of emboldened flirting, that touchdown between these two pairs of lips inflames. Suddenly, clothing is being torn away, André’s textbook English is replaced by throaty Gallic exclamations and Rachel’s tough talking transmutes into soft gasps and moans.

  Massimo Lipari couldn’t sleep – what was the point when his dreams had already been dashed? Whenever he closed his eyes, the nightmare of reality accosted him. His body was sore, he had bad road rash down his entire left side. His head hurt, scorched by the incessant what ifs, if onlys, why didn’ts and I should haves tormenting him. He had a room to himself and though he had craved the solitude in which he could weep unchecked, now he did not trust or particularly like his own company. He was more appalled that he had bonked than he was outraged that Carlos attacked when he was down.

  Humming his Giro pop song brought no solace, a funeral dirge seemed more appropriate, but he opted for the sad song of love and loss his grandmother had crooned to him under the olive trees when he was a child. He had so wanted to be King of the Mountains; the title suited him as much as the jersey. He made a solemn procession to the bathroom, took a razor and shaved off his goatee beard. He almost wept. And then he saw how the skin around his chin was ever so slightly, but certainly recognizably paler. He yelled in frustration. He needed fresh air. He eased up a window and gulped deeply. He gazed at the team truck, envisaging the bike that failed him hanging from its hook. Let it hang!