The McCabe Girls Complete Collection

by Freya North

  ‘You cannot make a thoroughbred from a donkey,’ had been the yellow jersey’s opening line. Didier remembers how he had not known how to respond, that he could not fathom what Vasily meant, nor why the Russian had let a break containing his main adversary go so he could hang back and talk equestrianism. ‘You are no donkey,’ Vasily had continued, ‘nor are you a thoroughbred. But you are a fantastic workhorse. I have respected you for many seasons.’ Didier had nodded his gratitude, still baffled and even more so when Vasily had played his next card. ‘I don’t want to lose respect for you – it would pain me.’

  Didier LeDucq checks the computers on his bike and his pulse monitor. He’s racing well, strong enough to take a turn at the front, well enough to allow his mind to wander back and reflect on what had been said the day before.

  ‘When I used to do amphetamines, my eyes were like piss holes in the snow,’ Vasily had launched, ‘my skin was terrible – I was covered in spots. I was more aggressive off the bike than on and I could rarely sleep. Unless I had valium.’

  ‘Speed is shit,’ Didier had said, hoping it was what Vasily wanted to hear.

  ‘EPO is worse,’ Vasily said. ‘When I first took it, my kidneys felt like balloons full of water bashing the base of my back. My vision went queer, my joints hurt, I’d get nose bleeds. The migraines – terrible.’ Vasily had stared hard at Didier who felt that to nod energetically was the best reply. ‘But,’ Vasily continued, ‘soon enough it was like waking in a new land. I wanted to train hard, I could ride with reduced suffering and I recovered quickly. What a drug!’ Again he had confronted Didier with his hypnotic stare.

  ‘Yeah!’ Didier had responded; simultaneously utterly crushed that his greatest hero was giving the notorious drug an apparent seal of approval, and yet knowing he wanted this drug badly himself.

  ‘Yeah, what a drug,’ Vasily had all but spat at him. ‘I beat dope control – what a sportsman.’ He fixed a penetrating stare on Didier who believed he ought to nod his head in an impressed way. ‘What a clever, lucky guy I am – I beat dope control, won through cheating and the only price I’ll pay is probably to die prematurely.’ Didier’s face dropped and Vasily continued in a more genial tone. ‘The iron level in my blood was so high – and for such an extended period. If I’m lucky I might avoid kidney failure. If I’m truly blessed, I might not suffer liver failure either. If God is on my side, I just might not contract cancer.’ Vasily looked at Didier. He had taken a hand from the handlebars to lay it on the Frenchman’s wrist. ‘But you never know,’ he had said in conclusion, ‘and will it have been worth it? You decide.’

  Gutted and speechless, Didier had ridden on in silence. Vasily had ridden alongside, also silent. At the end of the Stage he cycled alongside Didier towards the team vehicles. ‘You know, LeDucq,’ he said, ‘I often wonder about the guy who won the Giro three years ago – and all his other victories that season.’

  ‘But it was you,’ Didier responded, ‘three years ago – it was you who took the Giro, the Tour and all those other triumphs.’

  ‘No,’ Vasily said stonily, ‘it was not me. There was no victory. The triumph was not true. There was no sense of achievement. It was all bullshit. I cheated – I cheated everyone.’ Though the Megapac vehicles were close by, Didier automatically stopped, unclipped a foot and rested his bike and stared at Vasily transfixed, imploring him to continue. ‘More than being ashamed for cheating my fellow riders and the race commissaires is the disgust I feel for having cheated myself. How pathetic!’ Vasily had spat, shaking his head at himself in abhorrence. ‘I regret it deeply. What did I achieve? Where’s the pleasure? I recall that period with shame and no pride. I will not recount it to my grandchildren.’

  Didier was looking hard at the ground. ‘LeDucq,’ Vasily said, taking his hand to the back of Didier’s neck to embrace the rider, ‘Didier.’ Didier had raised his eyes to meet Vasily’s. ‘Now I can sleep at night – without valium – knowing that my victories are genuine, my losses fair. I ride à l’eau. I am clean. My dignity is intact, as is my responsibility as a professional sportsman. However, my liver,’ he said with no hint of self-pity, ‘is not so good. The price I will pay will be far more expensive than the winnings I earned when I was charged on crap.’

  He had then given Didier a friendly slap between the shoulder blades before riding off slowly towards the Zucca vehicles.

  So here is Didier today, riding alongside his hero, mentor and saviour. Didier had asked Ben for glucose and vitamins and anything else the doctor suggested. He had asked his soigneur to work on his knees, had asked the mechanic to check the measurements on his bike. Today, he knows he is tired but the strength of his spirit and resolve is manifesting itself in a fantastic ride. Vasily is making everyone ride hard. However, the Russian’s pressure is not intended as a gauntlet to Fabian but as a challenge to Didier. Didier has accepted the challenge; he is riding on the rivet, he is suffering, but the pain is steeped in reality and he is glad of the self-knowledge it is establishing.

  ‘What a great Stage,’ Cat said to Alex, ‘true classic racing.’

  ‘Hurry and finish your piece,’ Alex remarked. ‘I want to have a shower and then go somewhere for raclette.’

  ‘I want Toblerone,’ Cat countered, her fingers skittering over the keyboard.

  ‘I’m happy to settle for the Swiss bank account,’ Josh piped up from the row in front.

  ‘I want Heidi,’ said Alex.

  Cat recalled the concluding action of the day’s racing and grinned at the vivid memory of it and preserved it for posterity in the concluding paragraph of her report.

  In the final kilometres, with the other four riders lagging behind, Jawlensky surged ahead with Ducasse and LeDucq sticking resolutely to his wheel. The pace was fast, the bike handling consummate and the road dancing breathtaking. The three riders exercised enormous skill and focus to match, counteract and produce strategic manoeuvres. The Stage was won in 4 hours 52 minutes and 26 seconds. Fabian crossed the line just ahead of Didier. The yellow jersey placed third. No change to the overall classification. Sassetta came four points closer to claiming the green jersey. Pick of the peloton today was undoubtedly Didier LeDucq, a normally quiet, unassuming rider who today displayed a beautiful and complementary mix of superb riding and utter passion for his sport.

 

  ‘Well done,’ Vasily says casually to Didier though it is obvious he has had to make quite a detour to come by the Megapac vehicles, ‘you rode better than me and the result is fair.’

  ‘I am happy,’ Didier replies, ‘because I am exhausted.’

  ‘It’s a good feeling,’ says Vasily, ‘something you can recall to your grandsons.’

  ‘Indeed,’ says Didier, not too tired to smile.

  Ben and Rachel have seen their riders in close proximity but have not heard the exchange. Rachel catches Ben’s eye. Ben nods.

  That’s Didier saved, for the time being. But though I’m relieved, I must be constantly vigilant. Drugs are just too damn tempting. When you’re a Tour de France rider, pain alleviation is seductive in any form; legal, banned or even life-threatening.

  Ben glances back at Rachel. André is slipping a hand around her waist, planting a fleeting kiss on her neck. It makes Ben yearn for Cat. Ben catches Rachel’s eye but she looks right through him. She feels high, on fire, too preoccupied to acknowledge Ben, to observe that Jules Le Grand has thunder etched across his brow.

  STAGE 18

  La Chaux de Fonds-Lautrec. 242 kilometres

  ‘Where is Rachel?’ Stefano Sassetta bellowed in the corridor at an ungodly hour, having found no reply and no entry to his soigneur’s room. His outburst woke many of his Zucca team-mates, but as it was an occurrence with which they were familiar, pillows were placed over heads and dreams for the most part were uninterrupted. Stefano stormed back to his room, looked out of the window to the car park and noted that the team trucks were dark and obviously unoccupied. He phoned Rachel’s mobile phone. To his f
ury, it was switched off. He left a livid, gabbled message about her round-the-clock duty to him and the importance of his thighs, before rubbing them himself sulkily and then falling asleep.

  There you are, Rachel, scurrying back to your hotel under cover of darkness. It’s almost five in the morning, need we ask where you’ve been?

  To heaven and back. I can’t wait to tell Cat. Mind you, only Cat – I think I’d die if anyone else found out.

  Found out what exactly?

  That I’ve been indulging with André to such an extent I fear I must be walking like John Wayne.

  Would that swagger be caused by your spirit, then?

  That and the fact that my legs have been akimbo for the best part of, well, all night.

  Why do you dread others finding out?

  Because it took me long enough to land this job and then twice as long, working twice as hard, to earn respect within my field, within this world. I’ve always been exceptionally discreet and steered well away from any attention whatsoever, adverse or otherwise.

  If you’re respected and liked, with a squeaky-clean record, might people not be thrilled for you to have found romance?

  Romance? Who said anything about slush? I’m talking unadulterated passion here. Like Cat. Mind you, everyone can see that she and Ben are a fine pair, in love and all.

  Maybe everyone would think of you and André as a fine pair and, in time, perhaps, in love and all.

  And the hatchet between Système Vipère and Zucca MV would be buried? Hardly. One or both of us would get the sack, more like. I’m going to leave a message for Cat right now. Oh, I have message waiting. Stefano. Whoa! Abuse! Bloody men. Stefano and his bloody thighs. I’ll have an hour’s kip and then I’ll wake him with a rub so vigorous he’ll weep for mercy.

  ‘I have a surprise for you,’ Ben murmured, tickling Cat to awaken her. Cat regarded him with mock supplication and spread her legs obediently, a winsome expression on her slumber-soft face. Ben smiled at her, shook his head, was about to tell her instead that he loved her but, glancing at the clock, decided against it for the time being. ‘No,’ he said, whispering his fingers up her inner thigh, ‘not that kind of surprise – but I like the way you’re thinking.’

  ‘What, then?’ Cat asked sleepily, a little disappointed.

  You could tell her you love her now, Ben.

  Not enough time. Not the right moment.

  ‘You’ll see,’ was all Ben would say, leaving the bed though Cat tried valiantly to grapple him to stay.

  Jesper Lomers woke alone and lonely. Jules Le Grand had talked to him at length the previous evening about contracts and the future. Jesper knew that, in terms of his career, staying with Système Vipère was the only option. But he couldn’t fathom whether his career should be his life or whether his marriage should be his career and if, therefore, Anya were to be his partner, whether they could build a strong enough business of their marriage.

  How could he be most happy, he wondered, as he went to the bathroom. Surely one’s happiness is ultimately one’s own responsibility, he pondered as he smothered his legs in shaving foam and began to shave. He remembered how Anya used to love shaving his legs for him, taking her task most seriously, turning him on intensely. Shaving foam fights. Sex on the bathroom floor. Laughter. Togetherness. When was the last time? The last time that she had shaved his legs? The last time he had felt her, fondled her thighs? When did they last laugh together? When were they last together and actually experiencing togetherness? He nicked himself with the razor but did not curse, merely put his finger against the blood and then licked it pensively.

  Could he be happy not riding for Système Vipère, he wondered, using a new disposable razor for his other leg. Could he be happy not cycling at all? He knew the answers to these questions. But oughtn’t life to be about sacrifice? Wouldn’t that make him a better person? Would he thus experience more of a sense of achievement there, than in keeping the green jersey for a second year running? He patted his legs dry and phoned Anya at his home, then on her mobile. No reply. He did not leave a message.

  The village at La Chaux de Fonds was extremely crowded. The caged area in the centre of town delineating those with passes from those without was anathema to the memory of architect Le Corbusier whose birthplace this was. Accredited people mooched about within the confines, avoiding eye contact or establishing it quite brazenly with the clamouring members of the public who circumnavigated the enclosure and craved the rectangle of laminated plastic that would permit entry. Children outside clutching autograph books whose pages were bare, stared imploringly at the children of guests who milled about, bedecked with freebies and collecting autographs from any rider they saw. Cat contemplated how many of those outside would probably be far more appreciative of a pass than those who had them. She herself felt humbled, privileged; but also proud and just a little smug.

  Look at me. I’m part of this club, this family. And I know you wish you were too. But I appreciate my very good fortune. I will nod at riders for you. Aren’t I lucky?

  ‘Cat,’ said Ben, presenting two men to her, ‘this is Mitch Mulready, General Manager of Team US Megapac.’ Cat beamed at Mitch, a portly man in his fifties, with mirrored sunglasses and a toothsome smile.

  ‘It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr Mulready,’ she gushed, her hand swallowed between both of his in a lengthy handshake.

  ‘And this,’ said Ben, touching her elbow, knowing instinctively when to curtail what would otherwise be a stream of sycophantic cyclespeak from Cat, ‘this is Jeremy Whittle.’

  ‘Hullo,’ said the man, extending his hand for the shaking.

  ‘Hullo,’ Cat responded, though her hand was practically numb from Mitch’s grasp, ‘weren’t you English?’

  ‘I still am!’ Jeremy laughed.

  ‘I mean – you were big in cycling correspondence in the UK?’

  ‘That’s right,’ Jeremy confirmed.

  ‘He’s now big in cycling correspondence in the US,’ Mitch interjected, slapping Jeremy firmly between the shoulder blades.

  ‘Jez now heads up the cycling division of Sportsworld,’ Ben furthered, referring to America’s premier sports publishing house.

  ‘Cycle, Pedal Power, Road Race, Mountain Bike, Jersey,’ Jeremy listed affectionately, as if naming his pets.

  ‘How fantastic,’ breathed Cat, excited to learn of two new titles and hoping they’d be available in England.

  ‘I’ve enjoyed your reports for the Guardian, I used to work with Taverner,’ Jeremy said. ‘I might well have some work for you – Ben said Luca gave you an exclusive?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Cat forlornly, remembering Maillot’s lack of enthusiasm, ‘but that was before he won his Stage, you see.’

  ‘He’s a rider to be reckoned with,’ Jeremy said soberly. ‘Perhaps you could let me have a read?’

  Cat grinned from ear to ear, humbly accepted Jeremy’s business card and gave him one of hers.

  ‘Fancy a ride in the team car?’ Mitch asked her, as if it was an invitation no more enticing than a cup of coffee from Maison du Café. It was as if the ground beneath her feet began to undulate, as if a shaft of sunlight shot through her from a break in the clouds to radiate out from every pore.

  ‘An answer would be good,’ Ben suggested, adoring her gobsmacked face and wanting to cup her cheeks in his hands and kiss her right there, in front of his employer. Cat nodded eagerly, eyes asparkle, and shook Mitch’s hand anew in vigorous gratitude before skipping off to find Alex or Josh, or anyone for that matter, to inform them that she had her own transport today, thank you very much.

  The team cars moved off in a hierarchy according to the general classification of riders and Cat had to sit on her hands to stop herself from waving at all the people waving and cheering. Short of riding on a tandem within the peloton, this was as close as she could be to the inner sanctum of the Tour de France.

  ‘So Cat,’ boomed Mitch, from the back seat, ‘what kind of job is this for a girl?�
��

  ‘A dream job. Megapac are my favourite team,’ Cat gushed, wincing at her clumsy effusiveness which Mitch luckily deemed artless and rather touching.

  ‘Sure is pretty round here,’ Mitch remarked, and Cat momentarily changed her focus from the profile of the route to feast her eyes upon stunning verdant scenery as they journeyed through Switzerland and back into France.

  ‘You think we’ll have a bunch sprint finish?’ Mitch asked her.

  ‘Perhaps, unless a break goes clear,’ Cat said, ‘but once we’re into vineyard territory, the lie of the land is pretty rolling and the bunch will be able to move over the little hills much faster than a small break who’d have to be pretty strong to hold them off.’

  ‘I fancy a good glass of Burgundy tonight,’ mused Mitch, giving his stomach a veritable drum roll of patting, ‘it’s why I chose this part of the race to come over for.’

  Cat was too engrossed in Radio Tour to ask which Burgundy – Côte de Beaune or Côte de Nuits – Mitch was intending to enjoy with his boeuf bourgignon. ‘Thirteen riders have gone clear,’ she said, ‘at the 17 k mark – including Hunter and Luca.’

  ‘Yee hah!’ Mitch sang, making Cat jump. ‘Way to go, boys!’

  ‘Jesper and Stefano are there too,’ Cat said.

  ‘Lomers and Sassetta?’ Mitch clarified. ‘I just love this battle of the bands – Viper boys versus Zucca guys.’

  ‘Luca, 58 seconds,’ the Megapac directeur sportif, driving, spoke to Luca through the two-way radio. ‘Thirteen riders, 58 second lead. No counter-attack as yet.’

  The channel crackled and Luca’s response filled the car. ‘’Kay,’ was all he said.

  Cat was moved. Somewhere out there, 58 seconds ahead of the bunch, out of sight for the moment, Luca and the breakaway were working hard.

  ‘We have to follow the break,’ the directeur announced, nipping his car out of the convoy, tooting and revving past the others, heckling and joking with the other directeurs. Cat held her breath as they sped through towards the break.