A Bicycle Made For Two

by Mary Jayne Baker

  ‘Where are you two going now then? Pagans’ Rock?’

  I glanced at Tom. ‘Yep. It’s time for Tommy’s important picnic.’

  ‘Ah. The important picnic.’ She gave us a kiss on the cheek each. ‘Well, good luck.’

  Gerry gave us both a hug too. ‘And well done on today, kids,’ he said. ‘Nice to have made history, eh? Next time Rodge writes a book, you’ll be in it.’

  ‘S’pose we will. Weird.’ I nudged Tom. ‘Come on, bruv. Our men await.’

  Up at Pagans’ Rock, we found Cam, Stew and Flash sunbathing, a blanket spread on the ground with an open basket in the middle.

  ‘Oi. Did you start eating without us?’ Tom said.

  ‘Sorry,’ Cam said with a guilty smile. ‘We got hungry. Just a few olives, that’s all.’

  ‘Hmm. Better be.’ Tom shot Stewart a searching look, and he nodded ever so slightly.

  ‘How’s everything looking?’ Stew asked.

  I sat down and he shuffled so he could to wrap his legs around me from behind. It was our favourite way to sit. He could kiss my neck whenever he felt like it, which was pretty often, and I could snuggle back against his chest. When no one was looking, he could also have a cheeky squeeze of my boobs. That happened pretty often, too.

  ‘Great,’ I said as Tom sat down by Cameron. ‘Very French. Billy’s wearing a comedy tache.’

  ‘Ha! That I’ll have to see,’ Stew said. ‘How’s the viaduct?’

  I grinned. ‘Yo-yo’s dragged some poor lad up there for a decorating date. Fingers crossed they’re not at it when the TV cameras arrive.’

  ‘How long now?’ Cameron asked.

  ‘An hourish.’ I nodded at the viaduct, Gerry’s giant bunting fluttering in the breeze. ‘The marshals must’ve opened the gates. Looks like there’s already a gang of spectators.’

  ‘So do you two want some picnic?’ Stewart asked. ‘Deano packed us a couple of bottles of wine, if it’s not too early.’

  ‘It most certainly is too early.’ I pulled the basket towards me and fumbled out a bottle of something fizzy. ‘But since it’s a special occasion…’

  ‘Well, cheers,’ I said when I’d poured everyone a glassful. ‘Here’s to all our hard work and general amazingness.’

  ‘Yep. To us,’ Tom said, and we clinked glasses.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ Cam gasped when he’d taken a sip. ‘What prosecco is this? It’s got a bit of kick.’

  Stewart shook his head. ‘This is the good stuff. Harper donated it from his private stash for us to toast race day.’

  ‘That was nice of him.’ I took a sip too and made a face. ‘Jesus. He likes it that strong?’

  ‘Yep. Likes his fizz like he likes his women. Bubbly, full-bodied and overpriced.’

  I nudged him. ‘Don’t be mean. You know you love him.’

  ‘Yeah. Don’t tell him though.’

  Tom cleared his throat. ‘Hey, Cam,’ he said, nodding to a tub on the picnic blanket. ‘Try some of this houmous.’

  ‘No thanks. Not a big houmous fan.’

  ‘This is special houmous though. Deano’s own recipe. Seriously, mate, give it a try.’

  ‘Honestly, I’m good for houmous. You have some houmous.’

  Tom glared at him. ‘But this is really, really nice houmous.’

  I groaned. ‘Go on, Cam. Have some houmous or we’ll never hear the end of it.’

  ‘Ugh. Anything for a quiet life.’ He grabbed the tub.

  ‘There’s something in my houmous, Tommy,’ he said, peering into it.

  ‘There’d bloody better be, or I’m seriously out of pocket.’

  Cameron fished out the ring nestling in the centre of Deano’s chickpea goodness, a plain silver band, and held it up in front of him.

  ‘And if you don’t like it you can blame Lana, she picked it,’ Tom said.

  ‘I do like it,’ Cam said quietly. ‘I really like it.’

  ‘You going to put it on then?’

  ‘Dunno. It’s all houmousy.’

  ‘God, you are such a diva. Lick it off or something.’

  Stewart nudged me. ‘Am I witnessing the least romantic proposal ever here?’

  I grinned. ‘Yep.’

  ‘Oi. I am well romantic,’ Tom said, glaring at us. ‘What’s more romantic than houmous?’

  Cameron smiled. ‘I think you’re romantic. Come here, you soft git.’ He grabbed Tom’s t-shirt for a snog.

  ‘So is it a yes then?’ Tom asked softly when they separated, reaching up to sweep Cam’s hair back from his face.

  ‘Course it’s a yes. It’s always been a yes.’

  ‘Cam?’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘I love you very much, you know.’

  ‘I know you do. Love you too, Tommy.’

  ***

  We were lazing in the sun, chatting and feeding Flash scraps of picnic, when the newly engaged Cameron cocked his head to one side.

  ‘Hey! I think they’re coming.’

  Everyone sat up and peered towards the viaduct. The crowd were cheering wildly, waving Tricolors and Yorkshire flags. Sure enough, a few seconds later the first cyclist, shining in his yellow jersey, zipped by, closely followed by the rest of the peloton. Just a flash of colour and they were gone. It seemed strange, after all those months of work and worry, that history in the making should be such a blur.

  ‘There’s your helicopters, Lana,’ Tom said, pointing up at them getting aerial footage of the event.

  ‘Nibali,’ I heard Stewart mutter. ‘Lucky bastard. Wonder if he’ll hold it.’

  ‘You ok, love?’ I asked him quietly.

  ‘Yeah. Bit weird seeing them go by, that’s all. There was a time every dream I had was about wearing that jersey. In my home county too… would’ve been amazing.’

  I shuffled round to look into his face. ‘Do you miss it a lot?’

  ‘I did. Never thought I’d find anything that could make me feel alive the way cycling did.’ He twisted a strand of my hair round one finger. ‘Then I met this girl.’

  ‘Who was she?’

  ‘No one special. Just a girl. The most incredible, imperfectly perfect girl I ever knew. And when I think about her, I get that same feeling. Like I’m flying and nothing can hold me back. Only, you know, sexier because she turns me on as well.’

  ‘Soppy thing.’ I planted a soft kiss on his lips. ‘I do love you, Stew.’

  ‘Oh yeah, that reminds me,’ he said, rummaging in his jacket pocket. ‘You’ve earned this.’

  He handed me the silver star charm he’d shown me seven months ago at New Year.

  ‘Tom told you?’ I said, blushing as I attached it to the bracelet I always wore.

  ‘Yep.’ He shook his head. ‘Firsts in all your assignments. Never knew I was going out with such a swot.’

  I laughed.

  ‘So is this it, Lana?’ he said as another wave of cyclists were cheered over the viaduct. ‘The memorial your dad would’ve wanted?’

  ‘Yes.’ I reached up to stroke his face. ‘But it’s not the Tour. Not the viaduct either. I know that now.’

  ‘What is it then?’

  I nodded at Tom and Cameron, snuggled in a little loved-up world of their own. ‘Them. And us.’ I traced the shape of Stew’s ear tenderly with my fingertips, drinking in those deep grey eyes. ‘This is Dad’s memorial, what he wrote in his eulogy. He wanted his kids to fall in love and be happy.’

  ‘And are you happy?’

  ‘Happier than I’ve ever been.’

  ‘And are you in love?’

  ‘You know I am. For the first and last time.’

  ‘And you’re mine. Aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes, Stew. I’m yours.’

  ‘In that case I’ll allow you to kiss me. Since you were good and ate
all your lettuce.’

  ‘Mmm. I love it when you talk salad to me.’

  The churchbells rang out as Stewart’s lips met mine, mingling joyously with the cheers and applause of the crowd. And right at that moment, every cheer felt like it was for us.

  Acknowledgements

  The biggest thanks has to go to my agent, Laura Longrigg at MBA Literary Agents, who first suggested to me the idea of writing a book set during the Grand Départ in Yorkshire and has championed it tirelessly ever since it came to be. Secondly, a big cheer to Sir Gary Verity and the team at Welcome to Yorkshire, without whose hard work and enthusiasm Yorkshire would never have hosted such a massive, historic event in the first place so people like me could make up stories about it.

  An absolutely huge thank you to the team at Mirror Books – Paula Scott, Jo Sollis and Cynthia Hamilton – for their relentless hard work in helping bring my lovely characters to the light of day, and for generally being a pleasure to work with.

  Enormous thanks to everyone who helped whip the story into shape, especially my editors Annabel Wright and Donna Cordon at Whitefox, my agent Laura and my beta readers Kate Beeden, Toni Armitage and Mark Anslow, who willingly and without bribes gave up their own time to read and critique my scribblings. All were brilliant and should take full credit for making the story at least 90% better.

  I’d also like to shout out to all the fabulous, dedicated book bloggers who give up their time and do such a wonderful job helping authors to promote their books. We do appreciate it, all of us. Thank you.

  A clap on the back for all my author friends both online and offline, especially the lovely ladies of the Wordcount Warriors Facebook group, my fellow Northern romance writers from the Authors on the Edge gang, and the members of the Airedale Writers’ Circle. Thank you for all the cheerleading, critiques and support over the past couple of years.

  My ever-supportive family and family-in-common-law have been understanding as always while I once again disappeared from view into the writing cave (aka front bedroom) to write and edit and write and edit and write and edit some more: thank you, Firths, Brahams and Anslows all. Cats, you weren’t understanding at all so thanks for nothing, but I love you anyway. And of course, my partner and live-in alpha reader Mark, the inspiration for all my romantic heroes (according to him).

  Head-pats and pints to all my friends, especially Kate Beeden, Nigel and Lynette Emsley, Bob Fletcher and Amy Smith, who deserves joint credit along with Billy Connolly for the creation of Stewart’s naughty bike racks (thanks, Billy). Finally, my long-suffering colleagues at Country Publications Ltd. I couldn’t have done it without you.

  Did I miss someone? I always miss someone. Um… Wilsden Band, thanks for the euphonium lessons. Rylstone WI, nude calendar pioneers. Queen (band, not monarch). All the local places that inspired Egglethwaite and surrounds: Hewenden Viaduct, Druids’ Altar, Laycock, Heptonstall, Haworth, Harden, Wilsden and many more. And to the people of Yorkshire, who are and always have been our county’s greatest asset.

  Ok, I’m done.