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 acknowledging 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