at Maillot in great detail. ‘I’m brimming with ideas and overflowing with passion.’ Ben raised his eyebrows in delight. ‘Seriously,’ Cat implored, punching him gently, jolting his glass and causing a dribble of citron pressé to course down his chin. She took her forefinger to it, ran it up to his lips and let him suck it. ‘I’d justified following the entire Tour as having supreme purpose: a dream job at the end of it. Now that is uncertain, being here feels like an indulgence. I’m barely covering my costs.’
‘Don’t go home,’ Ben said seriously. Cat’s look of utter distaste at the thought brought the doctor instant relief. ‘There are so many people here,’ he continued, ‘something’ll come up.’
‘Would Luca mind me interviewing him after the Time Trial?’ Cat asked. ‘Even if I can’t guarantee a publication date?’
‘Luca,’ Ben proclaimed, ‘would be delighted. Where are you staying tonight?’
‘I don’t know,’ Cat said. ‘Josh knows all that stuff. I just take my rucksack from his car to a different but basically interchangeable room each night.’
‘Well, I’m staying at the Ibis. Room 324. Finish your work, feed and bathe and revive yourself and then come to me. I’m going to have another pressé,’ said Ben.
‘I’d better have that banana,’ said Cat, feeling a little giddy. She rose and thanked Ben, leaning down to kiss his cheek and then taking her lips to his and giving him a hint of the tongue she intended to use to great effect in room 324 of the Hôtel Ibis later. He gazed after her as she walked away.
She looks quite lovely in shorts. And how I’d love to run my finger tips ever so lightly over the imprint the woven plastic chair has left on the backs of her thighs.
Ben looked at his watch. There was just time to enjoy his pressé before he went in search of Didier LeDucq’s soigneur to discuss the rider’s health.
COPY FOR P. TAVERNER @ GUARDIAN SPORTS DESK FROM CA TRIONA McCABE IN PRADIER
On a day when it seemed at times too hot for even the sunflowers to keep their heads up, the peloton rolled out of Nantes today at 11 a.m. this morning when it was 25 degrees in the shade, travelling south before scooping inland to Pradier. By lunch-time, when the bunch streamed past the feed station at Doré to pluck the cloth musettes filled with victuals held out by their soigneurs, it was over 30 degrees. It was here, at the 100 km mark, that Tyler Hamilton (US Postal) flew off, as if he had suddenly traded his bicycle for a 900 cc motorbike. The bunch were either too engrossed in the contents of their musettes or too sensible to exert themselves in such heat and so early in the race, Hamilton was thus left alone to establish a lead that at one time was just over 7 minutes. He needed to win by 1 minute 15 seconds to claim the yellow jersey. In the last 30 km, the peloton somewhat begrudgingly began to work to close the gap. Hamilton came in with 2 seconds to spare, the maillot jaune was his. Stefano Sassetta, lying a sulky second, is still triumphant in the green jersey two points ahead of arch rival Jesper Lomers. Jesper, however, lies two placings higher than his Italian adversary in the overall standings.
A horrendous crash at 34 km, just after the first sprint point at Courbet, took Bobby Julich not just out of contention but out of the race altogether. Fabian Ducasse was lucky; his was but a taste, albeit unsavoury, of tarmac. If he is sore tonight, racing to Bordeaux tomorrow will ease his joints and restore him for the Time Trial on Saturday when he will throw down the gauntlet to Zucca’s Vasily Jawlensky. Vasily has been as enigmatic as ever; keeping a low profile, riding quietly, steering away from the action, the cameras and Fabian Ducasse. He lies in twelfth place, just 18 seconds behind Fabian.
Tomorrow’s Stage will be the last opportunity for the pure sprinters to display their daredevilry and thrust their stuff at the finishing line before the toil of the Time Trial and the misery of the mountains will send some of them home.
<ENDS>
‘I need something,’ Cat wails, ‘can I have a quote?’ she asks Alex.
He rifles through his notepad and shrugs, ‘Can’t help you – I’m having enough trouble making mine fit.’
‘You owe me one,’ Josh says, moving his chair nearer to her. ‘I got Lomers at the media scrum. He said, “Good for Tyler. Strength is a system of will and fitness – he has the maillot jaune because he deserves it.” I’m using it, but you can too – there were quite a few people around him.’
‘Josh,’ said Cat whilst typing in the quote at the end of her report, ‘I love you.’
Josh looked rather pleased with himself. Alex looked somewhat taken aback and, after a surreptitious flick through his notebook, a little deflated too.
I need something, Fabian Ducasse thought to himself. I was down on the ground tasting dirt – that’s no place for me to be.
His body was sore and his psyche felt bruised. Sure, his soigneur could tend to the former, Jules Le Grand the latter, but Fabian knew his requirements better than anyone. He had to feel on top, in control; that he was a man who could dominate anything he wished. He needed to reassert his strength, his supremacy. He regarded himself in the mirror in his hotel bathroom. He needed a shave. More importantly, he needed to rid himself of the hint of unease he alone could detect in his eyes. Easy. It would take one thing. He pulled a baseball cap on low, donned sunglasses and a non-branded sweatshirt. He regarded his reflection again and nodded. He still needed a shave but he liked what he saw. He phoned one of the Système Vipère mechanics and demanded to be driven across Nantes to an insalubrious area he had discovered on a race some years ago, and had subsequently revisited on a few occasions since.
‘Wait around there,’ he ordered, watching until the mechanic was out of sight before opening a front door without knocking. Of course it was open. It was a brothel.
Fabian was out less than quarter of an hour later, the swagger in his step reflected in the burning glow of his steady eyes. He licked his lips and than spat in the gutter. He felt much better. Restored. And look! Only 8.45 p.m. He’d be asleep in an hour.
Cat was in her hotel room, doing as Ben had requested. She’d finished her work, wolfed down steak frites with Alex and Josh at a small brasserie just near their hotel, she had just had a shower and was contemplating what to wear and quite when to sneak out to the Hôtel Ibis when her mobile phone rang.
‘Darling?’
‘Django!’
‘Cat, my girl,’ Django said, ‘you sound quite awful.’
Cat was taken aback. ‘I feel,’ she told him, ‘fine. More than fine.’
‘Well,’ Django said, ‘you sound lousy. How is it all going? It was fantastically exciting today – all those bodies all over the place – and then that Yankee bloke winning.’
Cat smiled: that her passion for cycling should be so contagious was a delight. ‘I prophesied that – good old Tyler. It was a terrific Stage. Tomorrow should be more of the same – though rain is forecast here. How are Fen and Pip?’
‘Hooked!’ Django proclaimed. ‘We speak just before the programme starts, catch up briefly during the adverts and then have a full post-Stage analysis straight after. Are you eating? You do sound terrible.’
‘I’m fine,’ Cat pleads, ‘I just had steak and chips.’
‘I made pizza tonight,’ Django says proudly. ‘I had some bread that was going a bit off so I tore it up, added a little oil and beaten egg and a drop of ketchup, formed it into a base and baked the bugger.’
‘And?’ Cat asked, somewhat horrified.
‘Fantastic,’ Django swooned. ‘I added a topping of sardines, chicken liver, a little more ketchup and some Stilton.’
‘And?’ ventured Cat, clutching her stomach.