to Luchon knowing full well that some of the riders would not.
If Cat had found the drive itself a physical and mental trial, watching the riders do battle with themselves, with each other, with the awesome gradients up and down, was emotionally exhausting. She swallowed down a sob as she watched the excruciating but not unfamiliar sight of a rider weave semi-deliriously all over the road at a snail’s pace half-way up the Tourmalet. Despite the impassioned pleas and helpful if illegal running shoves from fans, the rider finally stopped, quit his bike and the Tour, had his race number ceremoniously stripped from his back by an official before he was escorted to the ignominy of the broom wagon which transports deserters funereally along the route behind the race.
‘How on earth can you put into words what we’ve just witnessed?’ Cat marvels to Alex once the Stage has finished. ‘I’m utterly exhausted, I’m speechless. I want to cry and go to sleep.’
‘Fuck off and stop being so girlie,’ Alex declares, envious of Cat’s entitlement and ability to express emotions mirroring his own but which bravado in the salle de pressé dictates he should keep close to himself.
‘I know,’ Josh says sympathetically, giving her arm a squeeze, ‘I know.’
You know nothing, Cat thinks miserably, suddenly wanting to be shot of her work so she can enlighten Rachel and appease Ben. In privacy.
Her phone rings and she goes to the back of the salle before answering it.
‘Oh my God,’ Fen all but wails.
‘I can’t believe it,’ Pip whispers.
‘Jesus, what’s wrong?’ Cat gasps. ‘Is it Django?’
‘Django?’ Fen retorts, ‘God no. He’s fine. He’s having to have a stiff brandy though – we’ve just phoned him.’
‘Today, stupid,’ Pip cries, ‘how did they do that? Why were they made to do that?’
‘Huh?’ says Cat.
‘The Tour de Bloody France,’ Pip protests.
Cat grins.
My two sisters. In the fold. Part of the fraternity.
‘That guy – the weeny Spanish climber,’ Fen says, ‘how did he do that on the final climb? It was like there was suddenly a motor on his bike. Was it my imagination or did he actively choose the steepest part to suddenly power away from the faltering?’
‘Strategy,’ Cat replies, ‘undoubtedly – Velasquez always bides his time and then attacks. Imagine the effect it has on those he pulls away from.’
‘And all for a spotty jersey,’ says Pip contemplatively.
‘And Jawlensky finished ahead of gorgeous Ducasse and diminished the Frenchman’s lead to a minute,’ Fen rues. ‘Did I pronounce Vasily’s surname correctly? With a “y” not a “j”?’
‘Perfectly,’ Cat confirms. ‘What with Velasquez – that’s a “th” not a “z” at the end of his name – in polka dot, and Lomers and Sassetta still at loggerheads for the green jersey, this Tour is being waged on a personal level between Système Vipère and Zucca MV.’
‘But it was so cold, so misty and grim today,’ Pip says plaintively.
‘And that boy went careering off the side of the mountain,’ Fen remarks.
‘David Millar?’ says Cat. ‘He’s fine – thanks to a bush. He lost his bike but managed not to lose too much time.’
‘What do you think will happen tomorrow?’ Pip asks.
Suddenly, Cat wonders. ‘Today changed many things,’ she says, ‘tomorrow, I would say, even more so.’
‘What do you mean?’ Fen probes.
‘Read my report – it’s all in my concluding paragraph.’
‘Er, Cat,’ says Pip, her mind switching from lycra and bikes to flesh and beds, ‘how’s Ben?’
‘Fuck,’ Cat bemoans.
‘What?’ Fen says.
‘It’s complicated and horrible and I’ve created a sorry mess for myself.’
‘Details, please,’ Pip demands. Cat gives her sisters a nutshell version which more than suffices.
‘Well, don’t you dare back off from unravelling it,’ Fen cautions.
‘Humble pie can be quite nourishing,’ Pip says encouragingly.
Django phoned almost as soon as Pip and Fen had gone.
‘They’re bloody lunatics!’ was his opening statement.
‘Who are?’ Cat said, startled at the severity of his accusation.
‘Your bloody bike boys,’ Django brandished. ‘Fancy wanting to ride a push bike up five fuckers of mountains. Bloody mad. Are they on drugs? I’m on double brandy after that.’
‘Good question,’ Cat said a little despondently.
‘Why all the sex?’ Django demanded.
‘The sex?’ Cat exclaimed, wondering if Django would move on to rock and roll next. ‘Where?’
‘On the mountains,’ Django said ingenuously, ‘that lovely Liggett commentator was telling us that certain riders bonk whores.’
‘What?’ Cat exclaimed aghast.
‘Oh yes,’ Django continued, ‘on the mountains themselves.’
Cat fell silent and then grinned. ‘Are you talking hors catégories?’
‘That’s the one!’ Django confirmed. ‘Would it have something to do with those mountains being such a bitch to climb?’
Cat roared with laughter, much to the consternation of a posse of Portuguese journalists near by. ‘Hors,’ she stressed, spelling it out, ‘hors catégorie means “beyond classification” – and yes, I suppose they are the bitch climbs.’
‘And the bonking?’ Django probed, most interested.
‘When a rider bonks, it’s like a marathon runner hitting the proverbial wall,’ Cat explained.
‘Have you bonked?’ Django asked.
‘I am knackered,’ Cat conceded.
‘Yes but have you bonked,’ Django pressed, ‘your doctor?’
Oh God. Ben. The boyfriend. The bullshit.
‘Ben?’ Cat used the house phone in the foyer of the Megapac team hotel.
‘Not a good time,’ Ben said, quite plausibly, though there was no one else in his bedroom and nothing urgent requiring his attention.
‘Come to me later?’ Cat said softly.
‘Perhaps,’ Ben said. ‘Don’t wait up for me, though.’
‘Rachel?’ said Cat, using the house phone in the foyer of the Zucca MV team hotel.
‘Hullo,’ Rachel replied.
‘Can I come up?’ Cat asked. ‘I’m desperate for a chat.’
‘Of course,’ said Rachel, intrigued and feeling too that she was entitled to an explanation. She placed her portable grocery store at Cat’s disposal. Gratefully, Cat filled a bowl with cereal and munched thoughtfully.
‘It was bullshit,’ she said at length, ‘what Josh told you.’
‘You didn’t tell him you have a boyfriend?’ Rachel probed.
‘No!’ Cat wailed. ‘I mean, I did tell him I have a boyfriend.’