you’d kill for.’
‘Big Mac,’ Cat whispered, eyes still closed, ‘large fries,’ she continued though an excess of saliva made her voice a little odd, ‘and a vanilla milk shake.’
‘Now and only now,’ said Josh, squeezing her shoulder, ‘are you a true press man of the Tour de France. Congratulations.’
And so, over supper at MacDonalds, while Alex, Josh, Cat and Ben indulged in their fantasy meals in appreciative silence, Fen and Pip told Cat all about their journey, their arrival, their day and what on earth and where on earth would their night take them.
‘They could have your room,’ Ben said, removing a glob of Special Sauce from Cat’s chin. Everyone nodded, especially Alex, who, resuscitated by the splendour of such a meal, suddenly had designs on both sisters and enormous self-belief that he could have the one, the other, or both, whenever he so chose.
‘Tomorrow,’ Alex said, ‘we’re staying in an apartment at the ski station – so you two can crash with us there.’
‘Please,’ Pip said, thinking Alex quite handsome actually, ‘where’s best to watch the race? We hardly saw a thing today.’
‘L’Alpe D’Huez,’ Cat said, ‘but there will be at least a quarter of a million people on the mountain – many of whom have been there for days, literally.’
‘Oh,’ said Fen, dejected.
‘Oh,’ said Pip, disappointed.
‘I could drive you there at the crack of dawn,’ Cat said, immensely touched that her sisters had come to find her, but moved to the extreme that they had come to see the Tour de France.
‘Ben?’ says Cat, as they lie on their backs, post orgasm, with their heart rates thundering, their bodies gratifyingly sweaty and their erogenous zones well satiated.
‘Yes, Cat?’ Ben says woozily.
‘I think I’d like to go back to my hotel, if that’s OK?’
Ben rolls over, takes Cat’s hands above her head and regards her in the half-light. Everything about her is glossy; her eyes, her hair, her skin. She smells fantastic, she had tasted wonderful. ‘Is that OK?’ Cat says again.
‘Of course it is,’ Ben whispers.
‘’Sme,’ says Cat, knocking at her hotel room door. The sisters snuggle against each other, as often they have, in a rather small double bed. They stroke faces and hold hands and natter well into the night, as often they have. They settle into a very short sleep before waking at an ungodly hour to make the pilgrimage to cycling’s mecca, L’Alpe D’Huez.
STAGE 14
Grenoble-L’Alpe D’Huez. 189 kilometres
‘Jesus, how are they going to get up this?’ Pip gasped as Cat turned off the flat road and L’Alpe D’Huez soared skywards immediately.
‘Twenty-one hairpin bends?’ Fen asked Cat, hoping there’d been some mistake and the peloton would actually have only half that number to contend with.
‘Yup,’ said Cat, driving around the third, ‘a 14 k climb.’
‘And they’ll have ridden three other big ‘uns first?’ Pip said, holding on tight as the car swept around another bend.
‘Yes,’ Fen answered, holding on to her stomach, ‘including the Galibier – is that right, Cat?’
‘Yup,’ said Cat, gripping the steering-wheel and swinging the car around another bend, then up, always up, interminably up, ‘the Galibier is over 18 k and at 2,646 metres, even higher than L’Alpe D’Huez.’
People were sleeping on the slopes of the mountains, their sleeping bags emerging from the shadows like huge slumbering slugs. Elsewhere, opulent campervans protected their inhabitants from view and dew. Already, people were milling about, ghostly grey in the pre-dawn light, some holding cups of steaming liquid, others draped in the flags of their nation, carrying tins of whitewash, some carrying tins of beer. Cat pulled over three-quarters of the way up the mountain. ‘It’ll be a slog for you to walk the rest after the Stage – but you can spare a thought for the boys who’ve biked it,’ she said.
‘Look!’ Pip marvelled at a posse painting riders’ names across the tarmac. ‘Whenever I see the graffitied roads on the TV coverage, I worry that some riders might have been overlooked. Let’s befriend someone with paint, Fen.’
‘Will you do one for me?’ Cat asked, suddenly wishing that, just then, she could have the freedom of a fan rather than the restrictions of a journaliste.
‘Sure,’ said Pip, ‘who?’
‘Luca, of course,’ said Cat.
‘Give us some names to paint,’ Fen implored.
‘Xavier Caillebotte,’ Cat said, ‘or Didier LeDucq.’
‘Ones we can spell,’ laughed Fen.
‘I’m going to do Ducasse,’ Pip proclaimed.
‘Are you now!’ Cat teased.
‘Who’s the yummy Yankee?’ Fen asked. ‘The dark one?’
‘The postman,’ Pip clarified.
‘George Hincapie,’ Cat said, ‘US Postal.’
‘Him,’ said Fen, ‘I’ll do him.’
‘Lucky George,’ said Pip.
‘Do Marty too,’ Cat said, ‘and Tyler.’
‘Better make a list,’ said Fen, anxious now to be on foot, on the great mountain, painting names and waiting for their holders to pedal past.
‘What time are they due?’ Pip asked Cat.
‘About five-ish,’ Cat said.
‘It’s six-ish now,’ Pip remarked, not at all concerned that eleven hours separated her and the cyclists.
‘He looks friendly,’ Fen nudges Pip, ‘ask him.’
‘Monsieur? Parlez-vous anglais?’ Pip asks the man.
‘Yes,’ the man says, ‘you speak Dutch?’
‘Um,’ says Pip, ‘not terribly well.’
‘OK,’ the man laughs, ‘we stick with English.’
‘Could we have some of your paint?’ Pip asks assertively.
‘Sure,’ says the Dutchman thinking that eleven hours in the company of these two would be most welcome.
Pip paints for Cat.
V A S S I L Y
Pip paints for herself.
‘One “s”, stupid!’ Fen says, midway through F A B I and trying to remember if it’s E N or A N.
‘Must remember Didier,’ Pip says, ‘let’s do his name really huge.’
D I D I E R
‘I haven’t had so much fun in ages,’ Fen says, flicking Pip surreptitiously when her back is turned. ‘Mind you, I’m a bit bloody cold.’
‘Maybe Mr Rembrandt will have something warm for us,’ Pip says prior to collapsing into giggles with her sister before they compose themselves and return to their whitewash duties.
‘Look,’