one Italian said to her, raising his hands as if her question bordered on blasphemy, ‘of course he catch them – he eat them!’
‘Indians,’ says Hunter to Luca in a group of twelve, 24 minutes behind the leaders.
‘What?’ says Luca, who feels surprisingly strong but is riding carefully.
‘Indians,’ Hunter repeats, nodding ahead. Luca follows his gaze and his heart drops.
‘Oh fuck,’ he gasps, ‘no way, man, no fuckin’ way.’
He’d thought the summit couldn’t possibly be much further off. But, as he looks ahead, he spies lines of fans in the distance, snaking up and around the mountain, a zig-zag of spectators demarcating horribly clearly the severity and length of the route to the summit.
‘You can do it,’ Hunter says, ‘we can both make it.’
‘We can,’ says Luca, ‘but I’m not sure about poor Fugallo. Shit, did you see the state he was in?’
Still none of the McCabes knew how Gianni Fugallo was suffering. When Luca’s bunch neared Pip and Fen, Pip glanced at her sister, beamed a smile of inordinate proportions, grabbed the bottle of Evian and ran along the tarmac splashing the water over as many riders as she could. Cat saw her sister on the press TV, thought that’s my girl and wondered if any of the riders were as drenched as Pip appeared to be. But, with the three leaders beginning the descent, the cameras focused on the head of the race and Cat did not see Gianni Fugallo limp his way up the Madeleine, almost thirty minutes behind.
Fen and Pip, of course, did, It was the most repulsive yet poignant, heart-rending yet stomach-churning sight.
‘What’s that?’ Fen gasped in horror though she knew the answer, eyes hopelessly transfixed by the cyclist’s legs.
‘It’s shit,’ Pip whispered, staring in horror at what appeared to be trickles of slurry coursing their way down.
‘It’s fucking dysentery,’ Fen exclaimed, with revulsion but more with sublime respect that someone suffering so much, so publicly, was doggedly climbing a mountain by bike and obviously had every intention of finishing the Stage.
It was fucking dysentery. When Fugallo made it to the finish, 1 hour 20 minutes behind the leaders but defiantly just ahead of the gruppetto, Rachel had been radioed by the team car on the route. She ushered the exhausted rider into the team bus, all blinds drawn, and peeled away his stenching shorts. Tenderly, she washed the rider down by hand, going through three flannels and bottles of water. Then she helped him into a tracksuit and escorted him to a team car where the other soigneur whisked him away.
The only time anyone heard Gianni Fugallo protest, let alone complain, not only on this specific Tour de France but in his professional cycling career as a whole, was later that night when the Zucca MV directeur sportif instructed Gianni Fugallo, on doctor’s orders, to retire from the race.
The demands of team laundry saw Rachel cancelling her drink with André, the Système Vipère mechanic. It was not just Gianni’s shit-sodden shorts she had to contend with. When Massimo handed in his washing, she could detect a smell familiar yet undefinable. As she sorted through the clothing, she recoiled and all but retched when she came across his shorts. They were covered in a thick, greyish brown, viscid mess. She ran to his room, seriously concerned for his health.
‘Massimo, Jesus!’ she said, bewildered that he should look so well and indeed relaxed; a vision in Prada with sunglasses atop his head and goatee immaculately trimmed.
‘What is it, Rachel?’ the King of the Mountains, but only just, asked her.
‘Are you ill?’ Rachel asked. ‘Your shorts!’
‘I am very well, I am King!’ Massimo laughed, putting on his sunglasses and approaching her. ‘And my shorts – it is banana.’
‘Banana?’ Rachel exclaimed.
‘It is big ladies’ story, yes?’ said Massimo.
‘Old wives’ tale,’ Rachel corrected. ‘What is?’
‘That banana is good for bumps,’ Massimo said ingenuously.
‘There is no medical proof that bananas have any function in the treatment of piles, Massimo,’ she said, her relief manifesting itself in fury, ‘not by ingestion and certainly not by slipping a peeled, ripe one between your arse.’
‘So tomorrow maybe I try raw liver?’ Massimo asked ingenuously. ‘Steak, perhaps?’
‘No, you fucking won’t,’ said Rachel, leaving only to return moments later with conventional ointment for haemorrhoids.
Cat decided she had to write a profile on Gianni Fugallo. Whether Maillot or Procycling or Cycle Sport would want it was beside the point, she felt compelled to do it as her tribute to the rider himself. If it meant she was unable to accompany her sisters and Ben to Grenoble, then so be it.
I’m working, remember. This is not a holiday but my livelihood. My presence here is as an accredited journaliste. If my work is to gain credit, it must be done. I have to think laterally. I have to think ahead. I am a woman in a man’s world and must work twice as hard for half the recognition.
She nipped outside the salle de pressé to hug her sisters farewell and treat herself to a snatched moment’s intimacy with Ben.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said whilst embracing Pip. ‘Are you pissed, Pip?’
‘Amaretto,’ Pip hiccupped apologetically.
‘At least you’ll sleep well,’ said Cat.
‘Gianni pooped his pants,’ said Pip, on the verge of tears.
‘Rumour has it he’ll abandon,’ said Fen.
‘Rumour confirmed,’ said Cat.
‘Poor Gianni,’ said the McCabe sisters.
‘He’ll be fine,’ the doctor soothed.
‘Couldn’t you stay?’ Cat said, suddenly sad.
‘Some of us have conventional jobs in the real world,’ Fen said, drawing her sister close and whispering, ‘Take care, Cat, take care.’
‘I will,’ Cat said firmly, ‘I’m fine.’ She glanced at Ben and smiled at Fen. ‘I’m more than fine.’
Yet Fen regarded her with an expression that would haunt Cat during the evening.
Was it concern? Fear? Doubt? Does she not believe that I’m fine? Does she think I’m not?
Fen was ultimately pleased that Cat chose to stay and work conscientiously and she was relieved that Pip was drowsy from drink and fell asleep in the back of the Megapac car. She had Ben to herself for 70 kilometres, which was what she’d wanted and yet suddenly she could think of nothing to say.
‘Back to the real world,’ said Ben, providing Fen with a perfect opening.
‘Exactly,’ Fen said. She looked out of the window and felt enormously tired; she thought of the cyclists and another mountain Stage to come.
‘Ben,’ she said, glancing at herself in the wing mirror.
‘Fen,’ he said, detecting the portent in her voice and glancing in the rear-view mirror to assess how deeply asleep Pip was.
‘You said it,’ said Fen.
‘Said what?’ said Ben.
‘About the real world,’ Fen said, ‘being far from the Tour de France, Planet Tour – the bubble.’
‘For you,’ said Ben, ‘but for me, it is my world and,’ he said, taking his eyes from the road to regard her because he’d just grasped her point, ‘it welcomes your sister in to its fold.’
‘If