LITMIR.BIZ

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says, referring to the revered and omnipotent Director General of the Société du Tour de France.

      ‘What did Stefano say?’

      ‘He gave me the fucking flowers and looked pretty sheepish. I massaged him viciously last night,’ Rachel declares with certain glee and sparkle, ‘viciously.’

      ‘What a character,’ Cat laughs, adding, ‘Bloody men!’ as an aside.

      ‘Stefano’s a prat,’ Rachel says, not unfondly. She tells Cat the name of the hotel that Zucca are staying at that night.

      ‘I’m pretty sure that’s where we are,’ Cat responds, delighted.

      ‘Cool,’ says Rachel, ‘let’s have a beer later.’

      ‘You’re on,’ says Cat.

      ‘Ciao, Cat,’ Rachel says, though Cat has gone. She slams the boot of the car, consults the map and heads for the feed zone midway along the route. Then she’ll head straight for the finish line, stocked with everything a rider could ask for after racing for 248 kilometres. Everything from antiseptic to a quick leg rub, from fresh socks to a banana, from tracksuits to a warm and welcoming smile.

      ‘You’re happy about driving on the wrong side of the road?’ Josh asked Cat as she took her seat behind the wheel.

      ‘I’ll take it slowly,’ she replied.

      ‘No you fucking won’t,’ Alex cried from the back. ‘To the salle de pressé – and don’t spare the horses.’ He leant forward, removed her baseball cap and thwacked the roof of the car with it. ‘Vamoose!’

      Josh and Cat shared a quick glance of exasperation. Cat drove off, cautiously but at a pace that could not be castigated.

      ‘You OK?’ Josh tried.

      ‘Fine, thanks,’ said Cat from behind sunglasses.

      ‘You’re not your usual perky self,’ Alex said, replacing her baseball cap sideways on her head so she looked quite the little urchin. ‘Tell Uncle Alex what’s wrong.’

      ‘Alex, fuck off,’ Josh said, shaking his head, catching Alex’s glance in the rear-view mirror and giving him a loaded look. Cat removed her sunglasses, righted her cap and looked at both men, assuring them she was fine, just tired.

       Bloody boys. Males. The lot of them.

      She only swerved twice. First when Alex enquired, innocently enough, after what Luca had had to say that morning – all of which Cat was still trying to remember word for word, the intention in particular. Then she swerved again, with equal severity, when Josh remarked that both Zucca MV and Megapac were staying at their hotel.

      ‘Ben said to meet in the bar for a drink,’ Josh said.

      ‘Ben?’ Cat said.

       Bloody Ben.

      ‘Yeah, you know, the Megapac doc,’ Alex said rather slyly, leaning forward between the two front seats and grinning at Cat.

      ‘I was talking to him at the village,’ Josh said. ‘We saw you and tried to call you over but you were on a mission.’

       On a mission not to be seen by him. What did he say? Did he mention podium girls? What did you say? Did you mention my fake bloody boyfriend?

      ‘He asked after you,’ Josh continued.

      ‘Oh?’ said Cat, eyes on the road but mind far from it. ‘What about?’

       I don’t want to know. I do want to know. What did he want to know? That I have a boyfriend? Please say you didn’t say so. Because I don’t. Oh, but what does it matter – Ben’s hardly interested anyway.

      ‘This and that,’ said Josh casually, ‘where you fit in – he’d read your report of yesterday.’

      ‘Oh,’ said Cat.

       Mine? He searched it out and read it? What should I read into that? Shut up, idiot girl.

      ‘Anyway – he suggested beers tonight,’ Josh continued.

       He did? With whom? All of us? Just me? Or minus me?

      ‘I’m having a beer with Rachel,’ Cat said, almost as a safeguard.

       How on earth am I going to concentrate on the race, let alone write the report, with the distraction the impending evening poses?

       COPY FOR P. TAVERNER @ GUARDIAN SPORTS DESK FROM CATRIONA McCABE IN CHARDIN

      After just over sixteen hours of racing, with just under seven minutes between the maillot jaune of the leader and the Lantern Rouge of the 184th rider, the Tour de France left Brittany today for the Vendée with a 248 km road race from Plouay to Chardin. For 96 km, while the landscape masqueraded as Cornwall, a 30 kph north-westerly wind gave the peloton a helping hand, propelling the bunch forward together and providing light relief from a sticky 29 degrees. However, as the riders crossed over the mouth of the Loire via the stunning Pont du Saint Nazaire, no doubt they would have preferred high humidity to the sly crosswinds which slicked about the bridge, disturbing the bunch.

      ‘I’m stuck,’ Cat sighed, observing with envy that both Josh and Alex were not. ‘I’m going out for a breather,’ she said, disappointed that her colleagues were not just staying put but far too preoccupied to have even heard her.

      What is going on with Luca? Cat wondered, walking fast to she didn’t know where. And Ben has suggested a drink to Josh. Is that why my work is slow today? Because I’m disconcerted? Some time with Rachel will be good.

      She found a small café, ordered a latte and made a conscious decision to devote no more time to fretting about Luca, Ben, beer and her fabricated boyfriend.

       I must head back and wrap up my report.

      ‘The bunch devoured the final 20 k of tarmac in twenty minutes flat,’ Cat marvelled out loud.

      A very chic lady, sitting at the neighbouring table with a tiny dog on her lap and a Chanel handbag by her feet, looked at Cat. ‘That touch of wheels,’ she said, clearing her throat as if to lighten her accent to complement her very good grasp of English, ‘when the road drops with 500 metres to go!’

      Cat smiled and nodded and suddenly her closing paragraph was clear. She asked for the bill but the lady waved her hand and insisted on paying. ‘Tomorrow,’ she asked Cat, ‘what are your thoughts?’

      ‘Keep an eye on Tyler Hamilton,’ Cat said.

      ‘Bonne chance, mademoiselle,’ the lady said.

      ‘Bonne chance, Tyler Hamilton!’ Cat laughed.

      Cat slips back into the salle de pressé unnoticed by Josh and Alex, by anyone really. She doesn’t mind. She has work to do. She skims through the first chunk of her article and raps out the concluding paragraph with speed.

       A touch of wheels with 500 m to go brought down the section of the peloton containing nearly all the key sprinters. While the speed meisters untangled themselves from each other, their lead-out men hammered ahead unaware. Luckily for Chris Boardman’s Crédit Agricole team, Australian Stuart O’Grady was not down under and utilized an excellent if wholly unintended lead-out from Zucca MV’s Gianni Fugallo to take the Stage. Fugallo looked simultaneously staggered and quite horrified to see the befreckled Antipode on his wheel instead of his dark duke Stefano Sassetta. Jesper Lomers and Stefano Sassetta hold on to the yellow and green jerseys respectively. The next two Stages will suit them well but the Time Trial on Saturday will suit their team leaders Fabian Ducasse and Vasily Jawlensky better.

       <ENDS>

      ‘How bizarre,’ Cat says aloud, laying her palms on the trestle table and leaning

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