LITMIR.BIZ

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Cat proclaims in a tone of disbelief. Her colleagues regard her. ‘Today is Wednesday – right?’ Alex and Josh look at each other. ‘How amazing!’ Cat declares.

      ‘What the fuck are you on?’ Alex asks, regarding her two cans of Orangina and a fairly decimated packet of Petit Beurre biscuits.

      ‘I forgot all about days,’ Cat says, offering the biscuits to the men. ‘To me, today is Stage 4, the day after tomorrow is Stage 6. None of this Saturday Sunday Solomon Grundy nonsense.’

      ‘Welcome to the Tour,’ Josh says, realizing he would have had no idea what day it was had he been asked.

      ‘What are you going to be like when we hit altitude?’ Alex teases affectionately, cramming a whole biscuit in his mouth, rubbing his hands and returning his fingers to the keyboard.

      ‘Is Taverner going to let me get away with “dark duke Sassetta”?’ Cat wonders. Josh roars with laughter. Alex buries his face in his hands.

      Jesper Lomers and Fabian Ducasse walk down their hotel corridor to Jules Le Grand’s room to which they have been summoned for a strategy meeting. Apart from riding for the same team and being pretty much the same height, similarities between the two end there. The Dutchman is blond and brawny, the Frenchman dark and lithe; Jesper is courteous and temperate with the team, the peloton, the media, Fabian is indiscriminately temperamental. Jesper exudes a modesty for his successes, for which he is universally admired; Fabian’s arrogance when victorious augments his magnetic appeal. Jesper will actively try to put anyone at their ease (‘I’m just a guy who can ride a bike,’ he shrugged to Alex who interviewed him after his victory at Milan–San Remo), whereas Fabian relishes the fact that his stature and demeanour are famously intimidating (‘En Français!’ he demanded witheringly of Josh who merely wanted to congratulate him on winning the Dauphiné Libéré). Though they have little in common on a personal level, they are good colleagues, respectful of each other’s strengths and supportive during and after racing.

      ‘I am keeping the maillot jaune warm for you,’ comments Jesper, who knows he can never win the Tour de France.

      ‘Green’s more your colour,’ Fabian laughs, with deference to Jesper’s consistency as a rider – the domain of the maillot vert contender. Jesper knocks on Jules’s door but Fabian opens it and walks straight in.

      If I venture out of my room, Cat considered, in her small room in a nondescript motorlodge on the ring road of Chardin, I might come across Luca or Ben. She unpacked the entire contents of her rucksack, hanging as many garments as she could. I don’t really want to see either as I really don’t know what to make of them. If I stay here all night, I’ll forfeit my drink with Rachel – which I’d really like to have.

      She ran a bath, squirting in a little shampoo to give the semblance of bubble bath.

       Luca bloody Jones. Was that humour or was I missing the point? Or did I have the point perfectly? Mind you, at least he’d like to give me one, which is more than can be said for his doctor.

      Her bath was ready. The phone rang. It was Josh, informing her that he and Alex were driving in to town for dinner in half an hour.

      ‘I’m not really hungry,’ Cat said, ‘I stuffed myself at the press buffet and then all those biscuits.’

      ‘Are you OK?’ Josh enquired.

      ‘I’m fine,’ Cat said.

       That’s kind of him.

      ‘Are you sure?’ Josh pressed.

      ‘Honestly,’ Cat stressed, suddenly wondering if his probing had a motive.

      ‘Women’s things?’ Josh attempted.

       No, he’s just being kind.

      ‘Yes,’ said Cat smiling, glad that she didn’t have him wrong, ‘women’s things.’

      After her bath, swathed in a towel pleasingly luxurious for the rating of the hotel, Cat phoned reception for Rachel’s room number. There was no reply from the soigneur’s quarters.

       She’s probably in the team bus, preparing for tomorrow. I’ll get dressed and go for a recce.

      ‘Luca Jones!’ Ben exclaimed, coming across the rider in the foyer.

      ‘Hey, Doc,’ said Luca, ‘I’m fucking knackered.’

      ‘Have an early night, then,’ Ben said, as if to an imbecile, ‘it’s almost eight thirty.’

      ‘I’m waiting,’ Luca said.

      ‘For what?’ Ben asked.

      ‘For my journaliste,’ Luca said.

      ‘Who?’ Ben asked.

      ‘The lovely pussy Cat,’ Luca said openly.

      ‘I hope you don’t call her that to her face,’ Ben exclaimed.

      ‘Yeah,’ Luca said, ‘I tried but she didn’t seem to like it. I went for Gatto. She did say she’d rather just be a simple Cat but I won’t listen.’

      ‘Why are you waiting?’ Ben asked. ‘When are you meeting?’

      ‘Yesterday I asked her to come to me if she wanted one. This morning, I told her if she found me tonight, she could have it.’

      Ben stared at him. ‘You said what?’

      ‘That I’d give her one,’ the rider shrugged, ‘a long one even. Somewhere quiet, I told her. After supper.’

      ‘You said that?’ Ben asked, not able to mask amazement.

      ‘Sure,’ Luca shrugged, ‘she told me she was shagged last night.’ Ben’s jaw dropped. ‘So,’ Luca continued, ‘perhaps tonight.’

      ‘And she’s on for it?’ Ben enquired nonchalantly.

      Luca looked at him in amazement. ‘She’s a fucking journaliste – why wouldn’t she want an exclusive interview with Luca Fucking Jones? Man!’

      Ben bit back laughter, nodded sincerely and then walked away.

       I must find her. This is too good to miss. She can’t not go to Luca Fucking Jones if he wants to give her a big one somewhere private.

      If I take the stairs, Cat theorizes, I can avoid bumping into anything I’d rather not.

      She takes the stairs, forgetting it is the mode by which Ben chooses to travel upwards. She is humming the jingle played each day at the village. She skips down a flight, turns a landing, skips down another and all but collides with Ben on the next landing.

      ‘Miss McCabe,’ he says, staring at her measuredly, his hands on her shoulders to steady her but, in reality, making her quiver all the more.

      ‘Oh,’ says Cat, not able to look anywhere but right at him, ‘Ben.’

      ‘Where are you skipping to, all merry?’ he asks, removing just one hand from her shoulder.

      ‘I’m going to find Rachel McEwen,’ Cat says, wanting him to take away his other hand but also to leave it put. ‘We’re going to have a quick drink.’

      ‘A quick one,’ Ben plays with a wry half-smile. Cat frowns fleetingly. ‘And young Luca?’ Ben asks.

      ‘Luca?’ Cat responds, regarding Ben warily.

      ‘He tells me he’s going to give you one,’ Ben informs her, ‘this evening.’

      Cat bites her lip. ‘I know,’ she says quietly.

      ‘What exactly did my rider say?’ Ben asks sternly, his voice low and doctorly and coursing through the blood in Cat’s veins like a tonic.

      She

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