LITMIR.BIZ

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last two years. However, the man that Système Vipère transferred at great expense to put a stop to Massimo’s run is the Pocket Rocket – small but charismatic Carlos Jesu Velasquez. A Spaniard riding for a French team, he is taciturn, a family man. Lipari and Velasquez’s style on bike and off are vastly different. Their ability this year is neck and neck. Their aim is the same. The polka dot jersey. A slip of white lycra, spotted red, well worth the pain of pelting up peaks for points.

      ‘The hills are alive!’ Luca warbled at breakfast, the rest of Megapac regarding him with a mixture of pity and contempt. ‘Come on, guys,’ he continued quietly. Ben looked at him unseen, sensing the rider’s bravado was but a thin veneer laid unconvincingly over his truer anticipation, dread and fear.

      ‘Eat,’ Ben said, eyeing the plates of pasta. ‘Your bodies are going to use a lot of energy keeping warm today.’

      The team were well aware of the rain teeming down the windows. ‘Climb every mountain,’ sang Luca, rather forlornly. Hunter pointed his knife at him but said nothing.

      ‘It’s wet but all of you must drink as often as you can,’ Ben said, ‘and lots of Vaseline on your feet so wet socks won’t rub.’

      ‘It’s too wet and cold for bikinis,’ Luca rued, taking more pasta though he wasn’t hungry in the slightest, ‘such a shame. Maybe there’ll be some wet T-shirts instead, hey guys!’ Travis shot him a withering look that went unseen.

      ‘Luca,’ Ben said, rising from the table, ‘take your negligible brain cells from out of your dick and stick them where they’ll serve you best. Jesus, you can be a bloody headache sometimes.’ Ben left the dining-room, refusing to acknowledge Luca’s look of hurt. Returning to his room, Ben hated himself for foisting his own unrest upon his young rider. He stood still in the centre of the bedroom, then switched on the TV, turning the volume high on whatever channel came on. He didn’t want silence; ironically, he wouldn’t be able to hear himself think. With the TV droning away, he began to bundle his clothes into his case.

      ‘Would I have felt differently about Cat had I not found out she has a bloke back home?’ he asked himself, sniffing at a shirt and tucking it deep down into the case. ‘Is it the fact that she is unavailable that makes me want her more?’ Ben sat on the edge of the bed for a moment before moving to the chair and then to the window-sill against which he rested the small of his back. ‘Is that what disconcerts me?’ He pushed himself away to lie down on the unmade bed. ‘Bloody women. It’s proof – as if I needed it – that any involvement that goes beyond a mere physical exchange is hassle I don’t need.’

      Ben left the bed and went to the bathroom. He looked at himself. ‘Who the fuck said I was involved anyway?’ But the two images of Cat which solicited him in quick succession answered him. The first was watching her, unseen, engrossed in her work in the salle de pressé; her foot tapping, her lips moving – parting into a smile at certain sentences, into a pout when vocabulary eluded her – her whole self focused, a little frown now and then, a twitch of her nose, the brace of her back, accepting a drink from Josh, a quick banter with Alex, a glanced smile at an Italian journalist. She was in a little sundress that day, white pumps and a white, tight T-shirt. Ben had left the salle and walked away with a grin to his groin. The other image accosting him was of Cat climaxing last night, her eyes never leaving his, just glazing over with the pleasure and gazing deep into him. He’d found it an incredibly intense moment. She had been straddling him, gyrating to her peak, moving around and down on to him; his hands had been on her thighs, at her waist, cupping her breasts, and then she stilled herself, gasping and staring at him and he felt her sex suck him deep inside her, her gaze drawing him into her. And then she all but crumpled down on to him with post-orgasmic exhaustion and he wrapped his arms around her, tenderly encircling her as her throbbing subsided. She had smelt wonderful. He could have feasted on the scent of her, the sight and sound of her and never have had his fill.

      That any imagery, let alone two vivid and contrasting ones, were deeply ensconced in his soul and mind’s eye, was a disconcerting fact in itself.

       It isn’t that I’ve consciously not allowed many women to take residence in my head, to say nothing of my heart – it’s that none of them have really warranted the space. Bloody Cat is bloody everywhere.

      Ben knocked his head gently against the mirror, knowing full well that the action would have done little to dislodge Cat from there, that when he turned away to drop his pants and have a piss, he needn’t even close his eyes to summon an image of her. Uninvited? Perhaps. But even if he wished to banish her, he would be unable to.

      ‘Hey, Rachel,’ Cat said, walking past the soigneur on her way to meet Josh at the car.

      ‘Morning – but not a good one,’ said Rachel glowering at the sky and then appearing to scrutinize Massimo Lipari’s legs before rubbing them with great consideration. Elsewhere, riders rubbed udder cream or Vaseline on to their nether regions to prevent chafing; the sight alarming neither girl.

      ‘I think I’d better leave shadowing you till tomorrow,’ Cat said.

      ‘Wise,’ said Rachel, ‘that’s fine by me. I’m going directly to the hotel anyway.’ Massimo stood, walked a step and a half to his bike and then cycled slowly away, for a last coffee and another piss before the start. Cat began to walk away. Rachel called after her.

      ‘Yesterday,’ she began, ‘I mean – I didn’t know.’

      ‘About Ben?’ Cat said with a spirited smile.

      ‘No,’ said Rachel, regarding her straight, ‘about the other one.’

      Cat looked puzzled.

      ‘Ben’s a really nice guy,’ Rachel continued, ‘I’ve known him for a few years now.’

      Cat grinned, reading this as Rachel’s seal of approval which she was flattered to receive.

      ‘So?’ Rachel prompted.

      Cat shrugged.

      ‘This guy?’ Rachel continued. ‘Back home?’

      ‘Who?’ said Cat, genuinely confused.

      ‘Josh was telling us you are deeply involved with a guy back home.’

      Cat was rooted to the spot, her jaw had dropped and her eyes were flitting all over Rachel’s face.

      ‘Us?’ Cat said in hushed horror, half-knowing what she’d hear. ‘Who was the “us”?’

      ‘Me,’ Rachel said, ‘and Ben.’

      ‘Oh God,’ Cat cried, turning away and then back again. ‘Oh fuck. Jesus. I’ve got to go.’ Rachel watched her jog away. She’d learnt no more. In fact, she felt she now knew Cat less. That upset her.

      Alex and Josh told Cat she ought to drive the route to gain a true feel of the drag of the mountains and the plummet of the descents. Although she had wanted initially to confront Josh immediately, she was ultimately glad of the chance to restore her composure and concentrate on being a journaliste on the Tour de France.

      Everything happens for a reason, she told herself in Django’s words and tone as they reached the base of the fearsome Tourmalet. What the reason might be, she was as yet unsure. The Tourmalet not only provided welcome distraction, it absorbed her entirely. She was driving the 18½ kilometres to the 2,115 metre summit of the mighty mountain. There was nothing average about the gradient; 7.7 per cent was the mean and it was just that.

      How are the boys going to get up this, with the Aubisque coming right before? And the d’Aspin and Peyresourde after? In this rain and mist? With thousands of fans clinging to the slopes like birds on a cliff and the tifosi – the truly obsessed – thronging either side of the road as the summit nears; crowding in, yelling and running alongside, making it all so narrow, so claustrophobic, so treacherous. How can the riders descend as fast as they can, but safely? Far faster than a car can manage. Look at these bends, the drop. It’s wet. I can hardly see. How are my boys going to cope?

      With

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