‘Darling girl,’ her uncle was saying, bringing her back from her family in Matlock to the bedroom in the hotel, ‘you really don’t sound good.’
‘I’m fine,’ Cat said, feeling her forehead and poking out her tongue at the mirror for good measure.
‘Well,’ said Django, ‘I rather think you should go and see the doctor.’
Cat and Django were quiet. As Cat watched herself break into a smile, she heard her uncle’s triumphant sniggers.
‘That is precisely what I’m about to do,’ she said.
‘Can I tell your sisters?’ Django asked.
‘If you can name the maillot jaune,’ Cat demanded.
‘Tyler Hamilton,’ Django replied, as if she was dim, ‘fellow US Postman Jonathan Vaughters is in polka dot and Stefano Sassetta in green. Must go, I have two phone calls to make.’
‘And I have a doctor’s appointment to keep,’ Cat said.
Cat needed to be incognito. Though she would have loved to have worn her floaty short bias-cut skirt and clingy little top, she opted for cream jeans and a denim shirt. She remembered Fen’s advice and chose underwear that gave her walk a wiggle and her eyes a sparkle. She took the fire escape stairs, ducked out into the night and walked very quickly down a number of streets just to put some distance between her and anyone who might know her. When she found a quiet bar and asked the whereabouts of the Hôtel Ibis, she discovered she had charged off in completely the wrong direction. Her composure remained intact and she enjoyed the walk to Ben’s hotel.
In the car park, she noted that the Cofidis team was staying there too and wondered if many journalists would be loitering for news on Bobby Julich. She could see the foyer clearly and that a number of people were milling about. She circumnavigated the building, found a side door, said a quick prayer that the entrance would not be alarmed and gave a pull. She was inside. She scaled the stairs. When she came to what she deduced to be the third floor, she stopped. She pressed herself against the wall, turning her cheeks one at a time against the cool concrete.
My heart is going fifty to the dozen. Am I about to have sex? It’s been so long – since I’ve had sex with a man other than Him, since I’ve had sex full stop. Shit, I don’t have any condoms – I’ll be telling Ben ‘if it’s not On, it’s not In’. Oh God, is this a good idea, a bad idea or a crazy idea? Is crazy good or bad? It’s ten past nine. Fuck, I’m excited. Deep breaths. Ready. Off I go. Wish me luck. And fun.
Cat is in the third-floor corridor of the Hôtel Ibis in Pradier. The carpet is new and makes the hallway smell vaguely like an aeroplane. She passes doors that are closed though sounds of life can be heard within: showers, television sets, animated conversation, singing. Then she passes doors that are shut but with the Megapac riders’ names tacked to them. There is nothing but silence emanating from these rooms. 329. Sweet dreams, Luca. 327. Other side, Cat. 328. How are you feeling, Didier? 326.
Oh God oh God oh God.
The door of room 324 is opening. A woman steps out into the corridor. She is laughing over her shoulder. She is out of the room. She turns back towards the door and waves; smiling, gorgeous. It’s the podium girl. The same one. The same fucking gorgeous, leggy, luscious woman. She’s laughing. She’s been in Ben’s room and now she’s leaving it, laughing. Not a hair out of place. Lips licked with lipstick, requisite almond eyes enhanced with a lash of mascara. She’s wearing a skirt shorter than that of her uniform. No daft hat to detract from her silken tresses. She’s been in Ben’s room, this vamp has. Number 324 at the Hôtel Ibis in Pradier. What is Cat meant to do? How is she meant to feel?
She feels sick. She turns on her heel and walks away, retracing every step that brought her here.
STAGE 6
Pradier-Bordeaux. 215 kilometres
‘Are you OK, Cat?’ Josh asked, handing her a can of Minute Maid orange juice at the Pradier village. ‘You look shagged.’
Cat couldn’t even be bothered to muse upon the irony to herself. ‘I didn’t sleep well,’ she told Josh.
‘Are you homesick?’ Josh asked gently.
‘Homesick?’ Cat retorted, banishing an intrusive image of her sisters from her mind. ‘No way. Not at all.’
Go away, Django. Derbyshire, be gone!
‘I am,’ said Josh, ‘I miss my wife and my dog.’
Oh Josh, why don’t I just tell you that again I feel I shouldn’t be here, that I feel a little fragile, that it’s exhausting to feel I’m constantly swinging from new confidence back down to plain old inconsequential.
Cat had no need to tell Josh any of this. He saw a tear smudge across her right eye and decided not to pry in case she broke down right then and there, in the middle of the village, twenty minutes before Stage 6 began, twenty yards away from five times Tour winner Bernard Hinault. But he did lay a hand on her arm and give it a conciliatory squeeze which made both of them feel a little better.
‘Let’s try and get behind a breakaway today,’ Josh suggested. ‘I’ll put money on some loopy Italian fucker going for broke.’
‘Look! There’s Vasily,’ Cat cooed, welcoming the all-encompassing distraction of the tall Russian tottering his bike through the throng of VIPs and media. They watched him ride to the barber’s booth where two other racers were having their hair cut.
‘Have you met Jawlensky?’ Josh asked her. Cat shook her head. ‘Come on, I’ll introduce you, he’s lovely.’ Cat looked at Josh and beamed. ‘Were you too tired to put your top on the right way round?’ Josh continued with a grin. Cat was horrified. Not only was her top inside out, it was back to front too. ‘Go and change,’ Josh said. ‘I assume you want to make an impression on Jawlensky – and the information that you’re a small, Dorothy Perkins, wash separately, no tumble dry, kind of girl might detract from your journalistic credentials.’
Cat went hastily to the women’s portaloo, smiling to herself that a Banesto rider came out of it with not so much as a shrug of apology, let alone a glimmer of embarrassment. If the men’s loos were engaged, why shouldn’t a rider have priority for any cubicle currently vacant?
Pro cyclists really do have the most uncouth urinary proclivities, Cat mused to herself as she took off her top, hitting her elbow against the formica partition and crying ‘merde!’ It’s a perverse reworking of Pavlov’s theory. Prior to the final départ bell, riders naturally use the conventional facilities – regardless of the gender ascribed to a cubicle. As soon as the bell has sounded, even if they’ve just emptied their bladders, the boys piss everywhere and in full view. Maybe Maillot would like a wry little piece about that? I’ll call them later.
Cat righted her top, cleared her throat, tucked her hair behind her ears and wondered if the Tour barbers could trim her fringe. She gave herself a supportive smile. She was going to be introduced to Vasily Jawlensky and she was more than ready to meet him.
She was not ready, however, to bump into Ben. But there he was, talking to Emma O’Reilly and Rachel, the two soigneurs and the doctor right in Cat’s path. It was impossible to pretend she hadn’t seen them, especially with Rachel calling to her. Cat waved swiftly and tapped at her watch and her brow to justify what she hoped was a plausible exit. At the entrance to the village a few metres later, a hand caught her by the shoulder.
‘Cat?’
Ben, of course.
‘Oh,’ Cat said, not establishing eye contact, ‘I can’t talk, I’m expected elsewhere.’
‘Where