They drove on in silence.
‘I wouldn’t want to hurt your sister,’ said Ben.
They drove on in silence.
‘Someone did,’ said Fen.
‘I gather,’ said Ben.
Fen shook her head at the pain of remembering the intensity of her sister’s pain. ‘I’ll never let that happen to her again.’
‘Nor, I would have thought, would she,’ said Ben.
‘But next week she’ll be in England,’ said Fen, wishing that they weren’t approaching Grenoble, wishing she could stay and keep Cat close, ‘and all this will be some distant Gallic dream.’
‘And I’ll be in Colorado,’ said Ben, amazed that Grenoble had crept up on them so quickly.
‘Exactly,’ said Fen.
‘Exactly, indeed,’ said Ben.
‘I wish you weren’t nice,’ Fen rued, ‘I wish you and my sister had never met.’
‘Charming,’ said Ben with equanimity.
‘Ben,’ Fen sighed, ‘I am warning you – I really am.’
‘Fen,’ said Ben gravely, regarding her, ‘thank you. You don’t have to.’
‘I won’t have her hurt,’ Fen whispered, not wanting to look at Ben, taking her wrist away from his proffered hand, ‘but that’s inescapable.’
Ben was driving very slowly.
And me. I will too. Hurt. Miss her. Like I’ve never experienced.
Tell Fen. Just say it out loud.
No. Not until I’ve told Cat.
Ben is back at his hotel by eleven o’clock. Cat is asleep in his bed. He slips between the sheets quietly and spends a few minutes observing her; moonlight sifting into the room through ill-fitting curtains and whispering silver highlights over her body. Gently, he hovers his hand over her bare shoulder and then lets it rest lightly on her skin. She makes a small noise in her throat and it makes him smile. He strokes her arm with his fingertips and brings his body close to hers. He breathes deeply into the top of her head.
I know that smell. It’s not shampoo. It’s Cat McCabe. She says she knows my hands. Well, I know her scent off by heart.
STAGE 16
Gilbertville-Aix-les-Bains. 149 kilometres
The Tour de France lasts for six more days. In that time, loose ends need to be tied and those currently knotted need to be unravelled. The race is now about loss and gain. Both on the bike. And off. The riders of the peloton have each now lost an average four pounds in muscle which their bodies have resorted to pillaging for energy. Luca lost his nerve but found it again. Fabian has lost his yellow jersey but has designs on gaining it back. Vasily wears the yellow jersey and has no intention of losing it. Jesper Lomers wonders whether his marriage is lost. He leads Stefano Sassetta by just a few points. However, though Jesper defended his jersey ruthlessly in the mountains, Stefano rode strategically. Consequently, the Rotterdam Rocket Viper Boy is tastily clad in green lycra, but Dark Duke Thunder Thighs has ridden without the pressure of defending a jersey and has thus conserved crucial energy. Vasily Jawlensky leads the race with a 2 minute 33 second lead over Fabian Ducasse. Of the 161 riders remaining, the Lantern Rouge of the Tour de France is the twenty-year-old Portuguese rider, José Ribero. He is 3 hours 5 minutes and 18 seconds behind the maillot jaune.
When Jules Le Grand dressed this morning, he dressed for business. He chose a lightweight navy suit, a silk shirt in sky blue and fine leather loafers which he wore sockless. Though he would be driving the team car along the route and his clothing would become creased and crumpled, he has enough suits in pristine condition to last until Paris. During the first two weeks of the Tour, Jules’s presence in the village each morning had a public relations function for Système Vipère; he had made himself readily available and consistently charming to journalists, officials and VIPs alike. This final week, Jules will go to the village as directeur sportif to the world’s number-one professional road racing team. He has no interest in journalists, officials and VIPs; in fact, he is all but blind to their presence, even contemptuous of their overtures. His sole mission, the raison d’être for his presence, is to seduce riders, to lure them into his fold. Other directeur sportifs will see him at work, stalking, talking, schmoozing, perusing. Short of keeping their entire teams tethered, they will be unable to prevent Le Grand’s inveiglement. They might avert their riders defecting providing they outdo Jules in the wage packets and flattery stakes. Jules is well aware that other directeurs will approach his Viper Boys, but he is confident that his team will remain loyal; apart from one domestique whose contract he has not renewed, and Jesper Lomers whose contract still needs signing.
Luca Jones visited the barber’s stall in the village for a haircut. Pleased with the result and buoyed by the glances from many a bella signorina (and signora too), he went to the Maison du Café stand for a cup of sweet coffee.
‘Allow me,’ said Jules Le Grand, suddenly at Luca’s side, fanning three sachets of sugar, adding the contents to the rider’s plastic cup without relinquishing eye contact or saying anything else. ‘I know what you like,’ Jules continued once he was stirring the cup which Luca held, ‘coffee with three sugars – right?’
‘Yes,’ said Luca, off his guard and self-kickingly dumbstruck.
‘Come,’ said Jules, walking well ahead, knowing, without turning, that the young rider would follow. They walked past the giant omelette stand, past the Coeur de Lion cheese extravaganza, to a small, open marquee to one side where there was a table with two chairs free towards the back, the others having been taken by local dignitaries and VIPs. Jules held back a chair for Luca and sat down himself once the rider was seated.
‘Yesterday,’ Jules started, ‘I witnessed something extraordinary. Something which once again filled my heart with passion for this great sport of cycling.’
Luca nodded earnestly. ‘Fabian,’ the rider interjected, ‘is an awesome rider. To suffer so much, to lose the maillot jaune and then to come back the very next day and win the Stage – incredible.’
‘I am not talking of Fabian Ducasse,’ Jules said surprisingly derisively, ‘I am talking of a young rider on his first Tour de France who suffered to the depths of his being on the heights of L’Alpe D’Huez.’
‘Oh,’ said Luca, thinking he should sip his coffee and make use of the caffeine, but wondering when he might need to speak again.
‘I am referring,’ Jules continued, ‘to a rider who shows more than promise. Indeed, this rider has the promise of sheer brilliance. He recovered supremely yesterday – his morale was high and his legs were strong. He rode sensibly and scaled the General Classification by eight positions.’ Luca nodded and thought he really ought to drink the coffee if he was to manage to pee and then absorb two more doses of caffeine.
‘Please,’ said Jules, ‘drink – I know what you need, what you like. Coffee with three sugars.’
Luca drank; a little faster than he’d like, but with Jules now silent and staring intently at him, relaxing over coffee was not a possibility.
‘This rider of whom I speak,’ said Jules rather theatrically, looking to the middle distance as if seeing a vision of his subject there, ‘has enormous talent. But it must be nurtured, it must be nourished, loved. It must be developed and honed. True potential must never be wasted.’ He paused till he knew he had Luca’s gaze. ‘Sometimes true talent can remain untapped.’