Freya North 3-Book Collection: Cat, Fen, Pip. Freya North
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to hit him.
‘Where were you?’ she countered, brandishing her pass at the sentries on watch at the village entrance. Ben, of course, had a pass too.
‘I was waiting for you,’ Ben said, following her through, ‘I thought we had a date?’
Cat stopped, turned, and regarded him directly, wishing he wasn’t so handsome, nor that she should so crave a kiss right there and then. ‘You,’ she declared, ‘can have too much of a good thing.’ It irritated her that he should stare back and look perplexed.
Don’t play with me, Dr York.
‘Now excuse me,’ she ordered, turning and marching purposefully away.
Too much of a good thing? Ben pondered as he strolled back out of the village having high-fived Hunter on the way. What was she on about? How can I have had that if I’ve hardly had her at all.
‘Oh well,’ he said out loud, nodding to Jules Le Grand as he passed.
Maybe she just got out of the wrong side of bed this morning.
The fact that it wasn’t my bed means it was wrong, full stop.
COPY FOR P. TAVERNER @ GUARDIAN SPORTS DESK FROM CA TRIONA McCABE IN BORDEAUX
With the first Time Trial tomorrow, tension was high in the peloton today. It was the last chance for the pure sprinters to grab the limelight and also for the opportunists to make a name for themselves by making a break. The serious contenders needed to keep out of danger. Ominous cloud cover hung like a headache throughout the Stage but ultimately, all that rained down was trouble, giving practically every rider on this year’s Tour de France a liberal dousing.
‘Hung like a headache,’ Cat repeated out loud.
‘I’m hung like a horse,’ Alex quipped.
Josh regarded both his colleagues and looked baffled.
‘Clouds,’ Cat explained.
‘Oh,’ said Josh.
‘Maybe a pony then,’ said Alex, ‘if I’m honest.’
At 80 km, just after the Category 4 climb of Côtes de Morrisot, Max Sciandri (Le Français des Jeux) surged away with Paolo Gabicci (Zucca MV) and Franz Marc (Telekom) in keen pursuit. Lying in 51st place and 1 minute 52 behind the yellow jersey of Tyler Hamilton, it was not unfeasible for Sciandri to bring to fruition the attack he engineered with Freddy Verdonk during Stage 4, to take the Stage and the yellow jersey. Initially, it seemed a dose of luck might assist when, soon after the three attackers had honked away, a crash in the main bunch floored scores of riders, slowing up those behind and putting the brakes on those in front who needed to ascertain whether their leaders had been involved.
Sciandri’s group rode positively, retaining a 4 minute 40 second lead for some distance. Though the Anglo-Italian was deserving of victory today, the peloton was not in a generous mood and had their sights set on capture. The last 10 km was slightly downhill which would have been much to the breakaway’s advantage. But with a gentle but lengthy drag before that, the peloton pulled together to swallow back the three riders and the Stage headed towards a classic sprinters’ finish on the majestic Quai Louis XVIII.
The average speed today was a swift 41.8 kph, touching almost 60 kph in the closing straight. The sprinters certainly gave the crowds something to remember them by; all the key players were there, all desperate to win. None wanted victory so badly as Stefano Sassetta who’d squandered all of the hot-spot sprints to arch rival Jesper Lomers. Pietr Rodchenko was disqualified for hurling his bidon at Stuart O’Grady for no other reason, it seemed, than that the Australian was riding a clear, clean, straight sprint much faster than him. Sassetta crossed the line first but was later demoted to last in the group and fined for dangerous riding, having crashed shoulders with Mario Cipollini and then impinged on Jesper Lomers’s line. Lomers’s consolation was taking the green jersey away from Sassetta.
The Tour de France has reached the eve of the first Time Trial. New names will no doubt grace the leaderboard tomorrow and then new terrain beckons as the bunch commence their journey south to the gateway to the Pyrenees.
<ENDS>
Bordeaux. Beautiful, elegant, quintessentially French Bordeaux. Cat was pleased to be back there, a place she had liked but not returned to since visiting as a backpacking student with a summer’s railcard and a shoestring budget ten years before. She was surprised to remember sections of the town. If she took a left and then first right just there, she would arrive at that lovely little boulangerie. If it was still there. It was. She would treat herself. She would treat herself to half an hour of life outside the entourage of the Tour de France, to food other than the now somewhat monotonous press buffets. She would grant herself a little peace and quiet, a café au lait, a slice of tarte aux pommes, a glass of Badoit too. She fancied citron pressé but it was too Ben York. She wanted just to be a young woman, sitting by herself at one of the shop’s impromptu tables. Though verging on sacrilege, she even removed her press pass. She just sat awhile, did Cat McCabe, sat and sipped and munched and looked around her. She didn’t think of bike riders and she tried not to think of their support teams, certainly not their medical men. She switched her phone off, put her sunglasses on, hitched up the sleeves of her top and concentrated on nothing but the warmth of the afternoon sun seeping through her arms.
There is only so long that surroundings can be observed before they are known off by heart. There is only so long one can watch a game of pétanque and retain concentration. There is only so long one can smile blandly at nothing in particular before the mind wanders. What are you thinking about, Cat, sitting there, gaze flitting from building to tree to Gitanes packet in the gutter?
Him and Him.
Who and which?
Ben.
And?
Him – back home.
In that order?
Yes.
Well, there’s a start.
Do I really want either?
Do you?
Do I want both?
Do you?
No.
No? To which?
I don’t know. I tried, you know. I tried very very hard to make Him happy, to make Him want to stay, to furnish His life with all He could ever require. I feel I’ve failed in some way.
We gather that. Move forward – and stop capitalizing the ‘H’. Move forward – you’re allowed to, because you can rest easy that you did do everything you could for that relationship. You also mourned at base level. You swept nothing under the metaphorical carpet. You reached absolute rock bottom emotionally but therein lie the strongest foundations upon which to build. Nothing hidden. Nothing more you could have done, should have said. You do know that?
Yes. I’m just not good at goodbyes. They make me sad. Amor vincit omnia – and all of that.
It is good that you feel that way. It means you are undamaged. Imagine if you felt bitter and twisted – how destructive would that be? How awful would it be if you were now hardened and cynical? He was mean to you, Cat.
He was mean to me.
Ultimately, it had nothing to do with you. You do see that?
It had nothing to do with me.
That’s right. That’s to be your mantra.
It had nothing to do with me. I was dealt a bad card, hey?
Good