Cat. Freya North

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СКАЧАТЬ and had a pen rather than a cigarette between his fingers.

      The man flicked over a page of his notebook, squinted and then spoke.

      ‘Cat-riona McCabe?’ he asked. ‘Guardian?’

       And he’s British.

      ‘Yes,’ Cat beamed, standing up and shaking his hand.

      ‘I’m Josh Piper,’ he said, extending his hand.

      ‘Oh – Josh-ua!’ Cat proclaimed, with a familiarity and joviality that made her cringe because they far exceeded the mere expression of recognition and relief she’d actually intended. ‘You’re English and you’re Joshua.’ She shook his hand anew.

      ‘Er, yes,’ he said, regarding her quizzically, ‘but please – it’s Josh and I’m relieved you’re Catriona McCabe – I’ve been standing here for ten hours saying hello in every language I know and some I probably don’t. You were miles away – where were you? Half-way up L’Alpe D’Huez already?’

      Cat gave a guilty grin. ‘Not quite, but I was preoccupied. I’m sorry.’ To emphasize the point, she sat down again and stared concertedly at her screen.

      Noticing that she still had her earpiece in place and that the dictaphone appeared still to be whirring and that her fingers were over the keys, Josh put his hands up in surrender.

      ‘You’re going to share the driving with us – right?’ His hands were now on his hips, as if it aided him in assessing her potential behind the wheel.

      ‘Yup, absolutely, thanks so much,’ Cat rushed.

      ‘This is your first Tour,’ he told her.

       Am I that transparent?

      Cat shrugged and nodded, trying to wipe the daft grin from her face.

       But this is my first Tour – I’m here at the Tour de France – automatic smile drug.

      ‘It’s my seventh,’ Josh continued. ‘I read your Tour of Britain report for Cycling Weekly – I thought it was quite good.’

      ‘Thank you,’ Cat smiled, closing her eyes temporarily, revelling in such praise from a seasoned and respected journalist.

      ‘Good,’ Josh said. ‘How’s Taverner doing at the Guardian?’

      ‘My boss?’ Cat smiled on. ‘He’s fine – stressed out, as ever, but fine. Still racing a fair bit, winning not a lot but forever exhibiting his war wounds!’

      ‘I bet he was pissed off having to delegate this job out – it would have been his thirteenth tour.’

      God, I have so far to go. So much to catch up on. Shoes to fill. A spectre to cast off. An impression to make.

      ‘Well,’ Josh continued, ‘nice to meet you. I’ll see you around.’

      ‘Thanks,’ said Cat, watching Josh blend with the press corps and suddenly kicking herself for not asking for his mobile number, or where they should meet on Sunday for Stage 1, or what she should do with her bags and what sort of car it was she was to help drive.

       Why didn’t he invite me to sit by him? Or suggest coffee or sandwiches? Or ask where I’m staying?

      Because you’re at work, not at a dinner party. Anyway, he was friendly and he did come to find you. Now write. Work.

       I don’t know where to start. I’m still starving. Anyway, it’s the Saeco-Cannondale press conference in twenty minutes and I want to get a seat near the front so I can concentrate on Mario Cipollini.

      Ten minutes later, as Cat was on her way out of the main ice rink to the press conference room, she came across Josh Piper headed in the same direction. It transpired they were staying at the same hotel.

      ‘Cipo, Cipo,’ Cat whispered as they took their seats and waited for the team. She turned to Josh and regarded him earnestly. ‘Mario Cipollini,’ she said, eyes asparkle. The sentence was complete, the profundity of its meaning and the depth of associated emotion were encapsulated in those two words.

      ‘I fucking love Cipo,’ said Josh, ‘I love him.’

      ‘So do I,’ Cat breathed, ‘I love Cipollini too.’

      Josh shook her hand. ‘Can I call you Cat? We should meet for dinner this evening,’ said Josh, ‘there’s a few of us at the hotel.’

      ‘That would be lovely,’ said Cat earnestly, ‘and of course you can. Can I have your mobile number?’

      Josh tipped his head. ‘Won’t it be easier if I just call your room from my room?’

      ‘Oh yes,’ said Cat, biting her lip and hoping that a grin might, in some way, counteract her inanity. Josh looked ahead and nudged her. She grinned at him again.

       I have a friend!

      She nudged him back. He turned to her, swiftly regarding her with a flicker of a frown, tipping his head towards the platform at the front, giving her a sharp nudge. Cat followed his gaze.

      ‘Cipo!’ Cat proclaimed involuntarily, her voice hoarse and regrettably loud. The two rows in front of her turned and stared. Mario Cipollini, however, nodded at her. Josh nudged her. She could feel him smile. Cat swelled.

       Friday. Salle de presse. 10 a.m.

      The press room wasn’t quite so unnerving, did not seem nearly as cavernous or quite so cacophonous the next morning, nor did the press corps seem as intimidating. Not least because there were now two faces known to her. Nevertheless, Cat set up her work space, settled herself down, opening a file and typing a few lines, before she scanned the mêlée and finally recognized the backs of Josh and also Alex Fletcher a few rows in front of her. She grinned at their shoulder blades, felt settled and keen to work.

       I do hope Jimenez and Lipari weren’t twiddling their thumbs and at a loose end last night – because I was otherwise occupied. Josh did indeed call my room and we went out for a meal, with Alex Fletcher who is also travelling with us. Alex is very tall but his stature seems disproportionate to his demeanour – he’s like an excitable schoolboy – deplorable expletives every other word and a quite staggering lack of respect for his expense account. I had heard he can be brusque, that he requires an ego massage. But I like him, he’s amusing – it might even be fun with the three of us in the car.

      ‘Morning, Cat,’ said Alex, right on cue and towering above her, ‘fucking shit night’s sleep last night.’

      Cat wasn’t quite sure how to respond, because she had slept very well, so she gave what she hoped was a sympathetic tip of her head. Alex loped off. Cat returned her attention to her still ominously blank screen.

       I have to write my piece – Taverner wants 800 words on the Tour de France in general for Saturday’s issue as a prelude to the daily reports on each Stage.

      ‘Coming for coffee?’ said Josh. СКАЧАТЬ