Freya North 3-Book Collection: Cat, Fen, Pip

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When Cat arrived home from Derbyshire, her neighbours had left a note inviting her upstairs for a snack and a chat. Eric and Jim (whose fifth anniversary that weekend Cat had missed for Django’s Spread) saw Cat’s emotional and physical welfare as their responsibility. They were positively parental though they were, in fact, but a year or two older than her. When she had food poisoning, they brought her tonic water and the bucket. When her flat was broken in to, they insisted she slept on their sofabed. When He left, they brought her ice-cream and comfort. They were almost as excited by France and the notion that an adventure and a change of scenery would work wonders for Cat, as they were by the thought of one hundred and eighty-nine amply muscled men in lycra shorts.

‘We have a present for you,’ Eric said. ‘We wanted to give it to you before you leave on Wednesday – by the way, if it doesn’t start till Saturday, why are you going so early?’

‘Because I have to organize my accreditation and then during Thursday and Friday there are press conferences, team by team,’ Cat explained, ‘and stuff.’

‘Are you excited?’ Jim asked, because he was. ‘Aren’t you nervous?’

‘I’m very both,’ said Cat. ‘If that’s a sentence.’

‘You’re vulnerable,’ Jim warned her. ‘Don’t expect too much from France. I know it’s a goal that’s kept you going, but don’t expect too much.’

‘And don’t go on the rebound,’ Eric added, wagging his finger. ‘I mean, those riders are considered gods, rock stars, over there, aren’t they?’

‘I think what he’s trying to say,’ said Jim, ‘is that if you’re to go on the rebound – which we sincerely hope you will – a professional cyclist might not be the most suitable participant.’

‘I mean,’ said Eric, ‘just imagine the effect of a night of non-stop debauchery – the poor sod will be too knackered to turn the pedals the next day.’

They all imagined it quietly for a moment and then burst out laughing.

‘Which somewhat makes a mockery of our gift,’ Eric then continued. ‘Here. It’s your survival kit.’

They handed Cat a shoebox. She lifted the lid, twitched her brow and then laughed as she fingered through the contents.

‘Condoms?’ she exclaimed, while Jim shrugged and Eric looked out the window.

‘Bic razors?’ she asked, counting four.

‘We weren’t sure if they use Immac on their legs,’ said Jim.

‘And there’s nothing quite like being shaved by someone you fancy,’ Eric furthered.

‘And there’s a lot of leg on some of those boys,’ Jim reasoned.

‘So am I to suppose that this bumper-sized bottle of baby oil is for after shave and not for me?’ Cat asked to meek smiles apiece from the two men.

‘Why do they shave their legs?’ Eric asked.

‘To show off their tans and muscles,’ Jim cooed.

‘Aerodynamics?’ Eric pressed.

‘Or just a tradition that I, for one, sincerely hope will continue,’ Jim said breathlessly.

‘Road rash,’ said Cat, most matter-of-fact.

‘Eh?’ said Eric.

‘If they crash or fall,’ Cat explained, ‘it’s easier to clean cuts and grazes on smooth skin.’

Jim looked most disappointed with this information. Cat returned her attention to the shoebox. ‘Vaseline?’

‘We read somewhere that it gives them a, um, more comfortable ride,’ Jim said ingenuously.

‘Not that we’re suggesting you offer to apply it,’ Eric rushed. Cat raised her eyebrows and held up a wildly patterned bandanna.

‘They all wear them,’ Eric said, ‘we saw them on the TV last year.’

‘Extra strong mints,’ Cat said, taking the packet to her nose.

‘For any, er, passing horses,’ Eric said.

‘I’m frightened of horses,’ Cat said.

‘You can befriend them with the mints,’ Jim said.

‘And that’s why you’ve included them?’ Cat pressed with a wry smile. ‘Not because I’m going to a country where you have meals with your garlic?’ They smiled back at her. Wryly.

Plasters. Antiseptic. A hundred-franc note. A packet of energy bars.

‘We’ll follow your progress in the Guardian,’ Eric said.

‘It’ll be good,’ Jim assured her with a squeeze, ‘you’ll be fine.’

I wonder who’ll end up in the yellow jersey? Cat ponders, sitting up in bed with current copies of Marie Claire and Procycling to hand. It’ll either be Fabian Ducasse or Vasily Jawlensky and I love them both equally but for different reasons. Fabian is stunning in looks and riding, his arrogance is compelling. He exudes testosterone – hopefully in doses that are natural and not administered. Vasily is fantastically handsome too but he really is inscrutable – an enigma. Who do I want to see in the maillot jaune? I don’t know. May the best man win.

And the polka dot jersey for King of the Mountains? I’d put my money on Vasily’s team-mate, the personable and rather gorgeous Massimo Lipari; the media’s dream and a million housewives’ darling. I’d like him to make it his hat trick though he’ll have to watch out for his Système Vipère rival, the diminutive but charismatic Carlos Jesu Velasquez.

And the green jersey? For points? Can Stefano Sassetta take it back from Jesper Lomers this year?

Then there’s the American team, Megapac – Tour virgins, just like me. Maybe I’ll try for some exclusives. I’d love to meet Luca Jones – he seems to typify the international camaraderie of the peloton, living in Italy, riding for Great Britain and racing for an American pro team. He’s meant to be something of a character – but when you’re that pleasing on the eye, it would be a disappointment not to be.

God, I wish I could speak Spanish or Italian. My French is crap. I should have studied harder for Mamzelle at school instead of – how did she phrase it? ‘Day-dreaming won’t get you a job, O levels will.’

But actually, I’ve day-dreamt about following the Tour de France for years. And now it’s my job to do it.