As Good As Guitars Ch. 08

September 2010

"I'll... I'll buy you lunch for a week. And beers." I reek of desperation, but then, I'm desperate. "Go on Jim, swap with me. Please?"

"You don't even follow cycling." The man opposite me grins, dragging the moment out a little longer before he relents. "Okay, you win. It's yours."

I want to hug him, but I'm pretty sure he'd take the opportunity to feel me up, and I'm not quite that grateful. "Thanks Jim, you're a star. I owe you."

"Yes you do, Lamps. You just make sure you get me a decent story - there's naff-all else to write about at the moment."

That afternoon I arrive embarrassingly early at the stage finish, obsessively reading and re-reading my hastily scribbled notes. The Tour of Britain is coming through my little South West town of Taunton this year not once but twice. Stage 4 finishes here today and Stage 6 will travel through on its way to Salisbury on Thursday. My employer has deemed the event worthy of a reporter, and thanks to the deal brokered earlier, that's me. Jim's right - I know next to nothing about cycling, but an opportunity like this is too much to pass up. Women sports writers don't tend to make it big, and I'm determined to buck the trend.

When the riders finally get to Taunton it's a tense bunch finish, with several riders in contention until one emerges from the group as if by magic and steals the win by inches. He appears totally focussed as he approaches the line, showing no emotion until the victory is safely in the bag. Then he erupts with childlike glee, showering his team-mates with effusive praise and thanks.

Despite the brightly-coloured outfits I can't tell one rider from another, but the spectators around me are more than happy to try to teach me. I soon learn that the winner is Mark Gilwood - one of the few riders I have heard of. I watch it all, drinking in the scene eagerly and trying to absorb every possible detail.

At the press conference later I stand quietly at the back of the room, watching the more experienced journalists coax meaningful answers from the tired athletes. After several minutes of back and forth, Mark takes the mic. "You're very quiet, pretty blonde at the back. Would you like to ask anything?"

To my acute embarrassment I realise that he's talking to me. I scramble for an intelligent answer. "Uh, yes. Leigh Davies, Taunton Daily Press. I'd like to –"

One of the other riders cuts me off. "Get his number? I wouldn't, love. He'll chew you up and spit you out."

There's general laughter and a flash of irritation crosses Mark's face, giving me courage. I compose myself. "I'd like to know how you sustain the mental energy to do these multi-stage races. You seemed to get such an intense high from the win - how do you make yourself get up tomorrow morning and do it all again?"

He smiles. "It's my job - it's what I do. If I don't race tomorrow, I'm letting the whole team down. I'm only one component, and if I'm not pulling my weight, I deserve to get dropped." His eyes twinkle. "And hey, I might win tomorrow."

I can't resist showing off the tiny amount of knowledge I've gleaned this afternoon. "That seems unlikely - you do know you're crossing Dartmoor tomorrow, don't you?"

He groans theatrically and another team-mate chips in. "She knows her stuff, Gil, you'd better watch out." The cyclists - never mature at the best of times - dissolve into a mêlée of name-calling, and the conference breaks up.

Back in the office Jim approves the piece I put together and I spend every spare moment learning about road racing before he sends me to Salisbury to cover Thursday's session. This time there's a crash on the final corner and several riders come down hard, although most are lucky to escape hitting the ground at what I'm told is 35mph with nothing worse than bruising. Mark's one of them, and the concern I feel on his behalf surprises me. Two days ago he was just another sporting superstar, not a real person.

He's not present at the Q&A session and when it's done I slip away, looking for his team bus in the makeshift teams' camp. I know I'm not likely to see him, but I want to leave a message. To my surprise I not only find the right bus but am also able to approach it, stopped only at the door by a woman not much older than me. When I explain that I want to pass on my condolences she softens, shouting into the cavernous vehicle.

"Gil! Visitor for you." She climbs the steps into the bus before I can stop her.

"No really, I don't want to bother – " I stop, suddenly tongue-tied as the man himself comes down to meet me. He looks tired, his face drawn in pain as he cradles his left arm, and I feel guilty at disturbing him. Then he sees me and his face lights up. Despite knowing better, I'm flattered.

"The reporter from Taunton."

"Yes - Leigh."

"Pleased to meet you, Leigh. I'm Gil." He's grinning, knowing that I know perfectly well who he is. "I didn't expect to see you again."

My face is warm. "My boss liked the piece I wrote - thanks to you - and sent me to cover today's stage as well, seeing as you went through Taunton earlier. I was hoping to interview you again."

His expression clouds, and I realise that he thinks that's why I'm here now. "No, sorry, I meant that I was hoping you'd win the stage. I only came to the bus to say get well soon. You're not hurting too badly, are you?"

He shakes his head, smiling again, his moods apparently as mercurial as a toddler's. "I'm fine - just bruised. It looked bad, but I've been hurt a lot worse, believe me." A strange expression flickers across his face, so fast I wonder if I've imagined it.

"Well then... I should leave you in peace, I guess. I'm glad you're okay." I move to turn away, but he stops me.

"There's going to be a post-race party on Saturday night, at the Marriott in Twickenham. Would you like to come? If you come to the stage finish I'll make sure you're on the guest list." His body language tells me that he doesn't expect me to say no.

I think rapidly, trying to remember my upcoming schedule. I don't know what his intentions are, but there's no way I'm turning down an invitation like that, reputation or not. "Yes, I'd love to. Are you sure?" His grin is the only reply. "Okay, I'll um... I'll see you in Twickenham."

"I hope so. I'll look forward to it - another reason to get up and do it all again tomorrow." This time he lets me leave, and I walk back across the car park floating at least six inches above the tarmac.

On Saturday I'm at the race finish as instructed. It's another sprint stage, and once again seemingly at the last moment Gil appears from the midst of the bunch - peleton, my notes remind me - this time stamping his authority on the field and winning by two bike-lengths. As well as the stage, he's also won the overall sprinters' competition and the champagne starts flowing as soon as the obligatory urine samples have been taken.

I watch it all from the sidelines, feeling the adrenaline rush from the atmosphere, a little over-awed at having been able to experience it so close up. I'm half-expecting that Gil will have forgotten, or regret, his invitation, but it's not many minutes before he wanders over, a glass in each hand.

"Leigh! You came!" He looks genuinely pleased. "I thought maybe you wouldn't. D'you still want to come to the party?" He hands me a glass before I can answer. "For you."

"Thanks, yes please. And congratulations - you were awesome out there." I'm doing my best not to be the tongue-tied ingénue and I think I'm just about succeeding.

Gil takes a long swig of his champagne, looking at me appraisingly over the rim of his glass. His expression gives me goosebumps. "You know, we could just have our own private party in my room instead."

I don't believe it. I'd hoped to at least get into the hotel before he tried to get into my knickers. Jim's lecture from the day before replays itself in my head.

...He's a player, Lamps. I've heard he fucks anything that moves, female or male. They say it's a wonder he can sit on that saddle some mornings. Look, by all means go up to London - I'll even sign off on your expenses. But you make sure you come back with a decent story and nothing else, okay? You're far too good for him - you want a nice lad, not some millionaire playboy who won't remember your name two days later. You're smarter than that - don't let him get the better of you...

My mind races. "That sounds fun, but I don't want to drag you away from the party before it's even started. You've won - people will expect to see you there."

Gil's eyes narrow, but his mouth twitches. "Okay, I'll play fair. I invited you to the party, so to the party you shall go. If you get to the hotel for about 8pm, your name will be on the guest-list."

Silently I breathe a sigh of relief that he doesn't seem to mind me turning him down. "I'll look forward to it."

He's about to say something else when the woman from the day before approaches us. She's clutching a clipboard and looks harried. "Gil, Roz is ready for your massage, and there's the team debrief... Andy sent me out to find you. There's a dozen other things I should be doing rather than run around after you while you ply some poor girl with fizz." She flashes me an apologetic glance.

Gil's expression turns sheepish. "Sorry Lucy." He turns to me. "I'm sorry, I've got to go - can't keep the boss waiting. You'll be there later?"

I say "Yes" at the same time as Lucy says "Gil!" and then they're gone, and I'm left standing there with a glass of champagne, feeling slightly daft.

~

The hotel function room is crowded and noisy, the smell of beer and testosterone filling the air. I wander around the room slowly, looking for the familiar face in the crowd. In the end I hear him before I see him, as he holds court before a group of awestruck admirers.

Suddenly he sees me and his expression changes. Ignoring the fact that we're being watched by at least a dozen onlookers, he raises his voice. "If it isn't Ms Davies. How nice of you to finally join us. I do hope we're not keeping you from anything more important?"

I don't appreciate sarcasm at the best of times, and definitely not when I'm already feeling guilty because I'm nearly two hours late. After the race I'd had a few hours to kill until the party and decided to use them to visit an old school-friend now living in Kingston. Unfortunately the swift drink had turned into several and then a meal, and by the time I'd managed to get back to my hotel and change it was past 9 and counting. I'd almost not come at all, but I didn't fancy trying to explain that to Jim.

Praying that he can't tell I'm already quite drunk, I decide that I've got nothing to lose. "I'm so sorry, Mr Gilwood. I knew I was going to be late but sadly I didn't have any way of letting you know. I thought I should make the effort as you'd been so kind as to invite me - I won't disturb you any further."

I turn on my heel, keeping my chin high and trying not to hear the chorus of catcalls and good-natured jeering from the crowd. Judging by the comments, Gil's not used to having someone answer him back.

"Good-looking and feisty, I like it. Someone have her scrubbed and brought to my room."

That makes me angry - I'm not a cheap whore here for his entertainment. I spin around and take a step forward, intending to throw my drink in his face.

There's a quiet voice by my ear. "Leave him. He's just drunk and stupid." Puzzled, I turn to see a rider I recognise, Simon Vermeulen. His hand's on my arm and he looks concerned. "Don't waste good wine on him. You'd be much better off drinking it." He sounds kind, and suddenly I feel very tired.

"I think maybe I've drunk enough already. I need to get out of here."

He offers me his arm. "Allow me?"

I glance back in time to see another strange expression - jealousy, I think - cross Gil's face. It's replaced by a sneer almost immediately. He nods at me. "If it's an inside scoop you're after, you're wasting your time with Si. I don't think you've got what he's looking for."

Before I can reply he turns away and is gone, vanishing back into the crowd. I look up at Simon - he's a good foot taller than me - and see him blush. He swallows but doesn't drop his arm, and I take it gratefully. He leads me across the room to the lobby and shows me to a chair. A nearby couple glance up incuriously before wandering off, leaving us alone.

"Where are you staying? Would you like me to call you a cab?"

I sigh, seeing my story disappear into thin air. I didn't expect to be here less than twenty minutes and I'm going to be in all sorts of trouble at work. "I'm at the Holiday Inn up the road."

To my surprise, Simon grimaces. "That dump? Jesus. Look, let me book you a room here. My treat - to apologise for Gil's behaviour. He didn't need to be so rude just because you were late." Before I can stop him he's talking to the girl at the reception desk.

He comes back with a key. "It's all yours - enjoy."

Oh lord, what's he going to want from me in return? "Mr Vermeulen..."

"Call me Si, everyone else does. Honestly, it's fine." He smiles. "I haven't done anything nice for a beautiful young woman in a long while."

This time the penny drops and I'm ashamed of having misjudged him. "Thank you. That's very kind of you, even though you really don't need to."

"It's okay." He pulls a wry face. "I like to look out for Gil. You probably won't believe me, but he was very much looking forward to seeing you this evening. When you weren't here earlier he thought you'd stood him up, and he's not used to that."

I push away the guilt as I try to remember what Jim's taught me about interviewing.

...Ask open questions, Lamps. Look interested and be encouraging. And let them talk. They'll fill the silence fast enough if you let them...

I wish I had my dictaphone. "Why do you look out for Gil? I know you used to be on the same team, but he moved at the beginning of the year, didn't he?" Thank god for last-minute revision.

Simon settles back in his chair, seemingly happy to talk. "We started out in the same training academy, years ago. My English wasn't very good when I first came to the UK and he decided he'd help me improve. Then I got successful before he did so I helped him in return. We've been friends, more or less, for a long time. He's the baby brother I don't have."

"You've got sisters?"

"Three. I'm the youngest. My father likes to say that's why I started cycling - to get some space from all the girl-talk when they were teenagers. He and I used to go out for day rides, sometimes with his cycling group, sometimes just the two of us. I think it helped him cope after Mum died." He stares into space for a moment. "I should ring him, actually. He likes to know I can still string a sentence or two together in Dutch."

Dutch... That's the Netherlands, then - or Belgium, maybe. I'm ashamed to realise I'm not sure. Research, Leigh, research. "Do you ever think of going back home?"

He looks at me. "You're the reporter, aren't you?" Dammit, I'd hoped he'd forgotten. I nod, expecting him to get up, but he doesn't. "Just as well I'm not drunk." He smiles at me properly for the first time and for a second I can't help thinking it's a shame that he's gay.

He's still talking and I make myself concentrate. "But to answer your question, no, not really. These days your facilities are just as good as anyone else's, and the training camps are all overseas anyway... it doesn't matter so much where you actually live. And one of my sisters married an Englishman and lives here too, so that helps."

"Lucky you. I've only ever lived in Somerset. It's a great place to grow up, but it's not so exciting when you're in your 20s. I come up to London every chance I get, which isn't often enough."

Simon laughs. "I can imagine. But don't let that –" He stops himself.

"What?"

"I was going to offer you some advice, but I should mind my own business. I'm sorry."

I lean forward. "No, go on - I won't be offended."

He looks uncomfortable. "I was just going to say that you shouldn't let boredom make the wrong decisions for you. A young woman, swept off her feet by an invitation from a charming man she doesn't know... Gil means well, but he's got a very short attention span."

I think that's the polite way of saying that Gil fucks anything that moves. I've got the message, and I'm starting to be grateful that I inadvertently pissed him off earlier. I don't imagine the grubby feeling after a one-night stand is much mitigated by it having been with a sporting celebrity.

There's a sudden commotion behind us as a group of drunken revellers emerge from the ballroom. To my surprise I recognise a couple of them - sports writers from a national paper and personal friends of one of the team owners. I interned with one of them when we were younger. He got the big break and I didn't, but we've stayed in touch and swap stories regularly. He glances over, then does the classic double-take.

"Lamps! I didn't recognise you with that hair. What on earth are you doing here?"

Simon looks at me. "Lamps?"

I sigh. "My middle name's Elizabeth - thus LED. I gave up trying to fight it years ago." He grins, and we stand up.

As Jon approaches he pulls me into a bear hug. "Bri, this is Lamps. I know I've told you about her - she'll drink you under the table if you let her. Although she was a redhead in those days... she might be quieter as a blonde. Lamps, come drinking with us."

He changes tack abruptly. "Oh hey, maybe you guys know something about this rumour I heard. You'll love this. You know Gil's a complete whore - well, apparently some bird stood him up tonight and he's fucking furious. I'm told he's worked his way through a bottle of vodka already."

Simon raises an eyebrow at me and it's all I can do not to giggle. Jon pulls at my arm. "Come on Lamps, come and party."

"Okay okay, I'm coming." I extricate myself from Jon's grasp. "Simon, I can't thank you enough. You've been a real gentleman."

To my surprise he leans down to kiss my cheek. "It's been a pleasure. Look after yourself." He's gone even before Jon's pulled me back to his group of friends.

~

I wake up late the next morning, my mouth dry and my head pounding. I lie there for a moment, waiting for the night's events to reassemble themselves in my brain. There had been more drinking after I'd joined Jon and his friends, and then the team owner - a banking mogul who'd actually turned out to be a lovely man - had taken a group of us on into a nightclub in town. I think I got back to the hotel at about 4am, which would explain why I currently feel like death warmed over. And all my stuff is in a Holiday Inn down the road.

Except it's not. When I eventually sit up I see my bags stacked neatly on the side, with a note. Holding my head and wishing I didn't want to throw up, I stagger over.

The note's from Simon.

Hi Leigh, I took the liberty of arranging to get your things collected for you - I thought it might make this morning a little easier. PS I'd much prefer it if last night stayed off the record, please. But in return for that courtesy, I'll do a proper interview for you sometime soon, if you'd like? Si x

Simon's kindness has a miraculous effect on my headache, although I think only food will cure the queasy stomach. After a long restorative shower, clean clothes and some makeup I'm about ready to face the world, and I'm just combing my hair through when there's a knock on the door.

Wondering if it's the maid coming to turf me out, I open the door reluctantly. To my intense surprise I see Gil stood there, tray in hand. He smiles and I have to smile back.

"Room service?"

I step back, thanking providence that he'd not been ten minutes earlier. "Come in. How did you know I was here? Why are you here?"