leather wallet. He saw that the wallet contained some money and a well-known credit card.
“You go cycling with a credit card?”
“Sure. If you have a breakdown of some kind, having 100 francs in your pocket just isn’t good enough. This way I can use my credit card to hire a car to get home, or I can book into a hotel.”
“Don’t you carry a cell-phone? It might be useful in an emergency.”
She grimaced. “No, I’ve been burned by cell phones more than once. Somehow, no matter how often I change my number, somebody always gets hold of it. Then I have to field calls from fans and crazies alike. I’ve also had problems with paparazzi using scanners to listen in on my conversations. Can you imagine seeing excerpts from a private conversation on the front page of a tabloid? So I’ve sworn off cell phones.”
“I see your point. Perhaps what you need is a cell phone like mine. The number is untraceable, and because it operates on a different frequency to normal cell phones, no scanner can find it. It’s a bit more complicated than that, but I promise your calls will be private.”
She laughed. “I might take you up on that, James Bond. Especially if it’s as small and compact as the one I saw.”
He smiled. “I’ll make sure yours is pink. I’m glad I can help.”
He watched as she pulled on socks and cycling shoes. The shoes had small plastic cleats attached to the soles, and he asked about them.
She handed him a shoe as she explained, “That cleat clips into the pedal so that it locks my foot to the pedal. To release my foot I just twist the shoe sideways, the same way I would release skis. My feet have to be secure, because I push down on the pedal, but on the up-stroke, I pull up, so that I exert power all the way.”
“What if you crash?” Stefan asked, turning the shoe in his hand.
“Well, it’s better if my feet are locked in, because then my legs stay close to the bike, and I’ll just suffer skin abrasions, or roasties, as cyclists call them. It’s when you have legs flying all over the place that you’re likely to break a leg, or a hip, or even your pelvis.”
“Have you ever come off badly?”
Marcelle laughed. “Yes. Sometimes I’m a bit reckless on the descents and in the sprints, so I have come down more than once. I had a horrific accident when I was nearly nineteen, and sprinting for the finish. I was a mess, and in a coma for five days. But that’s a long story.” A devil-may-care expression crossed her face as she continued, “It helps if your opponents think you’re fearless, or even a little crazy. That way they’ll think twice before challenging you in a sprint or a corner. Jean-Michel operated on that principle, and it worked for him. Once he was ahead in a race, few people would try to pass him.” She sobered. “Of course, that’s what...” she took a deep breath, “that’s what finished him eventually.”
She took the shoe from him and slipped it on, using her hair to shield her eyes from his gaze. When she looked up, she had herself under control.
“I have to go,” she said, her shoes clicking on the smooth tiles of the kitchen as she fetched two water bottles from the fridge. She returned, and paused for a moment. “You’ll be fine, won’t you?”
“Of course, have a good ride.”
“I’ll see you later then.” She stepped into the elevator and waved to him as the doors closed.
Stefan walked back to the picture window of the living room and stared through the tinted mirror glass. Outside it was a beautiful day.
A few minutes later, he saw her pushing her bike out of the garage. She looked as if she was born to ride a bike as she cycled to the gate. She stopped and spent a few minutes talking to the guards. Then she cycled down the road and soon disappeared in the distance.
Stefan turned from the window, feeling abandoned. The desolation threatened to overwhelm him, and for the next hour, he prowled around the apartment, at odds with
“You go cycling with a credit card?”
“Sure. If you have a breakdown of some kind, having 100 francs in your pocket just isn’t good enough. This way I can use my credit card to hire a car to get home, or I can book into a hotel.”
“Don’t you carry a cell-phone? It might be useful in an emergency.”
She grimaced. “No, I’ve been burned by cell phones more than once. Somehow, no matter how often I change my number, somebody always gets hold of it. Then I have to field calls from fans and crazies alike. I’ve also had problems with paparazzi using scanners to listen in on my conversations. Can you imagine seeing excerpts from a private conversation on the front page of a tabloid? So I’ve sworn off cell phones.”
“I see your point. Perhaps what you need is a cell phone like mine. The number is untraceable, and because it operates on a different frequency to normal cell phones, no scanner can find it. It’s a bit more complicated than that, but I promise your calls will be private.”
She laughed. “I might take you up on that, James Bond. Especially if it’s as small and compact as the one I saw.”
He smiled. “I’ll make sure yours is pink. I’m glad I can help.”
He watched as she pulled on socks and cycling shoes. The shoes had small plastic cleats attached to the soles, and he asked about them.
She handed him a shoe as she explained, “That cleat clips into the pedal so that it locks my foot to the pedal. To release my foot I just twist the shoe sideways, the same way I would release skis. My feet have to be secure, because I push down on the pedal, but on the up-stroke, I pull up, so that I exert power all the way.”
“What if you crash?” Stefan asked, turning the shoe in his hand.
“Well, it’s better if my feet are locked in, because then my legs stay close to the bike, and I’ll just suffer skin abrasions, or roasties, as cyclists call them. It’s when you have legs flying all over the place that you’re likely to break a leg, or a hip, or even your pelvis.”
“Have you ever come off badly?”
Marcelle laughed. “Yes. Sometimes I’m a bit reckless on the descents and in the sprints, so I have come down more than once. I had a horrific accident when I was nearly nineteen, and sprinting for the finish. I was a mess, and in a coma for five days. But that’s a long story.” A devil-may-care expression crossed her face as she continued, “It helps if your opponents think you’re fearless, or even a little crazy. That way they’ll think twice before challenging you in a sprint or a corner. Jean-Michel operated on that principle, and it worked for him. Once he was ahead in a race, few people would try to pass him.” She sobered. “Of course, that’s what...” she took a deep breath, “that’s what finished him eventually.”
She took the shoe from him and slipped it on, using her hair to shield her eyes from his gaze. When she looked up, she had herself under control.
“I have to go,” she said, her shoes clicking on the smooth tiles of the kitchen as she fetched two water bottles from the fridge. She returned, and paused for a moment. “You’ll be fine, won’t you?”
“Of course, have a good ride.”
“I’ll see you later then.” She stepped into the elevator and waved to him as the doors closed.
Stefan walked back to the picture window of the living room and stared through the tinted mirror glass. Outside it was a beautiful day.
A few minutes later, he saw her pushing her bike out of the garage. She looked as if she was born to ride a bike as she cycled to the gate. She stopped and spent a few minutes talking to the guards. Then she cycled down the road and soon disappeared in the distance.
Stefan turned from the window, feeling abandoned. The desolation threatened to overwhelm him, and for the next hour, he prowled around the apartment, at odds with
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