Page 38 of Head Over Wheels

‘Ah!’ she said with a grimace, glancing at the marble embellishments on the chapel we were shuffling towards. ‘Seb, this is the wrong Catherine.’

‘The wrong…’ I couldn’t finish my sentence because she clutched my arm and squeezed as she continued reading and my brain froze, wondering if the casual touch was affectionate. Of course it wasn’t. I was the idiot who’d stolen her luck, fallen into a fountain and brought her to see the wrong saint. An orgasm and a pair of my grandma’s leg warmers wouldn’t make up for that.

‘These are the relics of Catherine of Siena, not Catherine of Alexandria! There’s no connection to wheels at all, although I’m personally relieved this Catherine wasn’t tortured, to be honest. Did you ever realise how much violence against women is internalised into western culture?’

‘No, I—’

‘I like this story much better. She refused to marry and then became a powerful political adviser. Except she got sick and died at 33 and then—’ Her eyes widened and she looked up at the chapel in alarm. Only four tourists separated us from the railing. ‘Do you know what this relic is?’

‘No. What?’ I asked urgently. I’d only seen the name ‘Saint Catherine’ before dragging her on this wild goose chase and when would I learn my lesson about leaping before I looked? It was probably a whole pile of fingernails and a pair of underwear.

I stepped up to the railing with dread and slowly lifted mygaze. Lori’s hand on my forearm clutched more tightly and I needed that painful squeeze when I saw the object enshrined in a little reliquary of gold and brass and gemstones. My stomach protested and I swayed on my feet.

It was a severed head, withered and leathery, with a toothy gap for a mouth, a grizzly, noseless, partly-mummified capitulum that had – rather violently, I assumed – been separated from the corpus.

Okay, Lori’s hand wasn’t enough for me to hold it together. I made an unattractive choke and grappled for the railing as my knees gave out. ‘I think I’m going to be sick – again.’

Deep breaths. In… Out…

With Lori tugging my jacket as we dodged the pews, I made it outside and plonked my bottom onto the concrete steps, dropping my head between my knees. My face was hot and I almost wished Lori hadn’t been there to witness this – except I couldn’t imagine wishing Lori wasn’t there, ever.

She wasn’t the touchy-feely type and I didn’t expect a back rub, but she sat next to me – almost touching! – and I peered at her out of the corner of my eye as the nausea passed. Her expression was pensive and the image of her swiping away tears came back to me.

‘Did you eat?’ she asked. ‘After the race?’

‘Yeah… something? I think.’

‘Do you chuck up a lot after races?’

I shook my head. ‘I just went too hard today.’ She would know what I meant. Cycling was called an endurance sportfor a reason. We trained to operate beyond the sustainable capacity of our metabolisms on race day – and ignore the physical warnings telling us to stop. Although I wasn’t usually so good at ignoring those.

‘Are you going to try to tell me your result was also down to luck?’

‘Partly,’ I insisted. ‘I’ve rarely had better legs. I didn’t even fall for Gaetano’s mind games.’ I stifled a sneer, which probably looked like an impression of Sylvester Stallone, given the doubtful glance Lori gave me.

‘What mind games?’

Oops, perhaps I shouldn’t have given that away. Now my cheeks were radiating heat into the dusk air.

‘The usual, talking shit. I should have retired last year; I’m the 110th best Belgian cyclist; does my girlfriend even remember my name? He was more creative than most. I think he wanted me to drop back just so I didn’t have to hear the insults. It’s a cheap trick.’

Lori was silent for longer than I would have expected, but when she did speak, the words exploded from between her clenched teeth. ‘He’s a fucking wanker.’

The heat spread from my face to my chest as she vibrated with indignation, her knees bumping mine. I nudged her back. ‘That’s a mental image I didn’t need. I’m just glad I had it in me to beat him where it counts.’

‘I wish I could hit him where it counts. I couldn’t evengallopover the finish line today.’ The look she gave me wastinged with hurt and I hated that my good performance went hand-in-hand with bad luck for her.

‘I know you’re good, Lori, but surely you’ve had difficult finishes before. What happened today wasn’t your fault. You haven’t let anyone down.’

She flashed me a stubborn look. ‘I’ve leteveryonedown – for months. I bet you can still remember your worst losses.’

All I could do in reply was wince at exactly how well she’d hit the nail on the head.

‘You know everything Gaetano said shows more about him than it does about you?’ She tucked her knees up, propping her elbows on top.

‘I know. Big talk, small penis.’

Peering at me from where she rested her head on her arms, she asked, ‘Do you think if he has a small penis there is some justice in the world?’

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