Epilogue
I shook Tom, snuggled deep into his blankets.
‘Oi. Wake up, you.’
‘Wur…? Z’it Christmas?’
‘Better. It’s race day.’
Two hours later, we were dressed – head to foot in eye-watering canary yellow, the pair of us – and ready to inspect the village. Every resident, club and business had been working tirelessly to get the place ready, and there wasn’t a window on the main street that didn’t have a themed display. Even the undertaker’s had a bike-motif headstone.
‘Is our display finished?’ I asked Deano, who was outside the restaurant with his new girlfriend Shelley, attaching yellow bunting to the front.
‘Almost,’ he said, stepping back to admire it. ‘I think your dad would’ve approved. It’s about his level of daft.’
Stew had been hard at work sourcing old bikes for everyone who wanted to decorate one, and I was quite proud of the medieval effort currently gracing our front window. Deano had even managed to coax Galahad on to it, a lance tucked under his arm ready for a spot of cycle jousting and a yellow jersey stretched over his broad tinman pecs.
‘Whose idea were the antlers on the handlebars?’ I asked.
‘Mine,’ Shelley said with a little blush. ‘I thought it’d be sort of rock and roll.’
‘Shell’s dead artistic,’ Deano said, giving her backside a proud pat. ‘We met at a pottery class.’
She giggled. ‘It was like that bit in Ghost. He showed me where to put my hands.’
‘I just bet he did,’ Tom said.
‘And you’ll be all right in the restaurant this afternoon, will you?’ I asked Deano.
We’d wanted to take a few hours off to see the race, so he’d been left in charge of the two waitresses and four temps we’d hired for the day.
‘I’ll manage. Looking forward to being the boss.’
Tom slapped Deano’s shoulder. ‘See you later then, guys. We’re just going to check out the main street then we’re heading up to Pagans’ Rock.’
‘See you.’ Deano plucked Tom’s elbow as we turned to leave. ‘Oh, er, I sent your picnic ahead with Stew. Capisci?’
Tom gave him a significant nod. ‘Thanks, mate.’
After we’d inspected the front of Stewart’s shop, his bums polished up specially and a now finished Herbert the yarnbombed bike taking pride of place in the window, we headed to the temp.
‘Nice,’ Tom said with an approving nod.
The gardening association had done an impressive flowerbed display, gorgeous petunias planted in red, white and blue strips to form the French Tricolor. At the edges, white rose bushes symbolised the link with Yorkshire. A couple of yellow bikes painted by Egglethwaite Young Cyclists, the group Stewart and I had started up, flanked the bed at each side.
Crowds were already gathering, walking up and down the street examining the windows. Every B&B and campsite in the area had been heaving with cycling enthusiasts for days.
‘Let’s check the Fox,’ I said to Tom.
‘Bonjour,’ Billy said soberly from under his moustache when we’d barged in. He’d gone the full comedy Frenchman: beret, stripy jumper, even a string of onions. In the background, Queen’s Bicycle Race blared from the speakers.
‘I hope you’re not going to offend anyone French in that getup,’ Tom said.
‘Nah, it’s all good fun. If a French lad comes in, I’ll sort him out with a whippet and a flat cap so he can get his own back.’
I winced when I looked behind the bar.
‘Do you have to have that up?’ I said, nodding to the calendar. ‘Those aren’t even my real legs.’
‘Don’t worry, love. No one’s looking at your legs,’ Billy said with a grin. He nodded at my chest. ‘I know those’re real.’
‘Nice. So are you all set then?’
‘Yep. Free brie baguettes for everyone, La Marseillaise in the CD player and a range of French wines and lagers behind the bar. Hoping for standing room only by dinnertime.’
I slapped his arm. ‘You’re a good lad, Billy, I don’t care what they say. We’ll be in for a drink once it’s all over.’
After we left the pub, we walked down the bunting-crossed street to inspect the other windows. Jean had done another topiary bike, Yolanda’s caf had a twee little picnic scene with a basketed 1950s-style cycle, and there were a dozen others. Then we popped into the church to make sure the bellringers were ready. Every church on the route had agreed to ring their bells when the peloton passed through, a cacophony of sound from York Minster to Sheffield Cathedral marking the once-in-a-lifetime event.
Finally, we headed to the viaduct, where Sue, Gerry and Yolanda were decorating.
‘Bloody hell. Don’t go too far over,’ I said to Gerry when we got up there. He was leaning over the wall attaching some giant bunting to the outside. ‘We don’t want our first viaduct fatality today.’
Sue snorted. ‘Oh, don’t bother, Lana, you can’t tell him anything. He’s determined his precious bunting’ll be visible from space. If he wants to break his neck in the process, good luck to him.’
Gerry finished attaching the bunting and turned to blow his wife a kiss.
‘Is this the same Uncle Gerry who thought this was a terrible idea that’d give his sheep a nervous breakdown?’ Tom said with a smile.
‘Well. Hard to keep that up when I’ve got the three of you constantly bending my ear about it,’ Gerry said with some pretty unconvincing grump.
‘Plus he’s minting it,’ Sue said. ‘We made a small fortune letting our fields to campers. The way to a Yorkshireman’s heart is through his wallet.’
‘Where’s Yo-yo?’ I asked.
‘Over there.’ Sue pointed out Yolanda, her hair dyed the vibrant blue of the Yorkshire flag for the occasion, attaching bunting to the other end of the viaduct with a man I didn’t recognise.
‘Who’s the lad?’
‘Her latest toyboy. Nephew of someone in her bridge group.’ Sue shook her head. ‘She’ll have to slow down one of these days. Swap the blue hair for a blue rinse.’
‘Nah. She’ll be going well into her nineties,’ Tom said. ‘Egglethwaite wouldn’t be Egglethwaite without a Yo-yo to sex everyone up.’
‘Where are you two going now then? Pagans’ Rock?’
I glanced at Tom. ‘Yep. It’s time for Tommy’s important picnic.’
‘Ah. The important picnic.’ She gave us a kiss on the cheek each. ‘Well, good luck.’
Gerry gave us both a hug too. ‘And well done on today, kids,’ he said. ‘Nice to have made history, eh? Next time Rodge writes a book, you’ll be in it.’
‘S’pose we will. Weird.’ I nudged Tom. ‘Come on, bruv. Our men await.’
Up at Pagans’ Rock, we found Cam, Stew and Flash sunbathing, a blanket spread on the ground with an open basket in the middle.
‘Oi. Did you start eating without us?’ Tom said.
‘Sorry,’ Cam said with a guilty smile. ‘We got hungry. Just a few olives, that’s all.’
‘Hmm. Better be.’ Tom shot Stewart a searching look, and he nodded ever so slightly.
‘How’s everything looking?’ Stew asked.
I sat down and he shuffled so he could to wrap his legs around me from behind. It was our favourite way to sit. He could kiss my neck whenever he felt like it, which was pretty often, and I could snuggle back against his chest. When no one was looking, he could also have a cheeky squeeze of my boobs. That happened pretty often, too.
‘Great,’ I said as Tom sat down by Cameron. ‘Very French. Billy’s wearing a comedy tache.’
‘Ha! That I’ll have to see,’ Stew said. ‘How’s the viaduct?’
I grinned. ‘Yo-yo’s dragged some poor lad up there for a decorating date. Fingers crossed they’re not at it when the TV cameras arrive.’
‘How long now?’ Cameron asked.
‘An hourish.’ I nodded at the viaduct, Gerry’s giant bunting fluttering in the breeze. ‘The marshals must’ve opened the gates. Looks like there’s already a gang of spectators.’
‘So do you two want some picnic?’ Stewart asked. ‘Deano packed us a couple of bottles of wine, if it’s not too early.’
‘It most certainly is too early.’ I pulled the basket towards me and fumbled out a bottle of something fizzy. ‘But since it’s a special occasion…’
‘Well, cheers,’ I said when I’d poured everyone a glassful. ‘Here’s to all our hard work and general amazingness.’
‘Yep. To us,’ Tom said, and we clinked glasses.
‘Bloody hell,’ Cam gasped when he’d taken a sip. ‘What prosecco is this? It’s got a bit of kick.’
Stewart shook his head. ‘This is the good stuff. Harper donated it from his private stash for us to toast race day.’
‘That was nice of him.’ I took a sip too and made a face. ‘Jesus. He likes it that strong?’
‘Yep. Likes his fizz like he likes his women. Bubbly, full-bodied and overpriced.’
I nudged him. ‘Don’t be mean. You know you love him.’
‘Yeah. Don’t tell him though.’
Tom cleared his throat. ‘Hey, Cam,’ he said, nodding to a tub on the picnic blanket. ‘Try some of this houmous.’
‘No thanks. Not a big houmous fan.’
‘This is special houmous though. Deano’s own recipe. Seriously, mate, give it a try.’
‘Honestly, I’m good for houmous. You have some houmous.’
Tom glared at him. ‘But this is really, really nice houmous.’
I groaned. ‘Go on, Cam. Have some houmous or we’ll never hear the end of it.’
‘Ugh. Anything for a quiet life.’ He grabbed the tub.
‘There’s something in my houmous, Tommy,’ he said, peering into it.
‘There’d bloody better be, or I’m seriously out of pocket.’
Cameron fished out the ring nestling in the centre of Deano’s chickpea goodness, a plain silver band, and held it up in front of him.
‘And if you don’t like it you can blame Lana, she picked it,’ Tom said.
‘I do like it,’ Cam said quietly. ‘I really like it.’
‘You going to put it on then?’
‘Dunno. It’s all houmousy.’
‘God, you are such a diva. Lick it off or something.’
Stewart nudged me. ‘Am I witnessing the least romantic proposal ever here?’
I grinned. ‘Yep.’
‘Oi. I am well romantic,’ Tom said, glaring at us. ‘What’s more romantic than houmous?’
Cameron smiled. ‘I think you’re romantic. Come here, you soft git.’ He grabbed Tom’s t-shirt for a snog.
‘So is it a yes then?’ Tom asked softly when they separated, reaching up to sweep Cam’s hair back from his face.
‘Course it’s a yes. It’s always been a yes.’
‘Cam?’
‘Yeah?’
‘I love you very much, you know.’
‘I know you do. Love you too, Tommy.’
***
We were lazing in the sun, chatting and feeding Flash scraps of picnic, when the newly engaged Cameron cocked his head to one side.
‘Hey! I think they’re coming.’
Everyone sat up and peered towards the viaduct. The crowd were cheering wildly, waving Tricolors and Yorkshire flags. Sure enough, a few seconds later the first cyclist, shining in his yellow jersey, zipped by, closely followed by the rest of the peloton. Just a flash of colour and they were gone. It seemed strange, after all those months of work and worry, that history in the making should be such a blur.
‘There’s your helicopters, Lana,’ Tom said, pointing up at them getting aerial footage of the event.
‘Nibali,’ I heard Stewart mutter. ‘Lucky bastard. Wonder if he’ll hold it.’
‘You ok, love?’ I asked him quietly.
‘Yeah. Bit weird seeing them go by, that’s all. There was a time every dream I had was about wearing that jersey. In my home county too… would’ve been amazing.’
I shuffled round to look into his face. ‘Do you miss it a lot?’
‘I did. Never thought I’d find anything that could make me feel alive the way cycling did.’ He twisted a strand of my hair round one finger. ‘Then I met this girl.’
‘Who was she?’
‘No one special. Just a girl. The most incredible, imperfectly perfect girl I ever knew. And when I think about her, I get that same feeling. Like I’m flying and nothing can hold me back. Only, you know, sexier because she turns me on as well.’
‘Soppy thing.’ I planted a soft kiss on his lips. ‘I do love you, Stew.’
‘Oh yeah, that reminds me,’ he said, rummaging in his jacket pocket. ‘You’ve earned this.’
He handed me the silver star charm he’d shown me seven months ago at New Year.
‘Tom told you?’ I said, blushing as I attached it to the bracelet I always wore.
‘Yep.’ He shook his head. ‘Firsts in all your assignments. Never knew I was going out with such a swot.’
I laughed.
‘So is this it, Lana?’ he said as another wave of cyclists were cheered over the viaduct. ‘The memorial your dad would’ve wanted?’
‘Yes.’ I reached up to stroke his face. ‘But it’s not the Tour. Not the viaduct either. I know that now.’
‘What is it then?’
I nodded at Tom and Cameron, snuggled in a little loved-up world of their own. ‘Them. And us.’ I traced the shape of Stew’s ear tenderly with my fingertips, drinking in those deep grey eyes. ‘This is Dad’s memorial, what he wrote in his eulogy. He wanted his kids to fall in love and be happy.’
‘And are you happy?’
‘Happier than I’ve ever been.’
‘And are you in love?’
‘You know I am. For the first and last time.’
‘And you’re mine. Aren’t you?’
‘Yes, Stew. I’m yours.’
‘In that case I’ll allow you to kiss me. Since you were good and ate all your lettuce.’
‘Mmm. I love it when you talk salad to me.’
The churchbells rang out as Stewart’s lips met mine, mingling joyously with the cheers and applause of the crowd. And right at that moment, every cheer felt like it was for us.