Four Riders

The crate held three hundred saddlebags that looked nothing like any of the pictures in the system. Fenna held one up. It was smaller than her fist and had a loop which, according to the description, did not exist. She turned it over. The loop was still there.

'Look hard enough and it'll turn into the right item,' Madelon said behind her.

'Aren't you going home soon?'

'Eleven minutes. I need to spend them usefully.'

Fenna put the bag on the workbench. On the screen was a neat, elongated version that could probably hold enough tools for a small house move. This one had room for a front-door key and a little hope. She had already checked four boxes. The quantities were right, the supplier was right; only the product wasn't cooperating.

She reported the discrepancy to the supervisor and moved the crate to the area for stock queries. That held up an order for a shop in Groningen. Annoying, but less annoying than sending out four boxes of the wrong bags and getting four boxes back tomorrow. The supervisor examined the item, swore quietly and asked if she could go through the other delivery first.

'As long as that hasn't turned into a key ring.'

He didn't answer. He was already on the phone. Fenna took the new list and went to the next bay.

She didn't mind the work. That surprised people who knew her outside the warehouse. They spoke of her job as if it were an opponent she would one day defeat with enough good results. She liked an order being complete, showing a new starter the bay one row further along than seemed logical, and reaching the end of a shift with something actually finished. The problem was how many hours were left. Even a decent job took time.

By the inner tubes, a young colleague was crouching beside two boxes. He had mixed up the sizes and now held the packets side by side as though the difference were a personal insult. Fenna helped him put the boxes back. Meanwhile he told her about the scooter he and his brother were repairing. No questions about training. No remarks about how many bikes she had at home. She listened to a story about a seized bolt and felt herself relax.

When she took her break, Madelon was still in the canteen. Her shift was over; she was finishing her lunch before an appointment. She already had her coat on and held her coffee cup between her hands. It was new, bright pink, with a lid that didn't fit. She had rested it at an angle on the rim.

'You've done something about it,' she said as soon as Fenna sat down.

'About what?'

'The phone number. You've got that look.'

'I've just got a face.'

'Yes, we're all used to that.'

Fenna unwrapped her sandwiches. Last Wednesday Madelon had asked if she could forward a message from Marten. Fenna had said yes, then had to read what he had sent three times. No elaborate approach: did she fancy going out for something to eat next week? She had replied that it depended on his ability to read a menu without dropping things. He had sent a photograph of a perfectly level plate. Over the next few days they had messaged about several utterly unimportant things. It had been nice to want to tell him those things.

On Thursday they had seen each other briefly after their separate training sessions. No full evening's performance this time. His hair had still been wet and she had watched his mouth while he said something about his car. Only at home had she realised she had no idea what was wrong with it.

'We're going out for dinner on Friday,' she said.

'Which Friday?'

'This one.'

Madelon tapped her spoon against the cup. 'Good. I was afraid you'd spend an entire season corresponding about fruit first.'

'It's not our only area of expertise.'

'For your sake, I hope not.' She took a sip, forgot the loose lid and got a streak of coffee down her chin. Fenna pushed a napkin towards her without laughing. Madelon apparently found that worse. 'You can say something.'

'I'd never exploit a moment of weakness.'

'Marten's thirty-six, you know. He might occasionally break something that doesn't grow back by itself.'

'You're twenty-nine and you can't drink out of a cup.'

Madelon laughed. She dabbed her chin dry and put the cup down. 'He seems nice. Beyond that I want nothing to do with it. My bike will be beside yours in Alkmaar next week and I don't want ten hours of hearing how nice he is.'

'You can stand with Gita.'

'She'll tell me to pay attention.'

She left, waving hurriedly to someone by the door who wanted to ask her something else. Fenna stayed with her sandwiches. She was looking forward to Alkmaar. Madelon would call her on her nonsense, then try to ride a good race of her own.

By the end of her shift, the problem with the bags was still unresolved. A red note now hung on the crate and the supervisor had used up his smile for suppliers. Fenna cleared her bench and wrote down which boxes she had checked. The colleague with the scooter raised a hand. She asked him to tell her tomorrow whether it was running again.

Outside, it was cold enough to zip her coat right up under her chin. She went home and turned on the shower. All morning she had longed for a warm bath, though there wasn't one in her bathroom. Today she stayed under the hot water a little longer.

She had arranged to speak to Gita in the late afternoon. Discussing a training plan was usually a short call. This time her coach had sent a message asking if Fenna had fifteen minutes. She hadn't asked why. She had been afraid the answer alone would make her want to check her phone for the whole shift.

Gita rang exactly on time. In the background Fenna heard a car door close.

'I'm parked,' her coach said. 'You sitting down too?'

'I've got a sandwich and I'm on my own sofa. Not very impressive.'

'Good. Then I can tell you something without you pulling a box off a shelf at the same time.'

Fenna put her plate on the armrest. Gita told her about Naja Holm, a sprint coach she knew through cycling. Naja was putting together a small group in Denmark, Nordspor. There was funding for six months with four experienced women riders. Not a one-off week where you mainly paid your own way. A period of training with regular coaching, hired track time and enough money to commit to something longer than a weekend.

'She isn't looking for new talent she still has to teach to ride,' Gita said. 'She wants people who know what they're doing and want to get better. I mentioned your name. And asked if I could discuss it with you.'

Fenna put her feet on the floor. She couldn't remember drawing them up.

'What does funding mean?'

'She needs to explain that. I'm not going to pass on a figure from a conversation as a promise. First she wants to know whether you're interested. Then she can send something concrete.'

'Definitely interested.'

'Read it first when it comes. This isn't a trip you can book tomorrow.'

Gita gave her enough to ask questions. The group would start in February, for six months. Near Ballerup. Fenna knew the name of the track but had never ridden there. Naja wanted her recent results and some information about her current training. Not a promise Fenna had written herself that she would soon be beating everyone. Gita had offered to talk about the training if Fenna wanted her to.

She looked at her trainers under the table. One lay on its side, a little stone caught in the tread. Her world did not grow bigger as she looked at them. A plate of sandwiches still sat on the sofa. Yet suddenly she wanted to go everywhere at once.

'Why me?'

'Because you've been riding well for years and you're not finished. And because not every group has to find a nineteen-year-old.' Gita paused. 'You don't need to sell me your willingness to work hard. I know about that. Naja doesn't yet.'

Fenna asked about the other riders, somewhere to live and what would happen if she didn't ride as well as she hoped in January. Gita knew some of the answers; for the rest she referred her to Naja. It made Fenna impatient. She wanted to get hold of something solid. Preferably a bag. Preferably the bag she could put everything straight into.

'This isn't selection by a federation either,' Gita said. 'Naja runs the group. I can give you her address, that's all.'

'Go on, then.'

'You sound as if you're on her doorstep already.'

'I've still got my slippers on.'

'Don't forget them, then.'

After the call Fenna sat for a moment. Then she got her laptop and wrote to Naja. She kept it shorter than her first attempt, in which she had almost explained why she had taken up sprinting at sixteen. She was interested in a conversation. She attached her recent race results and asked what other information Naja needed.

Only when it was sent did she pick up her plate again. The bread had dried at the edges. She ate it with an impatience she hadn't found so pleasant in a long time. She would have to leave for this. The warehouse, her flat, the inevitable succession of shifts and training sessions she knew so well that a different week already seemed an undertaking. She wanted to. That was the simple, almost embarrassing answer to all the questions she would still be asking herself.

Her phone lit up. Marten asked whether seven on Friday was still good. He had suggested a small restaurant they both knew of but had never eaten in. Somewhere neither would first have to tell a story about an earlier successful evening.

She typed yes. Then her thumb hovered above the screen. There was nothing between her and this man yet, apart from a strong inclination to talk to him. So it was ridiculous to tell him the news already. She could just go to dinner on Friday. People ate together all the time without explaining what they intended to do in February.

She typed that she might be able to train in Denmark for six months. That nothing was certain yet, but her winter didn't automatically mean she would stay in Apeldoorn afterwards.

She read it and wrinkled her nose. It sounded as if she were trying to sell him a car with a faulty gearbox. She deleted the second sentence. Then she sent only the first, adding that she was very excited about it.

His reply came a few minutes later. Sounds good. On Friday we'll celebrate the possibility. I'll warn the restaurant.

Fenna put her phone face down on the table and went to the kitchen. She took out two glasses before noticing she was pouring water for herself. She put the second back. She had wanted to tell him something and he wanted to celebrate it with her. Friday couldn't come soon enough.

She turned on the radio. By the second song she was singing along, too loudly for the thin wall beside her kitchen. Nobody knocked. She cut an onion and started cooking, her laptop still open on the table and a message to Denmark she didn't have to keep resending.