Читать книгу The McCabe Girls Complete Collection: Cat, Fen, Pip, Home Truths - Freya North - Страница 27

Luca Jones had a childhood fascination with prehistory that has never left him. He collected fossils, knew everything about dinosaurs and still loves the idea of cavemen and women. However, that morning, with one Stage left to take him away from the Pyrenees and to the Rest Day, he was not remotely distracted by the fact that Tarascon-sur-Ariège, with its famous local caves, was one of the great centres for its study. Nor had he given much thought to, let alone passed comment on, the fact that they’d be riding through the hottest part of France where bikinis would abound, that the area of coast to which the race was headed was popular with naturists. Luca was anomalously quiet. Yet his spirit was good. He felt very well. His legs were tingling to get going. It was scorching hot but the sun’s rays seemed to be nourishing him deep to the marrow of his bones. He loved his job passionately on days like this.

There was a great turnout to see him and the remaining 177 riders on their way. As they rolled out and along the route, the crowds thinned but the strength of support did not diminish. On a quiet stretch of road, Luca saluted with heartfelt gratitude a corps of firemen standing to attention outside their fire station, the lights of the fire engines flashing, the hoses providing a refreshing arc of water. And then, despite an estimated further five hours in the saddle, in the heat, Jacky Durand, as was his wont, picked up the pace and the pack started to pelt along.

‘Jesus, we’ve covered a fuck of a lot this first hour,’ Luca yelled to Hunter who tweaked the computers on his bike and confirmed they’d been racing at an average speed of a fraction under 50 kilometres an hour.

‘You’re looking strong, Luca,’ Hunter shouted, ‘go have yourself some fun. Go flirt with the TV cameras and grab yourself some new fans.’

‘Whatever you say, boss,’ said Luca guilelessly, heading off through the pack as if the leaders were pulling his bike towards them.

‘Great tailwind,’ he said to Vasily Jawlensky who didn’t quite hear him but smiled warmly anyway. Vasily was cycling with his faithful domestique, Gianni Fugallo. Luca and Gianni knew each other well.

‘Stick with us,’ Gianni said as they approached the fourth-category climb Cote de Mouthoumet.

‘I’m not going anywhere,’ Luca replied.

‘You are,’ said Vasily, ‘you’re coming with us.’ The Russian suddenly powered away, flanked either side by Luca and Fugallo, his wheel taken by a Belgian rider called Tommy, an old friend of Vasily’s from a previous team. The four-man break spoke little, they worked together to read the wind and build a good distance from the bunch. Cross-winds had splintered the peloton into small fractions and organization to bring back the breakaway was tardy. Luca swept to the head of his little group feeling utterly invincible, consequently he was somewhat disappointed when Fugallo came alongside to take the brunt at the front. The motorbike scoreman rode up, brandishing the blackboard which proclaimed they had a 2 minute 12 second lead. It meant Vasily was now the yellow jersey on the road. The peloton behind was in disarray despite the wrath of Fabian Ducasse, the frustration of Jules Le Grand barking orders to his Vipers through their earpieces.

65 kilometres from the finish, with the medieval town of Narbonne a few kilometres off, Vasily Jawlensky sat up, appearing to stream backwards as the other three, momentarily unaware, kept the pace high. When they looked over their shoulders, he waved them on. His hands were off the handlebars, he was sitting upright, pedalling leisurely, eating a power bar, enjoying a drink. They stared at him. Now he wasn’t so much waving them on as shooing them away. Emphatically.

‘What the fuck is he doing?’ Luca asked incredulously. ‘He’s giving up the fucking yellow jersey.’

Fugallo, listening to his directeur through his earpiece, had tears in his eyes. ‘Vasily is doing it for me. He knows the pack will chase hard – our directeur says that Système Vipère are now setting the pace very strong. Vasily knows that it is him they want. He knows that the bunch don’t care about us as we pose no threat in the overall classification. Vasily is doing this for me – giving me a chance for a Stage victory.’

‘He’s a fucking hero,’ Luca yelled and Tommy nodded vigorously.

‘Let’s not let him down,’ Gianni said. ‘You guys ready to work?’

‘Sure,’ said Luca, ‘and I’ll work for you – the Stage is yours in Vasily’s honour. Let’s hit it!’

Off they went, men with a mission, men riding on the legacy of a true champion.

‘Vasily does not want to take maillot jaune just yet,’ Fugallo reasoned, ‘too much pressure. He is only 53 seconds off Ducasse. The maillot is his for the taking whenever he so chooses.’

‘Let’s ride!’ Luca cried, heading off.

‘The bunch will subconsciously slow down when they’re retrieved him,’ Tommy judged.

‘Fuck, Luca, you’re on a roll!’ Fugallo marvelled. ‘What are you on?’

Luca shot him a look. ‘Passion,’ he said. ‘It’s legal, it’s effective, it’s safe, there are no side effects and the results are true.’

20 kilometres later, Gianni blew. Not a tyre but his legs. Having finished minutes ahead of Luca and Tommy in the previous two mountain Stages, after a week of hard work for Stefano Sassetta, the price of selflessness was unfortunately paid for by the body. Luca dropped back immediately, urging Gianni to dig as deep as he could to find a second spurt.

‘It’s no good,’ Gianni said magnaminously, ‘poor Vasily. But it’s no good. I’m hurting, I’m through. You guys go on. You take it. I don’t want to hold you back. The bunch are two minutes away. You’re wasting time on me. I’m spoiling it for you. Go, Luca. Tommy, go. Fuck off and go.’

Luca and Tommy were torn. They actively wanted Gianni to recover. They wanted to do justice to Vasily’s altruism, to bring to fruition the great Russian’s munificence.

‘Go,’ Gianni pleaded, ‘please. Another time. Another Tour.’

Luca and Tommy both put a hand on Gianni’s shoulders. And then they surged forwards again, without Gianni but on his wishes. However, at Beziers, with only 21 kilometres to go, Luca could sense Tommy was starting to flag.

‘Come on,’ he urged as the motorbike drew alongside and held up the blackboard which now said ‘1 minute 54’.

‘Go,’ Tommy commanded. ‘I can’t. You can.’

‘Please,’ Luca encouraged.

‘Think of your team,’ Tommy said. ‘You’re as strong as you were 50 k ago. Go for it. I’ve won a Stage in the Tour de France. I won’t win one today and that’s no reason for you not to.’

Luca looked at Tommy, bloodshot eyes, dried spittle at the corner of his mouth, his legs so tight they looked almost flayed.

‘You sure?’ Luca stressed.

‘Fucking go!’ Tommy yelled, his shoulders moving far too much.

All Luca had ever learnt from his trainers and managers, from listening to other riders, from watching miles of footage of pro cycling, surged through his blood and nourished his muscles. He went.

Don’t look over your shoulder. Keep your head down. Don’t even look ahead. You know the route profile off by heart because you studied it before you went to sleep.

Luca noted the red and white 10 kilometre banner.

Hug the side of the road, stay close to any fence or barrier, take any shelter from the wind, however minimal.

Luca could hear the crowds yelling for him. He picked out his name, time and again, from all the others painted in whitewash across the tarmac by the fans.

Jesus, I feel strong.

The motorbike pulled alongside. His lead was down to 1 minute 30.

I’m still 1 minute 30 ahead. I haven’t slowed down, they’ve picked it up, the fuckers. Let’s give the fans something other than a predictable sprint finish. Mama, this one’s for you.

Luca thought alternately of his mother, and of nothing but maintaining his momentum. His legs were stiffening, his arms were tired but his spirit was not phased by his lead diminishing. With 3 kilometres to go, he had just over a minute on the bunch. There was a taste in his mouth. Ambition. Victory. There was no way he was going to let anyone wrest this perfect moment from him. He thought of the great Miguel Indurain, he remembered Lance Armstrong, he recalled Vasily powering up the Col de Port yesterday.

They knew where to find that little extra. I need to access it right now.

He started to chant the names of past Tour giants. Merckx. Hinault. Indurain.

‘And Luca Fucking Jones!’

Merckx. Hinault. Indurain.

‘I don’t care to win the Tour de France five times. I just want to win today. On Stage 11. Tarascon-sur-Ariège to Le Cap D’Arp. 221 k.’

He passed under the final kilometre banner and the motorbike warned him 58 seconds. He ached across his shoulders. His throat was burning dry. He should have drunk more. There had been no time. His legs were hurting. His eyes were stinging. Mama.

And then just an atom of the combined gifts of Merckx, Hinault and Indurain seeped through into Luca’s soul and sent a current of strength through his knackered limbs. His legs did not feel so abominably sore. His arms were not insurmountably tired. Come on! Luca, ride for your life, take the Stage. Not just for your Mama, sitting at home with various family members all cheering and sobbing and clutching their hearts. Do it for everyone who knows you and all those who will know you ever after. Show them triumph over adversity. Become the personification of glory.

The crowds were roaring and thumping anything they could, including each other. Luca could see the finish. He allowed himself the briefest glance over his shoulder; the bunch were metres away. In a flash, he knew he was nearer to the line than they were to him. Near enough, moreover, for him to think not only of his Mama but of the TV cameras, the press photographers and his world-wide audience. Accordingly, he zipped up his Megapac jersey, clapped high above his head, punched the air, waved a double-handed victory salute, blew kisses to everyone and God, and gave his bike a final hurl towards the hallowed line. He crossed it 9 seconds ahead of the chasing sprint. Ultimately, he crossed it sitting up, not pedalling, his arms loose at his sides, his eyes closed, tears streaming, his smile ecstatic. The taste of tears. The taste of success. It was exquisitely beautiful. The greatest moment of his life.

I have won today. I am the Tour de France.

All journalists have not merely a favourite rider but one whom they feel they can appropriate as their own; whose career they always follow closely, whose triumphs they wax lyrical about, whose defeats they play down. It’s favouritism, it’s widespread and it’s allowed. For Cat, though mighty Miguel Indurain was her hero, Luca Jones had long been her special boy.

Cat had watched the last 10 kilometres of the race standing very close to one of the press TV sets. She winced at the welt of sunburn across the back of his neck. She noticed that he’d taken off his gloves, was transfixed by his hands, pale pink in contrast to his bronzed arms. She could practically count all the separate muscle groups in his legs. When Luca had only 700 metres to go she started jumping up and down. As he crossed the line, she leapt high into the air and cheered and squealed.

‘Luca!’

She kissed the person closest to her, which happened to be Josh, whispered, ‘Luca’s done it!’ and ran with the pack from the gymnasium requisitioned by the salle de pressé. Luca, of course, was swamped by a mass of men but she hugged Hunter, cycling to his soigneur hot, wet and ecstatic himself. Then she bounced on tiptoes at the edge of the swarm around Luca before skipping off merrily towards she didn’t know where. Just skipping. High. Delighted. Skipping towards – ah! The team cars.

She slowed her pace to a reverential walk as she neared the Zucca MV bus. Rachel was wiping down Vasily’s legs with a green flannel.

‘Thank you,’ Cat said, bowing her head at the rider. ‘How is Gianni?’ she asked Rachel.

‘He’s OK,’ Rachel nodded, ‘he’s OK. Exhausted. But he can rest a little tomorrow.’

‘Tell him he’s an absolute star,’ Cat said.

‘Ms McCabe,’ said Rachel, stepping away from Vasily and tipping Evian water on to the flannel, ‘have you done your work?’

‘Taverner says I can only have 400 words,’ Cat rued.

‘I meant,’ said Rachel, ‘your work. Ben? Josh? He Who No Longer Exists?’

‘Almost,’ Cat said, imploring her friend not to give her a hard time at such a joyous moment. Rachel raised her eyebrows. ‘Imminently,’ Cat promised. Rachel allowed her eyebrows back down. Cat walked away but within a few yards she was jigging triumphantly again. She practically collided with Fabian Ducasse talking with Jules Le Grand, but she gave them only a cursory ‘Pardon’; for her, Luca Jones might have been 42 minutes behind the yellow jersey in the overall classification but he was the true hero of the Tour de France that day.

Team cars were already whisking riders to their hotels, though the Megapac entourage was besieged by press men and TV crews. Cat changed direction and went to the podium instead, beaming and applauding extravagantly when Luca took to the dais to claim his fame, his trophy, his kisses from the Coca-Cola girls and adulation from the crowds.

Kiss him again, Cat implored them, whilst whistling hard through her thumb and little finger (a skill painstakingly learnt aged nine from Django and put to use only on the most special occasions).

Kiss him some more, he’ll like that and he deserves it.

She left for the salle de pressé while Fabian received his fifth yellow jersey of the Tour and his fifth Crédit Lyonnais toy lion and his fifth round of kisses from the sleek Crédit Lyonnais podium girls.

And then she saw Ben from behind and she felt her body swoon at the sight of him; his shoulders, the backs of his ears, his bottom, his walk. And she forgot about resolutely not phoning him last night, she forgot that she had decided he was not a very good idea, she forgot that she had work to do, she forgot that Rachel had told her she had work to do, she forgot Rachel, and Josh, and Him. She jogged to Ben, put her arms around his waist and spun herself around him as if he was a maypole. She threw her arms around his neck, kissed him clumsily and then proclaimed, ‘He did it! He did it!’ to Ben’s startled expression.

Only Ben’s startled expression did not abate, in fact it transmuted into one of polite irritation which Cat misread immediately.

‘He did it,’ Cat said earnestly, should Ben have missed her point. ‘Luca did it.’

Ben smiled and walked on, with Cat inviting herself to accompany him. She jabbered nineteen to the dozen, mainly analysing the race, until they reached the salle de pressé.

‘Can I see you later?’ she asked, a twinkle in her eye reflecting the sparkle of her intent, merely a glint of the shine that enveloped her.

‘I don’t think so,’ Ben said. Cat jerked. ‘It’s a bit –’ Ben continued, his hands churning the air in front of him for want of words, ‘it’s just – well.’ Cat’s focus was on him entirely but the only response she could give was via the immediate disappearance of her sparkle which Ben could not see as he was studiously not looking at her. ‘It’s a bit too complicated, wouldn’t you say?’ he said, though Cat was too dazed to detect the patronizing edge to his voice.

‘No!’ she whispered, ‘you don’t understand – I need to talk to you.’

‘Oh,’ said Ben nonchalantly, ‘actually I do understand. But it’s cool. It’s fine. Don’t worry about it.’

‘No,’ Cat said, ‘you don’t understand.’ Ben’s reply was a raised eyebrow; his aloof expression rendering him at once so unobtainable, and yet attracting Cat to him all the more, hopelessly, helplessly.

‘Listen,’ he said, ‘I have to shoot – we’ll have a drink some time. No hard feelings.’

As he walked away from her, as she found her legs taking her to her occupation, both of them touched upon the irony of hard feelings. Feelings had of course been there, over and above the physical evidence that Cat had aroused Ben to a level no woman had for ages; that Cat herself had not been made love to for a long, long time by a man so hard for her.

She returned to her seat between Josh and Alex without a word or a glance. Her mind was in a muddle. The Stage was being replayed on the televisions but it was Ben’s words, echoing in her head, which provided the incongruous commentary.

What should I do? Find him? Phone him? Phone Fen? Run to Rachel? Write? Cry? Hit Josh? Thump Alex? In what order? Oh, for order, for some sense of control.

‘Cat,’ Josh said, placing his hand on her shoulder and making her flinch, ‘can I borrow your Luca interview?’

‘God yeah,’ Alex enthused, ‘and me?’

‘I haven’t transcribed it yet,’ she said to Alex, unable even to look at Josh. ‘Perhaps once I’ve done so,’ she continued, staring at her screen.

With all that was buffeting around her mind, writing her article was the perfect way of taking time out from it all. Amazingly, the words flowed on the tide of emotion subsuming her whenever she replayed Luca’s victory in her mind or caught snatches of it on the screen. She pleaded successfully with Taverner to let her have an extra 150 words purely for the purpose of purple prose and finished her work well before Josh and Alex. When she came back from transmitting her piece, she took her seat, glanced at Alex and then turned to Josh.

‘Josh, I need to talk to you.’

He turned his cheek slightly towards her but kept his eyes on his screen and mumbled, ‘Sure.’

‘No,’ Cat said, looking at him, ‘I really want to talk to you.’

Josh stopped typing and looked at her ingenuously. Why shouldn’t he? After all, what had he said? What, if anything, had he done wrong? There was not a malicious cell in his body, only affection for Cat.

‘What’s up?’ he asked.

‘In private,’ Cat said quietly, regarding his fingers resting, mid-sentence, over the keys.

‘Are you OK?’ Josh asked. Cat shrugged and tried to raise an eyebrow in a Ben-like way, unaware that the result was more startled fawn than nonplussed doctor. ‘Let me just finish up,’ Josh continued, ‘then we’ll go for a quiet drink, yes?’

Cat sat quietly, happily watching the replays on the TV screens. What a tremendous day’s racing. Luca Jones. Four hours, thirteen minutes and sixteen seconds. It should be written in full. He deserves glory for every fraction of each moment.

Here’s Luca heading home with just under 5 kilometres to go. This is when the cameras focused on his hands. Here they are. Gloveless. Pink. One silver ring. Slender fingers. Cat found that she was standing up and knew she had just said, ‘Oh my God!’ out loud a number of times. She looked from Alex to Josh, both of whom were regarding her somewhat puzzled. ‘Oh my God!’ she said. ‘I have to go.’ And she went.

En route to her hotel, Cat makes a detour to the water’s edge. In contrast to the fiery Atlantic Coast which provided the backdrop to her initial coupling with Ben, the Golfe du Lion is mellow and affable. The water is lapping lazily, as if it always does so, as if this is the preferred pace of the place, regardless of whether 175 men (two retired) hurtled into town at 60 kph that afternoon. She lays her hand lightly in the spume and feels the bubbles tingle and effervesce, senses them burst in a tickle when the water pulls back. It is dusk, the water is warm. If she was wearing a bra she’d undress and swim in her underwear. But she isn’t, so she doesn’t. She looks at her hand, all glistening, and dabs her tongue against her salty fingertips, sucking them at length and thoughtfully.

Hands. That was it. That’s when I knew. Hands.

Hands, Cat?

It was seeing Luca’s hands.

What did you see?

That’s when I suddenly realized.

Realized what?

I’m going to say this out loud.

‘I know Ben’s hands off by heart. It’s his hands that I can conjure. I can’t recall the hands of Him – and is that surprising? After all, Rachel pointed out that He No Longer Exists. I can’t remember what they look like. Not even if I scrunch my eyes tight shut and concentrate. And yet I can envisage Ben’s hands effortlessly. It doesn’t bother me at all that I no longer know what that other man’s hands looked like. It’s Ben’s that I know. It’s Ben that matters. I’m going to find him.’

How easy should this be for Cat? Should Ben be in his room, reading, relaxed, receptive? Might Cat come across him right now, strolling along the beach, nicely contemplative? Maybe he’ll be having a quiet beer alone in a harbourside bar with a spare chair conveniently close? Perhaps he’ll be coming to find Cat as she goes to locate him. And they’ll see each other a way off. And, as they near, their smiles will spread. And they’ll grasp hands, kiss and confide and feel elated and go straight to bed.

Actually, Cat doesn’t even know at which hotel Megapac are staying and her booklet with that information is in the boot of the car parked at the salle de pressé.

Should I just phone him? Or perhaps Rachel?

Cat dials Ben. His phone is switched off and she has to work hard at not attaching great significance to this. She dials Rachel who gives her details of the Megapac hotel but who is not given the chance to have a chat or suggest a drink. Cat goes as directly as she can to the Megapac hotel, though she makes two wrong turnings and almost collides with an irate woman on a scooter. The hotel foyer is thrumming with fans and press. She goes to the lifts, scans the information of the team rooms and goes to the fourth floor. It is eerily quiet and she can sense that the doors are closed on empty rooms. It’s the Repos, the Rest Day, tomorrow, after all. Megapac have the perfect opportunity to celebrate their Stage victory in their first Tour de France.

‘Where would they do that?’ Cat asks Ben’s shut door, at which she continues to knock gently. ‘Where are you all?’ Cat goes to the car park in the hope that a soigneur or mechanic might be finishing duties. Why would they be? It’s the Rest Day tomorrow, the one opportunity for things to be put on hold for a night.

‘Well, I’ll just have to lie in wait,’ Cat says to the silent, lumbering team buses. And she does. For over an hour. Thinking what to say. Planning how to say it. Becoming word perfect, perfecting intonation, facial expressions, gestures. Soon enough changing her mind and her soliloquy. Now fretting that she’ll fluff her new lines and ruin the depth and sincerity of it all.

She walks around to the front of the hotel and promenades to and fro, delivering her soliloquy quietly. There’s Ben. Over there. On the other side of the street. He’s with a group of people, Cat. Men and women.

He’s with Luca. Luca looks slightly pissed.

So does Ben. Who are the women?

No idea. They looked pissed too.

They’re with the American journalists.

Yes.

They also look somewhat drunk. They’ve bypassed the hotel and gone into that bar.

Yes.

Is that where you’re going?

Yes.

When Cat walked into the bar, which was smoky and packed, she was instantly relieved to see that in the far corner the women, whoever they were, were draped over the journalists. The swarm of people was as dense as at the finish-line media scrum but Cat squeezed and prodded and weaved her way forwards.

‘The Babe!’ Luca sang as she tripped and stumbled on her final approach to their party, steadying herself with a stranger and the edge of a table.

‘Luca!’ Cat beamed, trying to look composed, wondering why she couldn’t feel Ben’s gaze upon her, sensing icy stares from the women that the journalists were now wearing like football scarves.

‘You came to see me!’ Luca proclaimed.

‘Congratulations,’ Cat breathed, wondering if she was going to cry and whether it would be for Luca or herself, ‘I’m so proud of you.’

‘Ah!’ said Luca, nudging Ben. ‘The Cabe McBabe came to see me.’

‘Actually,’ Cat heard herself all but interrupt, ‘I came to see Ben.’

‘She came to see you!’ Luca laughed.

‘Can it wait till tomorrow?’ Ben asked. ‘We’re taking time out here to celebrate.’

‘No,’ said Cat, not blaming him for his reserve though it hurt, trying to remind herself that he was still under the illusion that she was a two-timing fraud.

‘Have a drink, McBabe,’ Luca said ingenuously with a small hiccup, ‘sit on my lap.’

‘Your legs are far too precious to have my bum on them,’ Cat said jovially, before regretting such an uncouth comment. ‘Ben?’ she implored. He glanced at his watch and asked the group to excuse him. The noise level was very high and Cat could barely stay her ground for all the jostling.

‘Outside?’ she asked, making her way with pencil-sharpenered elbows through the mass.

‘Cat,’ said Ben, once outside but before she had the chance to suggest they walk to the seafront, ‘I haven’t really got time – I told you, don’t worry about it.’

‘We could go to the beach,’ Cat blustered.

‘Huh? I’m midway through a party,’ Ben said.

‘I know, I know – I just.’ She looked at him and put her hands on her hips, mirroring his stance. ‘You don’t know,’ she said emphatically.

‘Yes,’ said Ben, scratching the back of his head and glancing over his shoulder to the direction of the bar, ‘I do.’

‘No,’ Cat remonstrated with a light stamp of her foot, ‘it’s your hands.’

‘Pardon?’

‘You see, it’s your hands that I know,’ she shrugged, sitting in a deflated hunch on a low wall, ‘I know your hands, Ben.’

‘That’s because they’re the most recent pair to have been all over you,’ said Ben. ‘Listen hon, I have to go.’

He walked away.

He’s walking away, Cat. Bloody go after him. Forget your speech and just talk honestly with him.

‘Ben!’

He raises a hand but does not turn around or even slow down, as if to say, ‘Please – another time, Cat.’

Cat jogs after him and uses him as a maypole again. He tries to walk on but she gives him a forceful shove and he stops and regards her, irritated.

‘Ben,’ she says, knowing neither what to say next nor where to look. Her eyes are drawn to his. He’s regarding her sternly, as if he’s allocated her a final two minutes before he’s bloody going back to the bar. ‘Ben,’ Cat says, feeling a smile spill across her lips in advance of the liberating truth, ‘there is nobody back home for me.’

Ben says nothing.

Say something, Ben – alleviate her ordeal.

No. I think I ought just to listen.

‘There was someone,’ Cat says quietly, ‘a very significant other – but that was some months ago.’

‘Really,’ says Ben but not as a question.

‘Honestly,’ Cat implores.

‘Why lie?’ Ben asks after a moment’s contemplation. Cat shrugs. ‘Don’t shrug, speak.’

‘Because it felt safe – at the start – before you,’ Cat elaborates. ‘I’m in a minority out here,’ she continues, ‘I’m surrounded by blokes – I had no idea and no intention of falling, I mean fancying anyone.’

Say something, Ben.

Like what?

‘I told Josh,’ Cat continues in earnest, ‘very early on, before I knew him, let alone you.’

‘Why haven’t you told him that it was a lie?’

‘Because we’re on the Tour de France and it’s a race. Every day is a fucking race. To pack and check out. To get to the village, to scrounge quotes, to glean gossip. To rush to the salle de presse. To write the report. File it. Eat at some point. Sneak time with you. Sleep.’

God, she’s almost as gorgeous all in a dither as she was when she was livid with me over Monique.

Well, tell her.

No. This is to savour.

You’re a bastard.

No. But a very quiet, private part of me has been, dare I say it, just a tiny bit – oh God, oh all right – hurt. No, no, not hurt, just disconcerted. Yes, that’s it. So I’ll let the balm of her honesty soothe me a while. I’m entitled.

‘So,’ says Cat with a shrug, ‘that’s kind of my story in brief. I’d be happy to elaborate. Suffice it to say, I am quite categorically single. I am desperately sorry for the misunderstanding. I rarely lie. And I’m hoping, very much, that we can pick up from where we left off. And run with it.’

She’s exhausted. Ben can see that.

‘And,’ Cat concludes, taking his right hand and scrutinizing it though she knows it off by heart, ‘I know your hands, you see. And I can’t remember those of this other bloke – it’s weird but liberating because it doesn’t bother me. I no longer care. I know yours and I do care.’

Ben is stalled. He finds himself taking her hand flat between both of his. Against what he presumes to be his better judgement, but helpless to do anything about it, he finds he has kissed her knuckles, turning her wrist to kiss the palm of her hand, licking it suddenly.

‘You’re salty.’

Stating the obvious.

Cat nods and says, ‘So is the sea,’ which is a daft thing to say but neither of them reflect upon it.

Ben shakes his head and savours the bewilderment criss-crossing Cat’s face before he alleviates it with his smile. He pulls her against him and finds her mouth.

I’ve never met anyone quite like you. You thrill me and unnerve me and I don’t know what I’m meant to do about any of it.

Tell her, Ben.

It’s probably not a good idea. None of this. But I can’t let common sense allow it to go.

‘I have to go,’ Ben says. ‘Come in with me. Come and join us.’

Cat shakes her head. Her job is done and she desperately needs to rest. And have a bath. And find Josh and confess.

‘Come with me,’ Ben repeats but again Cat shakes her head. Ben does not even bother to check who is around, who is staggering out of the bar or forcing their way in, or who is on the other side of the street, or in earshot, or who might see. He cups Cat’s face in his hand and kisses her, lightly at first and then deeply, his tongue dancing in delight at the taste of her which he has foregone for almost forty-eight hours. ‘Tomorrow’s the Repos,’ he says, eyes alight. ‘What are your plans?’

‘I need to transcribe Luca’s interview,’ Cat says, her eyes still closed, her head tilted upwards presenting lips eager to be kissed again. Ben licks her mouth with the tip of his tongue, swiftly, gently, from corner to corner. Cat is utterly light-headed between her legs.

‘And then?’ he asks.

‘And then, Ben,’ says Cat, looking at him and laying a hand against his chest, another against the bulge in his trousers, ‘I’m all yours.’

‘What was that about?’ Luca asked Ben. ‘Where’s the Babe?’

‘She’s gone,’ Ben shrugged, taking a hearty drink.

‘She OK?’ Luca asked.

‘Hands,’ said Ben with a slow nod, displaying his for emphasis.

Luca, pissed on two bottles of Seize and hyper after too many bottles of Coke, nodded earnestly. ‘All that typing,’ he justified, looking at his own hands, ‘quite a tough job, I would think.’