The McCabe Girls Complete Collection: Cat, Fen, Pip, Home Truths. Freya North

Fen replied.

      ‘Hey girly!’ Pip cried, from another extension. ‘We’re a bit drunk. We want to know about lycra.’

      Oh God, thought Cat, holding the phone tight against her ear in the hope that her sisters’ voices were not transmittable to Ben who continued to stand close.

      ‘Please can you explain what on earth is going on?’ Fen asked.

      ‘And can you tell us what the jerseys are actually for?’ Pip interjected. ‘And why that gorgeous Dutchman took the yellow one from Chris Boardman today?’

      Oh God, thought Cat, I don’t want to explain such rudimentary details. Not here, not now. Not at this time of night.

      Not in front of Dr York?

       What’s he got to do with it?

      What’s the time got to do with it? It’s hardly late. What you mean is, you’d rather drink with your doctor than speak with your sisters.

       Bollocks. He’s not my doctor. He’s physician to US Megapac.

      ‘How exactly do you win the Tour de France?’ Fen was asking.

      ‘Um,’ Cat replied, ‘what is it you don’t understand?’

      Don’t turn your back on Ben, it’s rude.

       Yes, but so is hovering. See? I’ve now turned my back and he hasn’t budged. It’s a bit – odd.

      So move.

       I can’t – it’s a bit odd.

      ‘What exactly is the yellow jersey?’ Pip all but whined.

      ‘Et le maillot vert,’ Fen said extravagantly, ‘oh, and that spotted one too.’

       I’m not going to look at you, Ben. Stop it. I’m going to stare at your shoes and speak to my sisters.

      ‘At the end of each day, the race leader – the yellow jersey – is the rider who has spent the least amount of time in the saddle so far in the Tour,’ Cat said, trying to infuse her voice with a tone that would inform any eavesdroppers that she was having to assist some imbecilic person with no knowledge of the grand sport. She knew Ben was regarding her unwaveringly. For a split second, Cat wondered whether her answer had been wrong.

       Go away, Dr York. This is not a good time. You’re off-putting.

      ‘And the green?’ Pip was asking. ‘Vert?’

      ‘Each day,’ Cat explained, ‘there are points to be won at hot spot sprints along the route, as well as finishing in the top twenty-five. The green jersey is thus for the most points, for the most consistent daily finisher. It’s the second most important accolade. Cipollini took sprint points along the way today, plus finished high – giving him green. Lomers has the fastest time – a further twenty seconds were deducted for him winning the Stage today – hence the yellow.’

       Oh. Ben. You’re going.

      ‘So he’ll wear it tomorrow?’ Fen asked. ‘He’s winning?’

      ‘Who?’ said Cat, noticing that Ben was wearing a very nice polo shirt which caught his shoulder blades most becomingly.

      ‘The flying Dutchman?’ Fen prompted.

      ‘Yes,’ Cat expounded, ‘yellow is supreme.’

       Is that the bar through there? Should I move in a bit?

      ‘And the dotty?’ said Pip, correcting it to ‘spotty’ to prevent insinuation from either sister.

      ‘Each day, the hills are marked according to their steepness,’ Cat explained most informatively. ‘Today, as yesterday, there were only fourth-category climbs. Climbing points are awarded to the riders reaching the tops first. Hence our David wearing the King of the Mountains jersey at this stage in the race.’

       Maybe I should go back to my room and just order room service.

      ‘Who’s “our David”?’ Pip asked in a whisper as if, unbeknown to her, he might be related.

      ‘David Millar is a British rider in the French team Cofidis,’ Cat elaborated. ‘He’s not a specialist climber but a very promising rouleur – all-rounder. At this stage in the Tour, the hills are not taxing enough to be the exclusive domain of the grimpeurs, the specialist climbers, who are wiser to save their energy and steer clear of trouble in anticipation of the main mountain Stages later.’

       If I say ‘I’d better go now’, they’ll ask why. If I tell them, they’ll make me go to the bar and not my room.

      ‘So it’s fifteen minutes of fame for Our David,’ said Pip.

      ‘I think he’ll have more than that,’ Cat said, ‘just you watch him in the Time Trials.’

      ‘Not another bloody jersey,’ said Fen.

      ‘No,’ said Cat, ‘no jersey for Time Trials.’

      ‘I think we understand,’ said Pip, ‘do we?’

      ‘Yes,’ said Fen, ‘we’ll ring Django and tell him. Who should we look for in tomorrow’s Stage?’

      ‘I’d better go now,’ said Cat.

      ‘Why?’ said Pip. ‘It’s our call – we don’t mind.’

      ‘I’d better go to my room,’ said Cat, who’d noticed that the bar was filling up.

      ‘Why?’ Fen probed.

      ‘Where are you?’ Pip asked.

      ‘In the foyer,’ Cat said, a little deflated, ‘near the bar.’

      Both her sisters were silent.

      ‘So?’ said Fen.

      ‘Sounds good,’ Pip commented.

      ‘Don’t you scurry away,’ Fen said, ‘you’re no mouse, Cat.’

      ‘I know that,’ Cat remonstrated, ‘but it’s a tough call, trying to carve a niche in unfamiliar territory – especially in a new world where everyone but me seems so at home, so au fait with the routine.’

      ‘But you said they’re a friendly bunch,’ Fen said.

      ‘He is,’ said Cat, quickly changing it to ‘They are.’

      Back in England, Fen winked at Pip who grinned back.

      ‘Who is he?’ Pip whispered.

      ‘Just a team doctor,’ Cat whispered back.

      ‘Just!’ Pip shrieked.

      ‘Just have a drink,’ Fen said nonchalantly, glowering at her sister who was doing a jubilant handstand against the wall.

      ‘OK,’ said Cat, who quite liked being told what to do.

      Cat has switched her phone off. She has taken two deep breaths. It took courage not to go back to her room. It’s going to require pluck to walk in to the bar. In she goes. There he is. He’s sitting on a small settee in front of a low table. He is sipping from a bottle of beer. Cat doesn’t really want to notice that he has lovely forearms.

      ‘Sorry about that,’ says Cat, ‘my sisters are watching the Tour for the first time.’

      ‘And they are calling on your expertise,’ Ben reasons, ‘can’t say I blame them.’ He smiles at her. It is unclear to Cat whether this is a compliment for her knowledge, or a critique on the vagaries of the Tour de France rules.

      ‘Let me get you a beer,’ Ben says, going to the bar before Cat can say she’d prefer a glass of wine. He comes back with