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

her left hand on the door knob.

       What do I do now?

      It’s six minutes to midnight. You’re wasting time.

      Cat opens the door a little and looks up to Ben’s face slowly, via his legs, quickly over his crotch, his torso, his gorgeous strong neck, over his chin, hesitating at his lips – parted and dark – and suddenly swiftly upwards, on and into his gaze.

      ‘What do you want?’ Cat asks softly.

      ‘What do you want?’ Ben echoes. They stare at each other. ‘I need to give you something,’ he is saying, making to take a step forward as Cat instinctively takes a step back. He has crossed the threshold. It’s OK. Midnight is still a few minutes off. He is inside the room. It’s OK. The door has not quite closed. ‘I need to give you something,’ he repeats, ‘before it is offered to you by anyone else.’ He steps towards her, glances down at her bare feet, up to her knees, lingers over her breasts. With one hand, he gently holds her neck so that his thumb is at the base of her throat, his index finger is behind her ear and the remaining fingers are encircling the back of her neck. Cat can’t breathe. He can detect her quickening pulse.

       Fuck. It must be midnight.

      No, not quite.

      Ben dips his face down a little, comes closer, their clothing touches. He takes her wrist with his other hand and puts his lips against hers. They alight softly for just a fraction of a second and seem to heat on impact. Suddenly Ben is kissing Cat so intensely and she finds herself responding likewise. She’s grasping his neck. She’s grabbing his trousers. She’s pulled him against her and has herself been thrust against the wall. They are tonguing each other with abandon. Cat can taste toothpaste. Ben can detect beer, garlic. Who gives a fuck? They taste fantastic to each other. Ben pulls away.

      ‘I wanted to give you that,’ he says hoarsely, ‘I’ve been carrying it around with me since I first saw you.’ Staring at her, he backs out of the room and does not relinquish eye contact until the door is closed completely.

      Cat regards the door. She takes the fingers of one hand to her lips, she places her other hand between her legs. She’s throbbing, she’s on fire; everywhere. She glances at her watch. It’s midnight.

      STAGE 5

      Nantes-Pradier. 210 kilometres

      ‘Cat? It’s Andy – from Maillot. Is this a good time?’

      A good time? It couldn’t be better. I’m having a fantastic time, here in Nantes, in a particularly opulent village on a glorious morning, awaiting the off for the fifth Stage of this year’s Tour de France. It’s a shorter Stage today – which is a good job really, as Ben York has just brushed past me, turned and winked, and I can hardly wait for later, that we might track each other down long before midnight.

      ‘I can call back later,’ Andy was saying, ‘if it isn’t.’

      ‘It’s fine, Andy,’ Cat said. ‘How are you? I’m brilliant.’

      ‘You are, are you?’ Andy responded. ‘Now, podium girls.’

      ‘They’re nothing,’ said Cat absent-mindedly, grinning as she placed herself far higher on Ben’s dais in her mind’s eye.

      ‘Sorry?’ said Andy.

      ‘What?’ said Cat.

      ‘No go, I’m afraid,’ Andy said, ‘we don’t feel there’s enough substance – not what the readers of Maillot want.’

      Cat felt momentarily deflated, but then she heard Luca’s name being announced at the signing-on stage.

      ‘How about an exclusive interview with Luca Jones?’ she suggested brightly. ‘He’s keen. It’s all organized.’

      ‘Luca?’ said Andy. ‘Farrand did one last month – of course, he’s fluent in Italian. It’s coming out next issue.’

      ‘Oh,’ said Cat, ‘but mine would be different.’

      ‘How?’

      ‘A mid-Tour analysis?’ Cat clutched. ‘A woman’s perspective sort of thing?’

      ‘Sorry, Cat,’ Andy said, ‘just bad timing on that one. Look, your reports are good – I’m sure we’ll be able to find you something here at the end of it all.’

      Cat went cold. ‘You mean the Features Editorship isn’t in the bag?’

      ‘We agreed it would be dependent on the quality of your race reports,’ said Andy, now sounding disconcertingly officious.

      ‘But you just said they were good,’ Cat all but whispered.

      ‘They are,’ Andy reassured her, ‘they’re excellent – even the “dark duke Sassetta” stuff. But the job is dependent on whether or not it exists, you see. Nothing personal.’

      ‘No,’ said Cat, quite cross and taking it personally, ‘I don’t see.’

      ‘We’re having something of a reshuffle – the staff, the layout – everything. But don’t worry – I’d love to have you in some capacity.’

      ‘OK,’ said Cat, appalled that she sounded so grateful and meek.

       I’m bloody worth more than that.

      ‘Do you mind if I continue to bombard you with my ideas?’ Cat asked, wincing at her tone of near-desperate deference.

      Andy laughed. ‘I wouldn’t expect anything less from you,’ he said.

      Some hours later, Cat was feeling stressed and distracted in the salle de pressé, today a large marquee set up in the grand municipal park of Pradier. Josh and Alex had no advice for her – they assured her that her ideas for articles were sound, that no one at Maillot was remotely sexist.

      ‘You’ve chosen to fall in love with a minority sport in Britain,’ Josh said, by way of explanation, ‘that’s all.’

      ‘The audience is limited,’ Alex furthered, quite serious for once, ‘and there are more than enough freelancers touting ideas.’

      ‘With a track record,’ Josh elaborated, no offence intended or taken.

      ‘Stephen Farrand lives in Italy and has been involved with the sport for some time – if he interviews Luca Jones, editors know what they’ll get. They don’t know what they’ll get with you,’ said Alex.

      ‘Why can’t they give me a fucking chance?’ Cat declared.

      ‘Because that’s mag publishing in Britain,’ Alex shrugged. ‘Took me fucking ages.’

      ‘Me too,’ said Josh. ‘Don’t worry, I’m sure something will turn up.’

      ‘Jesus Fucking Christ,’ Alex shouted whilst around them, journalists fulminated equivalent blasphemies in their own languages. Everyone turned to the TV sets and stared. Riders were piling into each other, a couple were flung right out from the bunch, their bodies still attached to their bikes. Riders were lying all over the road, strewn like litter. They were in the ditches to the side, they were on top of each other. One somersaulted straight over the mêlée and landed smack on top of a flung bike. The salle de pressé watched in silent horror.

      Not only the TV cameras and those of the press were trained on the carnage – an elderly lady stood in the road transfixed, her camera at her eye but her finger hovering above the shutter button. She’d only wanted to take a photo, that’s all. She’s from San Diego, here on holiday. Just wanted a snap of the bike race, that’s all. Didn’t mean to be a distraction. Didn’t mean to be a menace. Didn’t know the speed would be so fast. Didn’t mean for the men to fall off their bikes. Are they meant to do that? Is it like American football – part of the entertainment?