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

girl who now stood by the window unaware that her dress was enticingly transparent.

       She’d know if she chances upon the state of my cock. Ah! She’s seen. She knows. But see? She doesn’t move.

      ‘Go,’ she said, ‘please.’

      ‘Why?’ he replied, not moving an inch and pulling his infuriating, gorgeous smile over his mouth and into his eyes.

      ‘Because you’re a wanker,’ Cat protested, clenching her fist when she observed him bite his lip to conceal his amusement.

      ‘Well,’ he said with consideration, ‘that must make you a cock-teasing bitch.’

      ‘I beg your pardon?’ said Cat, now flushed, and quite the picture of consternation which made Ben’s cock twitch with delight.

      ‘What’s with you, Catriona McCabe?’ he asked again.

      ‘You need to ask?’ Cat responded.

      ‘I need to ask,’ Ben replied, propping himself up on an elbow and anticipating Cat’s reply with genuine interest.

      ‘You shouldn’t need to,’ Cat protested rather primly, ‘I’m not joining the queue.’

      ‘The queue?’ Ben repeated, really looking quite puzzled.

      ‘Kiss the girls and make ’em cry?’ she elaborated, knowing it sounded daft. He considered the accusation but looked just as bewildered after a moment’s contemplation.

      ‘Sorry, Cat,’ he said, ‘you’re talking in rhymes, or bullshit, or something. And I’ve got to have you,’ he said, laying his hand over the bulge in his jeans ‘– and soon.’

      Leisurely, he left the bed and came towards her, observing that her hastened breathing presented him with those gorgeous breasts heaving away in earnest. He didn’t touch but he looked long and desirously. He cupped her face in his hands and made to kiss her again.

      ‘Fuck off,’ Cat implored flimsily.

      ‘Why?’ he whispered, hovering his mouth over her forehead so that she could feel his breath trickle over her face like a waft of warm silk.

      ‘Because!’ she proclaimed in a whisper.

      ‘Because what?’ he murmured back, tracing her eyes, her nose, her chin, with his lips. He laid his lips over hers but did not move them.

       Don’t kiss him! Don’t.

      But Ben detected her lips give an almost imperceptible tremble so he encouraged them by parting his just slightly.

      ‘Why not?’ he mouthed, barely speaking.

      ‘Because!’ Cat tried again. He pulled away and treated himself to the sight of her; momentarily, her eyes still closed, her cheeks flushed, her lips waiting, worried. God, he found her gorgeous.

      ‘Because what?’ he asked loudly.

      ‘Because you,’ Cat hissed, ‘you asked for me but you hadn’t even finished with her and if I’d have been earlier or later – well! Well then! Fuck you!’

      ‘Huh?’ Ben shook his head.

      ‘Yesterday,’ Cat said, stamping her bare foot indignantly, ‘I bloody came to your sleazepad and saw her coming out – all right?’

      ‘Her?’ Ben queried.

      ‘You know who!’ Cat growled. ‘She was coming out of your room!’

      ‘Yesterday?’

      ‘Don’t play naïve!’ Cat shouted. ‘And today I saw her crying!’

      ‘Who?’ Ben implored.

      ‘Jesus! How many were there traipsing in and out of your bloody room?’ Cat remonstrated. ‘The podium girl, of course! Miss Coca-Cola!’

      ‘Monique?’ Ben exclaimed, placing his hand over his mouth, concealing whatever reaction was there.

      ‘Whatever her name is,’ Cat said, frowning with intent, ‘and today, I see her crying her eyes out!’

      ‘Crying?’ Ben pressed from behind his hand.

      ‘Yes!’ Cat yelled. ‘You’re not going to do that to me!’

      ‘Monique was crying?’ Ben repeated. ‘You heard her?’

      ‘She was crying,’ Cat growled.

      ‘Did you hear her?’ Ben persisted.

      ‘I saw her!’ Cat spat. ‘Her eyes were red raw, for Christ’s sake!’ She stamped. ‘She looked utterly miserable.’

      Ben stared at Cat, took his hand from his mouth and regarded her.

      ‘So would you be,’ he said to Cat, ‘if you had raging conjunctivitis.’

      Cat stares at the Great Ophthalmologist, her eyes criss-crossing his face trying to absorb what she’s just heard, make sense of the tangle, and figure out how she should respond. Turning away from him, which she does momentarily, seems like a good idea. But when she turns back he’s still there, still silent, regarding her with a blend of reproach and amusement. The onus is on Cat and it’s onerous. She’s biting her lip so hard that it’s throbbing but she can’t seem to release it. Slipping past him to take refuge in the lovely bathroom seems like another good idea so she does just that.

      She’s sitting on the edge of the tub regarding her feet, now she’s sitting sideways on the toilet looking at her knees. Now she leans her back against the basin. She’s now knocking her head gently against the window. She turns and glances in the mirror, imploring her reflection to tell her what to do.

       Jesus, have I blown it now! Stupid stupid girl.

      Say sorry.

       As if that would suffice.

      Laugh it off?

       That would seem too trite.

      Give him a blow job?

       My jaw is too tense. And anyway, he’s hardly likely to rise to the occasion for a girl who’s thrown slanderous accusations at him, for a girl who’s made an utter fool of herself.

      Well, what are you going to do?

       Tell me what to do!

      No, Cat – you figure it out.

       Oh Fen, where are you!

      Over the sea and far away.

       Reflection – help!

      It’s only you in the mirror. Your call, Cat McCabe.

       Shit! Have I been in here ages? Say he’s left?

      Cat opens the bathroom door. Ben is sitting in the chair seemingly engrossed in Rose Tremain. He glances up and then returns his attention to the book. Cat pads across the room, walks around the bed and sits on the edge so that her knees almost touch Ben’s. She tips her head to one side, silently imploring him to look up. He’s reading. She clears her throat, hoping she might gain his attention. He’s reading. Rose Tremain is bloody good. Cat sighs, hoping he’ll take sympathy on her humiliation. Nope. She gazes over to the window. It’s gloriously dusky now, the portion of sky visible streaked with amber, the room bathed so aesthetically in half-light that Monet really should have been there. Incongruous though it might seem, Cat feels an enormous sense of tranquillity, the willing captive of some strange hermetically sealed moment placing her in a beautiful room on a sultry evening with a man quietly reading. A blink returns her to the situation in hand. A glance to Ben reveals that Rose Tremain’s text is closed around his index finger and his attention is focused on Cat entirely.

      Cat licks her lips fleetingly and speaks without