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

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