into life.
‘Hurry up,’ was how he greeted her, ‘I’m horny.’
It gave her the impetus to decline a coffee break, to concentrate hard on Luca’s gems and hardly touch the pause or rewind buttons.
‘The only humping for me will be going up and down those fucking mountains.’
Darling Luca.
‘Are you nervous?’ Cat murmured out loud, in sync with her final question to the rider.
‘That is not a question for me to answer,’ she replied, alongside Luca in her ear. And then she remembered asking him if he was scared and he’d nodded and it wouldn’t have come out on tape and she’d never impart his answer anyway. Finished. Done. She set her dictaphone to rewind, saved her work, flexed her over-exerted fingers, raised her eyebrow at Alex who looked ghastly but self-satisfied and raised her eyebrow at Josh, hoping he’d read it as a request for a moment’s privacy.
‘Finished?’ he asked.
‘Yup,’ said Cat, her eyebrow still at work. Her phone rang. It was Ben.
‘Get your gorgeous ass over here, McCabe. I have wheels, wine and wanton wishes. Come on!’
My slate is clear – it’s Fate! thought Cat, gathering her things enthusiastically.
‘Did you want to nip out?’ Josh asked, seeing that Alex was staring gormlessly into the middle distance. ‘For a quick chat?’
‘Oh,’ said Cat, suddenly flummoxed, ‘later – would that be OK? I mean, I wouldn’t want to prolong your work – it is the Repos.’
‘Sure,’ said Josh, ‘can I borrow your Luca tape?’
‘Sure,’ said Cat, handing over her dictaphone, a swarm of butterflies making her all but float out of the salle de pressé with huge anticipation, much lust, a sizeable smile and a veritable gleam in her eyes.
If the salle de pressé was like the university library at the end of term, airy, fresh-smelling, laid back and less than half full; the town of Le Cap D’Arp was like a cycling holiday camp. Cat was passed by Tour de France riders in little posses twiddling through town on their way out for a few hours to keep their legs turning. On the beach, Cat noted those who’d trained early and who were now sunbathing in a futile bid to neutralize the demarcation of their bronzed legs, necks and arms from their lily-white T-shirt chests and pale feet and hands. Elsewhere, others were with their families, being treated like royalty by the local cafés and those not in view were obviously indulging in time and space with their wives and girlfriends. Or being massaged. Or playing computer games. Or sleeping. Vasily Jawlensky had become the Pied Piper of cycling; when he left his hotel with Fugallo to ride, scores of kids, teenagers, amateurs and fans pedalled alongside, behind, some even taking their chance in front; everyone smiling. A little way out of town, Vasily glanced at Gianni and the two of them streamed onwards, giving the impression that their followers had come to a complete standstill though they all continued to pedal their hearts out.
Directeurs sportifs sat in the bars, mobile phones at the ready. Journalists not at work took the opportunity to launder their backlog of smalls. Mechanics played volleyball on the beach; soigneurs shopped locally for bananas and Vaseline and honey and fabric conditioner for sensitive skin. Cat passed Jules Le Grand, two mobile phones on his brasserie table, a clutch of fans and journalists hovering near by. He tipped his head to one side and proffered his hand which she took and shook whilst he stood and kissed her on both cheeks before taking his seat, answering one phone, having to switch the other to his messaging service. Where was Rachel, Cat wondered? Was Vasily back? Would he and Rachel sneak any time together? She’d phone later. Anything and everything could wait till later. For now, her undivided attention was for Ben.
Initially, she felt a little shy when she saw him, half-wondering whether she should repeat and reaffirm all she told him the night before. Tenderly, he put his hand around the back of her neck and kissed her softly on the lips.
‘Allons?’ she smiled.
‘Not quite,’ he replied. ‘I have to have you – and now. I won’t be able to think straight let alone drive straight and my trousers won’t hang straight, otherwise.’ He led her to his room and made love to her urgently, panting her name as he came, his orgasm precipitated by hearing her call him God and Ben as she climaxed. She felt fantastic to him; tight and hot and extremely wet. It was flattering, immensely arousing, and he was rock hard for her in return. They lay, Ben on his back, Cat on her stomach, Ben grinning at the ceiling, Cat smiling into the pillows, before he gave her buttocks a rap of friendly slaps. ‘Come on, McCabe, we’re going for a little excursion.’
He drove down the coast towards Perpignan where they ate moules and frites, drank cold, innocuous lager and strolled amongst the boats licking ice-cream from cornets. He now knew all about Fen and Pip, the layout of Cat’s flat, Django’s dress sense and culinary proclivities and the quite overwhelming fact that Cat’s mother had run off with a cowboy from Denver when her daughters were very young.
‘I’m not a million miles from Denver,’ Ben said, as they sat on the harbour wall, swinging their legs, ‘you could try and locate her when you come to visit.’ Cat smiled a little bashfully and glanced at Ben. ‘You will come and visit me,’ he stated. She nodded confirmation and then grinned inanely whilst the boats bobbed and Ben stroked her bare knee.
Cat learnt about Ben’s background, about his somewhat burdonsome mother, about his father with whom he didn’t really connect, about Amelia of whom Ben said he rarely thought. Ben didn’t learn much about He Who No Longer Exists because Cat said there wasn’t much to say.
After all, he no longer exists, does he? Certainly he no longer warrants personal pronoun capitalization.
‘Ben,’ said Cat contemplatively as they drove back mid-afternoon. She looked at his cheek and placed the back of her hand softly against it.
‘Yep?’ he replied, his eyes leaving the road momentarily, alighting on Cat’s for a second yet scorching her to the core instantly.
‘Who did you think I was?’
He glanced at her again; she was gazing out of the window. ‘I mean, when you thought I had a bloke already. You must have thought me something of a slapper, right?’
Ben did not reply.
‘A sure shag,’ Cat pressed, ‘pussy that puts out – right?’
‘Wrong,’ said Ben thoughtfully, doing much mirror-checking. Cat looked at him but he did not take his eyes from the road. ‘I was disappointed,’ he said, a few kilometres later, ‘– not in you so much, but in the situation. However, believing you had a boyfriend actually didn’t make me want you any less. It didn’t make me want you any more either – because I was at my pinnacle of desire anyway.’ He glanced at himself in the rear-view mirror, called himself a soft bastard but was unable to do anything about his grin.
‘I don’t have a boyfriend,’ said Cat, firmly but quietly, seeing from the wing mirror that the blush she felt within had manifested itself in virulent scarlet across her cheeks.
‘No,’ Ben said, ‘you only have me. And I don’t have a girlfriend.’
‘No,’ said Cat, ‘just me. And this is the Tour de France.’
‘The Tour de France,’ said Ben, ‘and it’s over half-way through.’
Something quite ghastly is going to befall Cat on a day hitherto as close to perfection as she’s ever known. She feels simultaneously peaceful and utterly exhilarated, as only being on the brink of falling headlong in love with someone can instil. Perhaps she shouldn’t fall in love with Ben, not if she’s sensible and considers that the Tour is over half-way through and her beau lives in Boulder. But how can you decide not to fall in love with someone? Especially if you’ve already been treated to a glimpse of the potential that such a state