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

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      ‘Good night,’ says Ben.

      ‘Sweet dreams,’ Cat says, waving as the rider disappears into the lift. ‘You’re a sod,’ Cat says to Ben, her eyes fixed straight ahead.

      ‘I couldn’t resist,’ says Ben, gazing at her neck.

      Eyes meet and fuse.

      Is it chemistry? Cat wonders, patting a hand unconsciously against the butterflies rampaging around her stomach. Ben’s lips part slightly as his gaze burrows further into her.

      ‘Cat,’ he says. She purses her lips and then licks them, observing how it releases his eyes from hers to focus on her mouth. ‘You’re having a drink with Rachel.’ It is a statement and not a query.

      Cat nods.

      ‘I’m having a drink with Josh and Alex,’ Ben says.

      Cat nods again. She clears her throat.

      ‘We could join forces,’ she suggests.

      ‘We could,’ Ben answers, ‘but where’s the fun in that? I’d rather have you to myself.’

      His tone is matter of fact. His eyes have her captive again. ‘Another time,’ he says. He smiles at her and then heads off into the bar. Cat remains stock still.

       Chemistry. Undeniably. I don’t need my O Level to tell me so.

       But yesterday?

       The podium girl?

       He held her face and looked into her eyes?

       Maybe he’s morally inept.

       The thing is, my desire is so strong I’d probably sleep with him regardless. What would that make me? And where would that leave me? And what if Josh tells him about my non-existent boyfriend?

      It was a relief to be with Rachel. Cat chose to sit with her back to Ben, Alex and Josh, who were at the other side of the bar. The room was crowded and noisy. Rachel was relaxed and she and Cat chatted easily, whiling away the evening, sipping Seize and eating garlicky olives. By the time they suggested they really ought to retire, they knew each other well. Well enough to kiss goodnight, to look forward to seeing each other the next day, to hoping that there’d be many more occasions both during the Tour and after when, as friends, they could indulge again in each other’s company.

      Cat is knackered, shagged, bush-whacked, simply exhausted and desperate to ‘push some zeds’. She’s made the fateful move of flopping on to her bed fully clothed and is tempted to greet sleep dressed as such. So what if she hasn’t cleaned her teeth? So what if she hasn’t checked whether her mobile phone needs charging? So what if she hasn’t examined tomorrow’s route or found where she needs to be and when?

       I’m so tired. What a day. Fucking Luca Jones. Bloody Ben York. Lovely Josh. Inimitable Alex. Fantastic Rachel. I’ll just have a quick shut-eye. Just for a mo’ or two.

      No you won’t. You’ll sit bolt upright at the sound of knocking at your door. You’ll check your watch. It’s almost midnight. Heed the advice of Emma O’Reilly, the soigneur’s soigneur, passed down to you by your friend Rachel.

       Yes, but it’s not midnight for another seven minutes.

      Cat pads over to the door. There is no spy hole.

      ‘Hullo?’ she asks, through the wood, her hand hovering over the handle.

      ‘It’s me,’ comes the unmistakable voice of Ben York.

       Oh fuck.

      Cat bites her lip and regards 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 СКАЧАТЬ