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 could provide. It would be pointless. It would be impossible.
However, Cat’s euphoric state is going to be shattered, her world is going to go haywire and her confidence is going to collapse. Worst of all, she will soon doubt her standing as a respected member of the Tour de France family. I have no idea how she’ll cope or how she’ll recover or why this has to happen to her. She deserves an easy ride, after all, doesn’t she?
It’s a beautiful day. She wants to go for a swim in the sea later. With Ben. Have a long, boozy supper, with Ben, perhaps with Rachel and the others too. Sleep with Ben tonight and wake up in the same bed as him tomorrow. She could even stroll through the village départ hand in hand with him. First, though, she has to go to the salle de pressé. She is ready and eager to confess to Josh, to hug him and thank him and apologize for the fact that she spun him a yarn she should have unknotted days ago. So she’s going to the salle de pressé, a spring in her step, a head-turning smile on her lips and in her eyes, energy and well-being instilled in her every move. I’m sorry. Poor Cat.
Alex and Josh were at home and happy in the salle de pressé on the Repos. They had no pressing urge to swim or stroll. To pack up at tea-time, as they intended to do, was treat enough. They liked it that the pace was down a gear, that the salle was populated today only by the diehard cycling enthusiasts who masquerade as journalists.
‘Would you mind finishing the last part of the tape?’ Josh, who types at a fraction of Cat’s speed, asked Alex. ‘I hate transcribing. It means we need only do it the once between us.’
‘Sure,’ said Alex, yawning, ‘sounds about all I’m capable of today. Fuck, I’m shagged.’
‘I’ll go and get caffeine,’ Josh informed. Alex fiddled with the earpiece before deciding to dispense with it. He set the tape running, turned up the volume, and transcribed from where Josh had left off. When Josh returned with coffee, Alex paused the tape and drank the liquid as if it were nectar.
‘Good old Luca,’ Alex laughed, ‘he says the only humping he’ll be doing is going up and down the mountains – “the fucking mountains”!’
‘God,’ said Josh, rewinding the machine, ‘did Cat just ask him if he was nervous?’
They listened. ‘Yeah,’ Alex confirmed, ‘but he didn’t bloody reply. We’ll have to ask her if he gesticulated positively or negatively or whether he kept a poker face. Fuck, she just asked him if he’s scared.’
‘No reply. I think that’s probably about it,’ Josh surmised, flicking down the volume.
‘I’ll just check,’ said Alex, turning the sound up again.
How long do you have? a male voice but not Luca’s seeps out of the dictaphone, Because I have about seven inches.
I have to write my report, a female voice, too British and unmistakable to be anyone other than Catriona McCabe, journaliste, le Guardian, is heard to reply.
All heads in the salle de pressé turn to Alex and Josh and Cat’s dictaphone; delighted, flabbergasted, hungry for more. Thank God only a third of the press men are working.
I want you now, the man is murmuring amidst much rustling.
You can have me now, the English girl replies whilst bedsprings creak.
There is the sound of deep, desirous breathing and some laughter and some moaning and some bed bouncing. Penetration or not – and the recording doesn’t divulge – it is indisputable what has been recorded; it is obviously an aural sex show and the press men are transfixed.
‘Come
