only fourth-category climbs. Climbing points are awarded to the riders reaching the tops first. Hence our David wearing the King of the Mountains jersey at this stage in the race.’
Maybe I should go back to my room and just order room service.
‘Who’s “our David”?’ Pip asked in a whisper as if, unbeknown to her, he might be related.
‘David Millar is a British rider in the French team Cofidis,’ Cat elaborated. ‘He’s not a specialist climber but a very promising rouleur – all-rounder. At this stage in the Tour, the hills are not taxing enough to be the exclusive domain of the grimpeurs, the specialist climbers, who are wiser to save their energy and steer clear of trouble in anticipation of the main mountain Stages later.’
If I say ‘I’d better go now’, they’ll ask why. If I tell them, they’ll make me go to the bar and not my room.
‘So it’s fifteen minutes of fame for Our David,’ said Pip.
‘I think he’ll have more than that,’ Cat said, ‘just you watch him in the Time Trials.’
‘Not another bloody jersey,’ said Fen.
‘No,’ said Cat, ‘no jersey for Time Trials.’
‘I think we understand,’ said Pip, ‘do we?’
‘Yes,’ said Fen, ‘we’ll ring Django and tell him. Who should we look for in tomorrow’s Stage?’
‘I’d better go now,’ said Cat.
‘Why?’ said Pip. ‘It’s our call – we don’t mind.’
‘I’d better go to my room,’ said Cat, who’d noticed that the bar was filling up.
‘Why?’ Fen probed.
‘Where are you?’ Pip asked.
‘In the foyer,’ Cat said, a little deflated, ‘near the bar.’
Both her sisters were silent.
‘So?’ said Fen.
‘Sounds good,’ Pip commented.
‘Don’t you scurry away,’ Fen said, ‘you’re no mouse, Cat.’
‘I know that,’ Cat remonstrated, ‘but it’s a tough call, trying to carve a niche in unfamiliar territory – especially in a new world where everyone but me seems so at home, so au fait with the routine.’
‘But you said they’re a friendly bunch,’ Fen said.
‘He is,’ said Cat, quickly changing it to ‘They are.’
Back in England, Fen winked at Pip who grinned back.
‘Who is he?’ Pip whispered.
‘Just a team doctor,’ Cat whispered back.
‘Just!’ Pip shrieked.
‘Just have a drink,’ Fen said nonchalantly, glowering at her sister who was doing a jubilant handstand against the wall.
‘OK,’ said Cat, who quite liked being told what to do.
Cat has switched her phone off. She has taken two deep breaths. It took courage not to go back to her room. It’s going to require pluck to walk in to the bar. In she goes. There he is. He’s sitting on a small settee in front of a low table. He is sipping from a bottle of beer. Cat doesn’t really want to notice that he has lovely forearms.
‘Sorry about that,’ says Cat, ‘my sisters are watching the Tour for the first time.’
‘And they are calling on your expertise,’ Ben reasons, ‘can’t say I blame them.’ He smiles at her. It is unclear to Cat whether this is a compliment for her knowledge, or a critique on the vagaries of the Tour de France rules.
‘Let me get you a beer,’ Ben says, going to the bar before Cat can say she’d prefer a glass of wine. He comes back with a bottle of Kronenbourg 1664. ‘Some advice,’ Ben says, whether she wants it or not, holding the bottle aloft, ‘if you want to impress, you abbreviate it to Seize.’
Do I want to impress? Cat wonders.
Of course you do. Sip Seize sexily, Cat. Ben does so quite inadvertently.
He does. He keeps his eyes on me while he swigs, they narrow slightly. They open when he licks his top lip.
Ben York is interested in Cat. He asks her many questions. The beer is cool and fizzy and, for Cat, on an empty stomach, pleasantly tongue-freeing. She answers him happily and slips in questions of her own. First about Megapac. Then about Luca. Soon enough about Ben. Momentarily, she is disappointed that it was not a love of cycling that saw him search out such a job, but she is impressed that his reputation as a physician saw Megapac approach him. Anyway, he speaks with enthusiasm and in depth about the sport and he is a kindred spirit for sure. Ben is friendly and attentive and she wonders whether he is flirting with her. She tells herself she must be imagining it, that it must be the beer. Certainly, it’s something of a novelty for her. It’s refreshing for Cat, having been the brunt of constant criticism and no praise for such a long time.
I’m in France. On the Tour. Away from home. Away for the summer. Away from Him. I’m glad I came. I’m pleased I didn’t go back to my room.
‘Croque monsieur, mademoiselle?’ Ben asks, raising an eyebrow which seems to insist his lips part.
‘Only if you have one too,’ Cat says, really quite coyly. They allow a look between them to linger before Ben grins and Cat grins back. He goes to the bar to order and her eyes follow him before she glances around the room as if to see who has observed. There are quite a few people but none seem remotely aware of or interested in her presence or the chemistry she feels she and Ben surely must have been exuding like a visible glow. He returns.
‘Do you like olives?’ he asks.
‘I love olives,’ Cat enthuses.
Ben leans towards her with a dish of olives; black, green, stuffed, glistening with oil, permeated with garlic, enhanced with rosemary.
‘Excuse me,’ says Cat, her thumb and forefinger hovering before selecting a particularly plump specimen.
‘What for?’ says Ben.
‘No,’ says Cat, still chewing, standing up, ‘I mean, excuse me but I’m going to the toilet.’
She takes a stone from her mouth and plinks it daintily in the ashtray. Off she goes, trying to walk slowly, trying not to wiggle, or wondering if she does indeed wiggle and whether it’s becoming. She sits in the cubicle and regards left hand and right hand like Fen tends to – but she has no dilemma on her hands, she is not searching for advice or answers. She just wants to collect herself, calm down and return to the bar, to Ben’s restorative and compelling company. When she washes her hands, she catches sight of herself in the mirror. She gives herself a little shrug, a little smile.
