by the salle de pressé. Luca, of course, was swamped by a mass of men but she hugged Hunter, cycling to his soigneur hot, wet and ecstatic himself. Then she bounced on tiptoes at the edge of the swarm around Luca before skipping off merrily towards she didn’t know where. Just skipping. High. Delighted. Skipping towards – ah! The team cars.
She slowed her pace to a reverential walk as she neared the Zucca MV bus. Rachel was wiping down Vasily’s legs with a green flannel.
‘Thank you,’ Cat said, bowing her head at the rider. ‘How is Gianni?’ she asked Rachel.
‘He’s OK,’ Rachel nodded, ‘he’s OK. Exhausted. But he can rest a little tomorrow.’
‘Tell him he’s an absolute star,’ Cat said.
‘Ms McCabe,’ said Rachel, stepping away from Vasily and tipping Evian water on to the flannel, ‘have you done your work?’
‘Taverner says I can only have 400 words,’ Cat rued.
‘I meant,’ said Rachel, ‘your work. Ben? Josh? He Who No Longer Exists?’
‘Almost,’ Cat said, imploring her friend not to give her a hard time at such a joyous moment. Rachel raised her eyebrows. ‘Imminently,’ Cat promised. Rachel allowed her eyebrows back down. Cat walked away but within a few yards she was jigging triumphantly again. She practically collided with Fabian Ducasse talking with Jules Le Grand, but she gave them only a cursory ‘Pardon’; for her, Luca Jones might have been 42 minutes behind the yellow jersey in the overall classification but he was the true hero of the Tour de France that day.
Team cars were already whisking riders to their hotels, though the Megapac entourage 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.
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