Cat is too stunned to respond, let alone stand her ground or insist on her intended path to Rachel.
‘Do you use a gadget?’ Ben asks, innocently enough. ‘The riders usually prefer them – it makes it so much quicker and smoother.’ He looks at Cat. ‘Don’t you agree?’
Poor girl – I am a sod.
In the foyer, Ben and Cat come across Luca talking to Rachel.
‘Hey, Cat,’ Rachel says. Luca stares intently at the journaliste who is trying to transmit to the soigneur desperate pleas for assistance via eye flickers, lip twitching and general woman-to-woman telepathy.
‘Luca tells me he’s having you to himself for a while,’ Rachel says. ‘I’ll meet you in the bar. How long will you be, Luca?’
‘As long as it takes,’ Luca replies, looking adoringly at the journaliste. ‘It’s up to my feline friend, hey?’
‘He won’t last long,’ Rachel whispers to Cat. ‘God knows why he wants to do it now – he’s shagged already.’ She winks. ‘I’ll leave you to it,’ she says to Luca and Cat, ‘see you in a while.’
Ben is hovering.
‘You want to join us?’ Luca asks him begrudgingly.
‘Cat?’ Ben asks her. She does not know where to look, what to do. She turns her head towards the bar. She cannot see Rachel.
‘You have that thing?’ Luca asks her, ‘the machine? The batteries?’
Cat shakes her head and upends empty palms. She is wearing an obviously pocketless tube skirt. She looks down, wondering if her knees are knocking. Certainly they feel that they are.
‘Oh,’ Luca says, ‘why not? It’s better for you, no? Personally, I like the machine – I prefer it that way – and it is better for you, no? The results are stronger, in my experience.’
Ben can’t bear it any longer. He is about to laugh uncontrollably and Cat looks like she is about to weep. ‘Call yourself a journaliste?’ he goads her gently, giving her shoulder a little shove. ‘It’s part of the job, isn’t it?’
Cat regards him blankly.
Bloody fucking men. I’m in the wrong fucking job.
‘Necessary equipment?’ Ben furthers, captivated by the sight of her heaving chest.
She’s not wearing a bra.
‘A dic-ta-phone?’ he enunciates clearly.
‘Ah!’ Luca responds cheerfully, ‘that’s the sodding word – dictaphone.’
‘How are you going to remember Luca giving you a long one if you don’t have a dictaphone?’ Ben asks her, crossing his arms and raising an eyebrow.
Cat’s jaw drops. She looks from one man to the other. Luca with his lovely, boy-beautiful open face; Ben, handsome and magnetizing. She could cry.
I could kiss them both.
But of course, she does not. She gives Luca a gentle shove. Then she gives Ben a sly, sideways glance coupled with a fleeting squeeze to his biceps. Just to steady herself. Just to feel. An exploratory squeeze? A gesture of gratitude? She’s not about to tell us, she’s far too absorbed by the fact that Ben’s hands are lightly at her waist and he has kissed very quickly, just catching the tip of her earlobe with his lips.
‘Luca,’ she beams, ‘you know what? I do want my dictaphone – and I want to speak to my boss about the slant of the interview. It’s late – it’s nine o’clock. Tomorrow is a short but intense Stage for you, the first Time Trial is looming too. I want you to have a good sleep,’ she says, looking from Luca to Ben and then moving back to Luca, ‘more than I want you to give me your big one in private.’
‘You are so much more than a journaliste,’ Luca praises her, ‘you care.’
‘I care about every pro cyclist,’ Cat says honestly, ‘you’re my heroes.’
Luca loves the compliment. ‘A good idea,’ he agrees, ‘let’s do it properly, let’s do it after the Time Trial. I’m going to bed. Buona notte.’
‘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.