The Tour de France has reached the eve of the first Time Trial. New names will no doubt grace the leaderboard tomorrow and then new terrain beckons as the bunch commence their journey south to the gateway to the Pyrenees.

<ENDS>

Bordeaux. Beautiful, elegant, quintessentially French Bordeaux. Cat was pleased to be back there, a place she had liked but not returned to since visiting as a backpacking student with a summer’s railcard and a shoestring budget ten years before. She was surprised to remember sections of the town. If she took a left and then first right just there, she would arrive at that lovely little boulangerie. If it was still there. It was. She would treat herself. She would treat herself to half an hour of life outside the entourage of the Tour de France, to food other than the now somewhat monotonous press buffets. She would grant herself a little peace and quiet, a café au lait, a slice of tarte aux pommes, a glass of Badoit too. She fancied citron pressé but it was too Ben York. She wanted just to be a young woman, sitting by herself at one of the shop’s impromptu tables. Though verging on sacrilege, she even removed her press pass. She just sat awhile, did Cat McCabe, sat and sipped and munched and looked around her. She didn’t think of bike riders and she tried not to think of their support teams, certainly not their medical men. She switched her phone off, put her sunglasses on, hitched up the sleeves of her top and concentrated on nothing but the warmth of the afternoon sun seeping through her arms.

There is only so long that surroundings can be observed before they are known off by heart. There is only so long one can watch a game of pétanque and retain concentration. There is only so long one can smile blandly at nothing in particular before the mind wanders. What are you thinking about, Cat, sitting there, gaze flitting from building to tree to Gitanes packet in the gutter?

Him and Him.

Who and which?

Ben.

And?

Him – back home.

In that order?

Yes.

Well, there’s a start.

Do I really want either?

Do you?

Do I want both?

Do you?

No.

No? To which?

I don’t know. I tried, you know. I tried very very hard to make Him happy, to make Him want to stay, to furnish His life with all He could ever require. I feel I’ve failed in some way.

We gather that. Move forward – and stop capitalizing the ‘H’. Move forward – you’re allowed to, because you can rest easy that you did do everything you could for that relationship. You also mourned at base level. You swept nothing under the metaphorical carpet. You reached absolute rock bottom emotionally but therein lie the strongest foundations upon which to build. Nothing hidden. Nothing more you could have done, should have said. You do know that?

Yes. I’m just not good at goodbyes. They make me sad. Amor vincit omnia – and all of that.