It is good that you feel that way. It means you are undamaged. Imagine if you felt bitter and twisted – how destructive would that be? How awful would it be if you were now hardened and cynical? He was mean to you, Cat.

He was mean to me.

Ultimately, it had nothing to do with you. You do see that?

It had nothing to do with me.

That’s right. That’s to be your mantra.

It had nothing to do with me. I was dealt a bad card, hey?

Good theory. On to Ben. Another good theory, I think.

I don’t.

Have another café au lait. No, Cat, have the citron pressé that you really want. Add some sugar. Have a sip. Nice?

Lovely.

As nice as in Pradier? Nostalgic? If a day’s grace can amount to the past? OK, don’t answer, just enjoy.

Ben York.

How do you feel?

If I’m truthful, I feel disappointed. If I’m completely honest, I feel insecure. You see, I don’t really know Ben at all, do I? And yet there’s something there – physical attraction is uppermost at the moment and it’s exhilarating to feel this frisson. But I really quite like him too. If I didn’t, if I just wanted a fuck, I’d go get it from him – regardless of podium girls or Josh’s opinion of me.

You’re trailing off.

I’d like another pressé.

There. Continue?

I didn’t have the chemistry wrong, I’m sure of it. I don’t know what I want from Ben, or what I can expect, or to what I’m entitled. I’m cross with myself for having revelled in being the centre of his attention – and yet, I was obviously foisting on him an attachment that in reality isn’t actually there.

Podium Princess?

Yes. I know exactly what Fen would say to me. I’d be calling him a bastard and my sister would calmly theorize that I’m mad at him because of my own indignance that his interest is not exclusively focused on me. That’s a distorted view of myself, isn’t it? Ben is Ben – Ben is who he is. But, and here’s the rub, my consternation, my dejection – OK, my petulance – doesn’t really stem from Ben at all. I wanted him to want me, you see. That he doesn’t, or at least not in the capacity I’d ascribed to him, makes me hurt, makes me doubt myself, makes me feel insecure. Oh, the ignominy of it all.

You’re rambling there. You mean, outwardly you’re doing the ‘men – pah! – bastards!’ and within you’re whimpering for what you perceive as inadequacy, as rejection?

I suppose. Yes.

But the crux is that it hasn’t actually dampened your ardour. Ben continues to make you swoon. You’d like to go to bed with him, become tangled, embroiled, involved.

Yes.

So, perversely, you’re on your high horse with your nose in the air, primly principled when still you’re craving to have sex with him?

Yes.

It’s called self-protection, Cat.