‘You shouldn’t need to,’ Cat protested rather primly, ‘I’m not joining the queue.’

‘The queue?’ Ben repeated, really looking quite puzzled.

‘Kiss the girls and make ’em cry?’ she elaborated, knowing it sounded daft. He considered the accusation but looked just as bewildered after a moment’s contemplation.

‘Sorry, Cat,’ he said, ‘you’re talking in rhymes, or bullshit, or something. And I’ve got to have you,’ he said, laying his hand over the bulge in his jeans ‘– and soon.’

Leisurely, he left the bed and came towards her, observing that her hastened breathing presented him with those gorgeous breasts heaving away in earnest. He didn’t touch but he looked long and desirously. He cupped her face in his hands and made to kiss her again.

‘Fuck off,’ Cat implored flimsily.

‘Why?’ he whispered, hovering his mouth over her forehead so that she could feel his breath trickle over her face like a waft of warm silk.

‘Because!’ she proclaimed in a whisper.

‘Because what?’ he murmured back, tracing her eyes, her nose, her chin, with his lips. He laid his lips over hers but did not move them.

Don’t kiss him! Don’t.

But Ben detected her lips give an almost imperceptible tremble so he encouraged them by parting his just slightly.

‘Why not?’ he mouthed, barely speaking.

‘Because!’ Cat tried again. He pulled away and treated himself to the sight of her; momentarily, her eyes still closed, her cheeks flushed, her lips waiting, worried. God, he found her gorgeous.

‘Because what?’ he asked loudly.

‘Because you,’ Cat hissed, ‘you asked for me but you hadn’t even finished with her and if I’d have been earlier or later – well! Well then! Fuck you!’

‘Huh?’ Ben shook his head.

‘Yesterday,’ Cat said, stamping her bare foot indignantly, ‘I bloody came to your sleazepad and saw her coming out – all right?’

‘Her?’ Ben queried.

‘You know who!’ Cat growled. ‘She was coming out of your room!’

‘Yesterday?’

‘Don’t play naïve!’ Cat shouted. ‘And today I saw her crying!’

‘Who?’ Ben implored.

‘Jesus! How many were there traipsing in and out of your bloody room?’ Cat remonstrated. ‘The podium girl, of course! Miss Coca-Cola!’

‘Monique?’ Ben exclaimed, placing his hand over his mouth, concealing whatever reaction was there.

‘Whatever her name is,’ Cat said, frowning with intent, ‘and today, I see her crying her eyes out!’

‘Crying?’ Ben pressed from behind his hand.

‘Yes!’ Cat yelled. ‘You’re not going to do that to me!’

‘Monique was crying?’ Ben repeated. ‘You heard her?’

‘She was crying,’ Cat growled.

‘Did you hear her?’ Ben persisted.

‘I saw her!’ Cat spat. ‘Her eyes were red raw, for Christ’s sake!’ She stamped. ‘She looked utterly miserable.’

Ben stared at Cat, took his hand from his mouth and regarded her.

‘So would you be,’ he said to Cat, ‘if you had raging conjunctivitis.’

Cat stares at the Great Ophthalmologist, her eyes criss-crossing his face trying to absorb what she’s just heard, make sense of the tangle, and figure out how she should respond. Turning away from him, which she does momentarily, seems like a good idea. But when she turns back he’s still there, still silent, regarding her with a blend of reproach and amusement. The onus is on Cat and it’s onerous. She’s biting her lip so hard that it’s throbbing but she can’t seem to release it. Slipping past him to take refuge in the lovely bathroom seems like another good idea so she does just that.