‘Eat,’ Ben said, eyeing the plates of pasta. ‘Your bodies are going to use a lot of energy keeping warm today.’

The team were well aware of the rain teeming down the windows. ‘Climb every mountain,’ sang Luca, rather forlornly. Hunter pointed his knife at him but said nothing.

‘It’s wet but all of you must drink as often as you can,’ Ben said, ‘and lots of Vaseline on your feet so wet socks won’t rub.’

‘It’s too wet and cold for bikinis,’ Luca rued, taking more pasta though he wasn’t hungry in the slightest, ‘such a shame. Maybe there’ll be some wet T-shirts instead, hey guys!’ Travis shot him a withering look that went unseen.

‘Luca,’ Ben said, rising from the table, ‘take your negligible brain cells from out of your dick and stick them where they’ll serve you best. Jesus, you can be a bloody headache sometimes.’ Ben left the dining-room, refusing to acknowledge Luca’s look of hurt. Returning to his room, Ben hated himself for foisting his own unrest upon his young rider. He stood still in the centre of the bedroom, then switched on the TV, turning the volume high on whatever channel came on. He didn’t want silence; ironically, he wouldn’t be able to hear himself think. With the TV droning away, he began to bundle his clothes into his case.

‘Would I have felt differently about Cat had I not found out she has a bloke back home?’ he asked himself, sniffing at a shirt and tucking it deep down into the case. ‘Is it the fact that she is unavailable that makes me want her more?’ Ben sat on the edge of the bed for a moment before moving to the chair and then to the window-sill against which he rested the small of his back. ‘Is that what disconcerts me?’ He pushed himself away to lie down on the unmade bed. ‘Bloody women. It’s proof – as if I needed it – that any involvement that goes beyond a mere physical exchange is hassle I don’t need.’

Ben left the bed and went to the bathroom. He looked at himself. ‘Who the fuck said I was involved anyway?’ But the two images of Cat which solicited him in quick succession answered him. The first was watching her, unseen, engrossed in her work in the salle de pressé; her foot tapping, her lips moving – parting into a smile at certain sentences, into a pout when vocabulary eluded her – her whole self focused, a little frown now and then, a twitch of her nose, the brace of her back, accepting a drink from Josh, a quick banter with Alex, a glanced smile at an Italian journalist. She was in a little sundress that day, white pumps and a white, tight T-shirt. Ben had left the salle and walked away with a grin to his groin. The other image accosting him was of Cat climaxing last night, her eyes never leaving his, just glazing over with the pleasure and gazing deep into him. He’d found it an incredibly intense moment. She had been straddling him, gyrating to her peak, moving around and down on to him; his hands had been on her thighs, at her waist, cupping her breasts, and then she stilled herself, gasping and staring at him and he felt her sex suck him deep inside her, her gaze drawing him into her. And then she all but crumpled down on to him with post-orgasmic exhaustion and he wrapped his arms around her, tenderly encircling her as her throbbing subsided. She had smelt wonderful. He could have feasted on the scent of her, the sight and sound of her and never have had his fill.