‘Let me get you a beer,’ Ben says, going to the bar before Cat can say she’d prefer a glass of wine. He comes back with a bottle of Kronenbourg 1664. ‘Some advice,’ Ben says, whether she wants it or not, holding the bottle aloft, ‘if you want to impress, you abbreviate it to Seize.’

Do I want to impress? Cat wonders.

Of course you do. Sip Seize sexily, Cat. Ben does so quite inadvertently.

He does. He keeps his eyes on me while he swigs, they narrow slightly. They open when he licks his top lip.

Ben York is interested in Cat. He asks her many questions. The beer is cool and fizzy and, for Cat, on an empty stomach, pleasantly tongue-freeing. She answers him happily and slips in questions of her own. First about Megapac. Then about Luca. Soon enough about Ben. Momentarily, she is disappointed that it was not a love of cycling that saw him search out such a job, but she is impressed that his reputation as a physician saw Megapac approach him. Anyway, he speaks with enthusiasm and in depth about the sport and he is a kindred spirit for sure. Ben is friendly and attentive and she wonders whether he is flirting with her. She tells herself she must be imagining it, that it must be the beer. Certainly, it’s something of a novelty for her. It’s refreshing for Cat, having been the brunt of constant criticism and no praise for such a long time.

I’m in France. On the Tour. Away from home. Away for the summer. Away from Him. I’m glad I came. I’m pleased I didn’t go back to my room.

‘Croque monsieur, mademoiselle?’ Ben asks, raising an eyebrow which seems to insist his lips part.

‘Only if you have one too,’ Cat says, really quite coyly. They allow a look between them to linger before Ben grins and Cat grins back. He goes to the bar to order and her eyes follow him before she glances around the room as if to see who has observed. There are quite a few people but none seem remotely aware of or interested in her presence or the chemistry she feels she and Ben surely must have been exuding like a visible glow. He returns.

‘Do you like olives?’ he asks.

‘I love olives,’ Cat enthuses.

Ben leans towards her with a dish of olives; black, green, stuffed, glistening with oil, permeated with garlic, enhanced with rosemary.

‘Excuse me,’ says Cat, her thumb and forefinger hovering before selecting a particularly plump specimen.

‘What for?’ says Ben.

‘No,’ says Cat, still chewing, standing up, ‘I mean, excuse me but I’m going to the toilet.’

She takes a stone from her mouth and plinks it daintily in the ashtray. Off she goes, trying to walk slowly, trying not to wiggle, or wondering if she does indeed wiggle and whether it’s becoming. She sits in the cubicle and regards left hand and right hand like Fen tends to – but she has no dilemma on her hands, she is not searching for advice or answers. She just wants to collect herself, calm down and return to the bar, to Ben’s restorative and compelling company. When she washes her hands, she catches sight of herself in the mirror. She gives herself a little shrug, a little smile.