‘More than OK,’ said Fen, ‘it’s about time.’

‘I thought of my khaki shorts,’ said Cat.

‘What’s his name and age and vital stats?’ Fen asked. ‘Khaki sounds good.’

‘And my little stretchy vest from Gap Kids,’ Cat furthered. ‘Ben York, probably a few years older than us, tall but not too tall – handsome, oh yes, very.’

‘I like your stretchy vest from Gap Kids but what’s the weather like? Perhaps add a white shirt, loosely tied not buttoned,’ said Fen. ‘So where is he from? Does he speak English?’

‘I have that great shirt that Pip gave me,’ said Cat, taking it from the pile on her bed and holding it to her nose. ‘He’s British but lives in America.’

‘That’s no good,’ Fen groaned.

‘The white shirt?’ Cat asked, scouring the pile for an alternative.

‘No – the America bit,’ said Fen, ‘an intense three weeks in France and then what?’

‘I hadn’t thought that far ahead,’ Cat said, ‘it’s nice just to feel those feelings of, well, lust – anticipation. Have we decided on the white shirt?’

‘Yes,’ Fen declared. ‘Is there chemistry?’

‘I think so,’ said Cat cautiously, hoping that she had neither misread nor read too much in to what she believed had been a mutual frisson, ‘it’s been a long time for me. Timberland boots or trainers?’

‘Sweet girl,’ said Fen, ‘I wish you all the luck and lust you’ll have time for once your reports have been filed. But be careful – it’s the Tour de France, you’re not living in real time or a real place. In reality, Cat, you need a fling. You deserve fun and frolics. He sounds perfect. Fling Thing. He sounds,’ said Fen, ‘pretty gorgeous. Timberlands.’

‘His name is Ben York,’ Cat remonstrated, ‘and you’re making him sound like a cheap package holiday. Timberlands it is, then.’

‘He’ll do you the same power of good – a golden tan from the sun equates with the healthy glow of a well-laid woman,’ Fen theorized earnestly.

‘Fen!’ Cat giggled. ‘What are you like? You loose lady, you – you who can’t decide between two – have you chosen yet?’

‘No,’ Fen said sadly after a long reflection. ‘Tell me more about Ben.’

‘He has odd eyes,’ Cat said with a swoon.

‘Odd?’ Fen reacted, imagining one brown, one blue, perhaps cross-eyed or else one lazy and staring.

‘I mean,’ said Cat, ‘strange – they’re the colour of Cadbury’s Dairy Milk and they hold your gaze.’

‘Think about your underwear,’ said Fen. ‘Not that he should be seeing it quite yet but your deportment is directly accountable to the pants you wear.’

‘He has odd hair,’ said Cat. ‘I’ll wear my Calvins.’

‘Odd?’ Fen asked, imagining a ginger bonce of unruly curls not dissimilar to the wig Pip wore when she became Martha the Clown.

‘Short,’ said Cat, ‘dark but not really – heavily flecked through with light.’

‘You mean,’ Fen deduced, ‘he’s going grey prematurely. Well, George Bloody Clooney watch your back! Calvins – definitely.’