Fuck. It must be midnight.

No, not quite.

Ben dips his face down a little, comes closer, their clothing touches. He takes her wrist with his other hand and puts his lips against hers. They alight softly for just a fraction of a second and seem to heat on impact. Suddenly Ben is kissing Cat so intensely and she finds herself responding likewise. She’s grasping his neck. She’s grabbing his trousers. She’s pulled him against her and has herself been thrust against the wall. They are tonguing each other with abandon. Cat can taste toothpaste. Ben can detect beer, garlic. Who gives a fuck? They taste fantastic to each other. Ben pulls away.

‘I wanted to give you that,’ he says hoarsely, ‘I’ve been carrying it around with me since I first saw you.’ Staring at her, he backs out of the room and does not relinquish eye contact until the door is closed completely.

Cat regards the door. She takes the fingers of one hand to her lips, she places her other hand between her legs. She’s throbbing, she’s on fire; everywhere. She glances at her watch. It’s midnight.

STAGE 5
Nantes-Pradier. 210 kilometres

‘Cat? It’s Andy – from Maillot. Is this a good time?’

A good time? It couldn’t be better. I’m having a fantastic time, here in Nantes, in a particularly opulent village on a glorious morning, awaiting the off for the fifth Stage of this year’s Tour de France. It’s a shorter Stage today – which is a good job really, as Ben York has just brushed past me, turned and winked, and I can hardly wait for later, that we might track each other down long before midnight.

‘I can call back later,’ Andy was saying, ‘if it isn’t.’

‘It’s fine, Andy,’ Cat said. ‘How are you? I’m brilliant.’

‘You are, are you?’ Andy responded. ‘Now, podium girls.’

‘They’re nothing,’ said Cat absent-mindedly, grinning as she placed herself far higher on Ben’s dais in her mind’s eye.

‘Sorry?’ said Andy.

‘What?’ said Cat.

‘No go, I’m afraid,’ Andy said, ‘we don’t feel there’s enough substance – not what the readers of Maillot want.’

Cat felt momentarily deflated, but then she heard Luca’s name being announced at the signing-on stage.

‘How about an exclusive interview with Luca Jones?’ she suggested brightly. ‘He’s keen. It’s all organized.’

‘Luca?’ said Andy. ‘Farrand did one last month – of course, he’s fluent in Italian. It’s coming out next issue.’

‘Oh,’ said Cat, ‘but mine would be different.’

‘How?’

‘A mid-Tour analysis?’ Cat clutched. ‘A woman’s perspective sort of thing?’

‘Sorry, Cat,’ Andy said, ‘just bad timing on that one. Look, your reports are good – I’m sure we’ll be able to find you something here at the end of it all.’

Cat went cold. ‘You mean the Features Editorship isn’t in the bag?’

‘We agreed it would be dependent on the quality of your race reports,’ said Andy, now sounding disconcertingly officious.

‘But you just said they were good,’ Cat all but whispered.