The McCabe Girls Complete Collection

by Freya North

  Don’t play with me, Dr York.

  ‘Now excuse me,’ she ordered, turning and marching purposefully away.

  Too much of a good thing? Ben pondered as he strolled back out of the village having high-fived Hunter on the way. What was she on about? How can I have had that if I’ve hardly had her at all.

  ‘Oh well,’ he said out loud, nodding to Jules Le Grand as he passed.

  Maybe she just got out of the wrong side of bed this morning.

  The fact that it wasn’t my bed means it was wrong, full stop.

  COPY FOR P. TAVERNER @ GUARDIAN SPORTS DESK FROM CA TRIONA McCABE IN BORDEAUX

  With the first Time Trial tomorrow, tension was high in the peloton today. It was the last chance for the pure sprinters to grab the limelight and also for the opportunists to make a name for themselves by making a break. The serious contenders needed to keep out of danger. Ominous cloud cover hung like a headache throughout the Stage but ultimately, all that rained down was trouble, giving practically every rider on this year’s Tour de France a liberal dousing.

  ‘Hung like a headache,’ Cat repeated out loud.

  ‘I’m hung like a horse,’ Alex quipped.

  Josh regarded both his colleagues and looked baffled.

  ‘Clouds,’ Cat explained.

  ‘Oh,’ said Josh.

  ‘Maybe a pony then,’ said Alex, ‘if I’m honest.’

  At 80 km, just after the Category 4 climb of Côtes de Morrisot, Max Sciandri (Le Français des Jeux) surged away with Paolo Gabicci (Zucca MV) and Franz Marc (Telekom) in keen pursuit. Lying in 51st place and 1 minute 52 behind the yellow jersey of Tyler Hamilton, it was not unfeasible for Sciandri to bring to fruition the attack he engineered with Freddy Verdonk during Stage 4, to take the Stage and the yellow jersey. Initially, it seemed a dose of luck might assist when, soon after the three attackers had honked away, a crash in the main bunch floored scores of riders, slowing up those behind and putting the brakes on those in front who needed to ascertain whether their leaders had been involved.

  Sciandri’s group rode positively, retaining a 4 minute 40 second lead for some distance. Though the Anglo-Italian was deserving of victory today, the peloton was not in a generous mood and had their sights set on capture. The last 10 km was slightly downhill which would have been much to the breakaway’s advantage. But with a gentle but lengthy drag before that, the peloton pulled together to swallow back the three riders and the Stage headed towards a classic sprinters’ finish on the majestic Quai Louis XVIII.

  The average speed today was a swift 41.8 kph, touching almost 60 kph in the closing straight. The sprinters certainly gave the crowds something to remember them by; all the key players were there, all desperate to win. None wanted victory so badly as Stefano Sassetta who’d squandered all of the hot-spot sprints to arch rival Jesper Lomers. Pietr Rodchenko was disqualified for hurling his bidon at Stuart O’Grady for no other reason, it seemed, than that the Australian was riding a clear, clean, straight sprint much faster than him. Sassetta crossed the line first but was later demoted to last in the group and fined for dangerous riding, having crashed shoulders with Mario Cipollini and then impinged on Jesper Lomers’s line. Lomers’s consolation was taking the green jersey away from Sassetta.

  The Tour de France has reached the eve of the first Time Trial. New names will no doubt grace the leaderboard tomorrow and then new terrain beckons as the bunch commence their journey south to the gateway to the Pyrenees.

 

  Bordeaux. Beautiful, elegant, quintessentially French Bordeaux. Cat was pleased to be back there, a place she had liked but not returned to since visiting as a backpacking student with a summer’s railcard and a shoestring budget ten years before. She was surprised to remember sections of the town. If she took a left and then first right just there, she would arrive at that lovely little boulangerie. If it was still there. It was. She would treat herself. She would treat herself to half an hour of life outside the entourage of the Tour de France, to food other than the now somewhat monotonous press buffets. She would grant herself a little peace and quiet, a café au lait, a slice of tarte aux pommes, a glass of Badoit too. She fancied citron pressé but it was too Ben York. She wanted just to be a young woman, sitting by herself at one of the shop’s impromptu tables. Though verging on sacrilege, she even removed her press pass. She just sat awhile, did Cat McCabe, sat and sipped and munched and looked around her. She didn’t think of bike riders and she tried not to think of their support teams, certainly not their medical men. She switched her phone off, put her sunglasses on, hitched up the sleeves of her top and concentrated on nothing but the warmth of the afternoon sun seeping through her arms.

  There is only so long that surroundings can be observed before they are known off by heart. There is only so long one can watch a game of pétanque and retain concentration. There is only so long one can smile blandly at nothing in particular before the mind wanders. What are you thinking about, Cat, sitting there, gaze flitting from building to tree to Gitanes packet in the gutter?

  Him and Him.

  Who and which?

  Ben.

  And?

  Him – back home.

  In that order?

  Yes.

  Well, there’s a start.

  Do I really want either?

  Do you?

  Do I want both?

  Do you?

  No.

  No? To which?

  I don’t know. I tried, you know. I tried very very hard to make Him happy, to make Him want to stay, to furnish His life with all He could ever require. I feel I’ve failed in some way.

  We gather that. Move forward – and stop capitalizing the ‘H’. Move forward – you’re allowed to, because you can rest easy that you did do everything you could for that relationship. You also mourned at base level. You swept nothing under the metaphorical carpet. You reached absolute rock bottom emotionally but therein lie the strongest foundations upon which to build. Nothing hidden. Nothing more you could have done, should have said. You do know that?

  Yes. I’m just not good at goodbyes. They make me sad. Amor vincit omnia – and all of that.

  It is good that you feel that way. It means you are undamaged. Imagine if you felt bitter and twisted – how destructive would that be? How awful would it be if you were now hardened and cynical? He was mean to you, Cat.

  He was mean to me.

  Ultimately, it had nothing to do with you. You do see that?

  It had nothing to do with me.

  That’s right. That’s to be your mantra.

  It had nothing to do with me. I was dealt a bad card, hey?

  Good theory. On to Ben. Another good theory, I think.

  I don’t.

  Have another café au lait. No, Cat, have the citron pressé that you really want. Add some sugar. Have a sip. Nice?

  Lovely.

  As nice as in Pradier? Nostalgic? If a day’s grace can amount to the past? OK, don’t answer, just enjoy.

  Ben York.

  How do you feel?

  If I’m truthful, I feel disappointed. If I’m completely honest, I feel insecure. You see, I don’t really know Ben at all, do I? And yet there’s something there – physical attraction is uppermost at the moment and it’s exhilarating to feel this frisson. But I really quite like him too. If I didn’t, if I just wanted a fuck, I’d go get it from him – regardless of podium girls or Josh’s opinion of me.

  You’re trailing off.

  I’d like another pressé.

  There. Continue?

  I didn’t have the chemistry wrong, I’m sure of it. I don’t know what I want from Ben, or what I can expect, or to what I’m entitled. I’m cross with myself for having revelled in being the centre of his attention – and yet, I was obviously foisting on him an attachment that in reality isn’t actually there.

  Podium Princess?

  Yes. I know exactly what Fen would say to me. I’d be calling him a bastard and my sister woul
d calmly theorize that I’m mad at him because of my own indignance that his interest is not exclusively focused on me. That’s a distorted view of myself, isn’t it? Ben is Ben – Ben is who he is. But, and here’s the rub, my consternation, my dejection – OK, my petulance – doesn’t really stem from Ben at all. I wanted him to want me, you see. That he doesn’t, or at least not in the capacity I’d ascribed to him, makes me hurt, makes me doubt myself, makes me feel insecure. Oh, the ignominy of it all.

  You’re rambling there. You mean, outwardly you’re doing the ‘men – pah! – bastards!’ and within you’re whimpering for what you perceive as inadequacy, as rejection?

  I suppose. Yes.

  But the crux is that it hasn’t actually dampened your ardour. Ben continues to make you swoon. You’d like to go to bed with him, become tangled, embroiled, involved.

  Yes.

  So, perversely, you’re on your high horse with your nose in the air, primly principled when still you’re craving to have sex with him?

  Yes.

  It’s called self-protection, Cat.

  I’m in Bordeaux. I’d better go. I need to speak to Taverner. To Andy at Maillot. I need to find Josh and see where we’re staying for the next two nights. I’m working. I’m a member of the press corps of the Tour de France. I haven’t got time for sex or romance or any of that fluff.

  So you’re going to ride your high horse all the way back to the salle de pressé?

  Sorry, she’s decided not to answer.

  Half an hour later and Cat suddenly loved Podium Princess, felt immensely strong and wanted Ben York’s blood. As she and Josh left the salle de pressé they passed by a bench on which sat two podium girls. There was a Crédit Lyonnais girl, dressed of course in the yellow of the bank’s sponsored maillot, the other was Cat’s podium girl, or Ben’s, or Coca-Cola’s actually. The Crédit Lyonnais girl was talking quietly but in audibly soothing tones to Miss Coca-Cola whose eyes were very red, swollen and watery. Cat felt vindicated.

  So all men are bastards.

  She felt sudden sympathy for the girl.

  He’s not worth crying over.

  She felt relief.

  Thank God it’s not me weeping.

  ‘What are you grinning at?’ Josh asked Cat as he unlocked the car, threw her the keys and slumped into the passenger seat, rubbing his eyes and flexing his keyboard-weary fingers.

  ‘Oh,’ Cat breezed, turning on the engine and giving it a good roar, ‘women’s things.’ Josh nodded sagely, rather keen to pry but far too nice to do so.

  Auberge Claudette was a breath of fresh air. Two star, of course, but a welcome change from the recent nondescript hotel chains. Cat loved her bedroom, furnished with an old iron bed once painted white, a Lloyd Loom style chair a little threadbare, a clothes rail behind a swathe of calico and a rickety chest of drawers lined with the same Toiles de Jouy wallpaper which decorated the walls in a lovely time-faded hue. The tiny en-suite bathroom had a small but deep sitting tub, an incongruously vast porcelain basin and a very low toilet. Best of all, it had a window and Cat realized how, prior to this, she’d been tolerating neon strips and no natural light. There were long windows in the bedroom with shutters inside and out. Cat leant out of the window and smiled into the first signs of sunset. She wasn’t so much on the Tour de France as in a Louis Malle film and, to her delight, she could string out the fantasy for more than just a night. With the next two Stages starting so close to Bordeaux, Auberge Claudette was home for the time being.

  What better way to settle than to unpack, to hide her rucksack under the bed and to run the tub and luxuriate. Who had tied the pale lilac ribbon into a bow on one of the bedposts? A previous guest? The patronne? Was there any significance? Could Cat please have it? She pulled at it gently and then utilized it to fix her hair into a high pony-tail while she had a bath. With the tips of her hair and the ends of the ribbon tickling the nape of her neck, she closed her eyes and momentarily traded her Louis Malle role for that of bathing belle in a bubble bath advertisement. She giggled, opened her eyes and cleared her mind. She sat a while longer in the warm water, grinning at the walls, humming the soundtrack of Betty Blue and planned to forsake the hotel breakfast the next day for a circuitous trip to her boulangerie so she could complete her picture by strolling the streets with a baguette tucked under her arm.

  It was still very warm, even the breeze that whispered in to the bedroom, so Cat let her body air dry. She lounged naked on her bed, reading (Rose Tremain and not La Route, Les Etapes), running her fingertips along her thigh and now forsaking an imaginary part in a Jean-Jacques Beineix movie for that in a Degas pastel. She felt soothed and contented and was enjoying her own company immensely until a gentle rap at her door disrupted her peace.

  Bugger, must be the patronne – I asked for an extra pillow.

  ‘Un instant, s’il vous plaît,’ she called, grabbing a little floral sundress and slipping it over her nakedness. Barefoot, she crossed the floorboards lightly, the lilac ribbon starting to work its way loose from the hasty pony-tail she had tied.

  ‘I’m coming,’ she said, her hand already opening the door.

  Ben York pushed into her room, shut the door more strongly than was necessary, scooped Cat against him so tightly that she was momentarily lifted off the floor, and plunged his tongue deep into her mouth (which was so startled that it was conveniently open anyway).

  Don’t let him kiss you. Don’t! Pull away. Don’t bloody kiss him back. Don’t fling your arms around his neck – take them away! Don’t drop your hold to his biceps. Why are you grabbing his shirt? Stop it! Pull back.

  ‘Don’t pull back,’ Ben murmured, standing still while Cat all but leaped backwards. She was speechless.

  Say something!

  ‘Say something,’ Ben said, hands on hips and forearms distractingly on display. ‘What’s with you?’

  Say something – what should I say to him?

  Ben advanced towards her more quickly than she could retreat. He pushed her on to her bed and fell on top of her, his lips at her neck, his hand at her thigh. Get the dress up. His hand at the flesh of her thigh. Cat wriggled away from him though her body begged her to writhe against him.

  ‘Fuck off!’ she hissed. Ben looked utterly taken aback but he broke into a broad smile, reclined on her bed and raised an eyebrow at the obviously furious girl who now stood by the window unaware that her dress was enticingly transparent.

  She’d know if she chances upon the state of my cock. Ah! She’s seen. She knows. But see? She doesn’t move.

  ‘Go,’ she said, ‘please.’

  ‘Why?’ he replied, not moving an inch and pulling his infuriating, gorgeous smile over his mouth and into his eyes.

  ‘Because you’re a wanker,’ Cat protested, clenching her fist when she observed him bite his lip to conceal his amusement.

  ‘Well,’ he said with consideration, ‘that must make you a cock-teasing bitch.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ said Cat, now flushed, and quite the picture of consternation which made Ben’s cock twitch with delight.

  ‘What’s with you, Catriona McCabe?’ he asked again.

  ‘You need to ask?’ Cat responded.

  ‘I need to ask,’ Ben replied, propping himself up on an elbow and anticipating Cat’s reply with genuine interest.

  ‘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.