Cat smiled: that her passion for cycling should be so contagious was a delight. ‘I prophesied that – good old Tyler. It was a terrific Stage. Tomorrow should be more of the same – though rain is forecast here. How are Fen and Pip?’

‘Hooked!’ Django proclaimed. ‘We speak just before the programme starts, catch up briefly during the adverts and then have a full post-Stage analysis straight after. Are you eating? You do sound terrible.’

‘I’m fine,’ Cat pleads, ‘I just had steak and chips.’

‘I made pizza tonight,’ Django says proudly. ‘I had some bread that was going a bit off so I tore it up, added a little oil and beaten egg and a drop of ketchup, formed it into a base and baked the bugger.’

‘And?’ Cat asked, somewhat horrified.

‘Fantastic,’ Django swooned. ‘I added a topping of sardines, chicken liver, a little more ketchup and some Stilton.’

‘And?’ ventured Cat, clutching her stomach.

‘If I say so myself,’ Django proclaimed, ‘absolutely delicious. I’ll make it for you girls when you’re next here all together,’ he continued, ‘perhaps garnish it with a few pickled walnuts.’

‘Can’t wait,’ said Cat sincerely, about the visit more than the meal.

‘Darling girl,’ her uncle was saying, bringing her back from her family in Matlock to the bedroom in the hotel, ‘you really don’t sound good.’

‘I’m fine,’ Cat said, feeling her forehead and poking out her tongue at the mirror for good measure.

‘Well,’ said Django, ‘I rather think you should go and see the doctor.’

Cat and Django were quiet. As Cat watched herself break into a smile, she heard her uncle’s triumphant sniggers.

‘That is precisely what I’m about to do,’ she said.

‘Can I tell your sisters?’ Django asked.

‘If you can name the maillot jaune,’ Cat demanded.

‘Tyler Hamilton,’ Django replied, as if she was dim, ‘fellow US Postman Jonathan Vaughters is in polka dot and Stefano Sassetta in green. Must go, I have two phone calls to make.’

‘And I have a doctor’s appointment to keep,’ Cat said.

Cat needed to be incognito. Though she would have loved to have worn her floaty short bias-cut skirt and clingy little top, she opted for cream jeans and a denim shirt. She remembered Fen’s advice and chose underwear that gave her walk a wiggle and her eyes a sparkle. She took the fire escape stairs, ducked out into the night and walked very quickly down a number of streets just to put some distance between her and anyone who might know her. When she found a quiet bar and asked the whereabouts of the Hôtel Ibis, she discovered she had charged off in completely the wrong direction. Her composure remained intact and she enjoyed the walk to Ben’s hotel.

In the car park, she noted that the Cofidis team was staying there too and wondered if many journalists would be loitering for news on Bobby Julich. She could see the foyer clearly and that a number of people were milling about. She circumnavigated the building, found a side door, said a quick prayer that the entrance would not be alarmed and gave a pull. She was inside. She scaled the stairs. When she came to what she deduced to be the third floor, she stopped. She pressed herself against the wall, turning her cheeks one at a time against the cool concrete.