‘Let’s try and get behind a breakaway today,’ Josh suggested. ‘I’ll put money on some loopy Italian fucker going for broke.’

‘Look! There’s Vasily,’ Cat cooed, welcoming the all-encompassing distraction of the tall Russian tottering his bike through the throng of VIPs and media. They watched him ride to the barber’s booth where two other racers were having their hair cut.

‘Have you met Jawlensky?’ Josh asked her. Cat shook her head. ‘Come on, I’ll introduce you, he’s lovely.’ Cat looked at Josh and beamed. ‘Were you too tired to put your top on the right way round?’ Josh continued with a grin. Cat was horrified. Not only was her top inside out, it was back to front too. ‘Go and change,’ Josh said. ‘I assume you want to make an impression on Jawlensky – and the information that you’re a small, Dorothy Perkins, wash separately, no tumble dry, kind of girl might detract from your journalistic credentials.’

Cat went hastily to the women’s portaloo, smiling to herself that a Banesto rider came out of it with not so much as a shrug of apology, let alone a glimmer of embarrassment. If the men’s loos were engaged, why shouldn’t a rider have priority for any cubicle currently vacant?

Pro cyclists really do have the most uncouth urinary proclivities, Cat mused to herself as she took off her top, hitting her elbow against the formica partition and crying ‘merde!’ It’s a perverse reworking of Pavlov’s theory. Prior to the final départ bell, riders naturally use the conventional facilities – regardless of the gender ascribed to a cubicle. As soon as the bell has sounded, even if they’ve just emptied their bladders, the boys piss everywhere and in full view. Maybe Maillot would like a wry little piece about that? I’ll call them later.

Cat righted her top, cleared her throat, tucked her hair behind her ears and wondered if the Tour barbers could trim her fringe. She gave herself a supportive smile. She was going to be introduced to Vasily Jawlensky and she was more than ready to meet him.

She was not ready, however, to bump into Ben. But there he was, talking to Emma O’Reilly and Rachel, the two soigneurs and the doctor right in Cat’s path. It was impossible to pretend she hadn’t seen them, especially with Rachel calling to her. Cat waved swiftly and tapped at her watch and her brow to justify what she hoped was a plausible exit. At the entrance to the village a few metres later, a hand caught her by the shoulder.

‘Cat?’

Ben, of course.

‘Oh,’ Cat said, not establishing eye contact, ‘I can’t talk, I’m expected elsewhere.’

‘Where were you?’ Ben asked with a hint of rejection which made Cat want to hit him.

‘Where were you?’ she countered, brandishing her pass at the sentries on watch at the village entrance. Ben, of course, had a pass too.

‘I was waiting for you,’ Ben said, following her through, ‘I thought we had a date?’