That any imagery, let alone two vivid and contrasting ones, were deeply ensconced in his soul and mind’s eye, was a disconcerting fact in itself.

It isn’t that I’ve consciously not allowed many women to take residence in my head, to say nothing of my heart – it’s that none of them have really warranted the space. Bloody Cat is bloody everywhere.

Ben knocked his head gently against the mirror, knowing full well that the action would have done little to dislodge Cat from there, that when he turned away to drop his pants and have a piss, he needn’t even close his eyes to summon an image of her. Uninvited? Perhaps. But even if he wished to banish her, he would be unable to.

‘Hey, Rachel,’ Cat said, walking past the soigneur on her way to meet Josh at the car.

‘Morning – but not a good one,’ said Rachel glowering at the sky and then appearing to scrutinize Massimo Lipari’s legs before rubbing them with great consideration. Elsewhere, riders rubbed udder cream or Vaseline on to their nether regions to prevent chafing; the sight alarming neither girl.

‘I think I’d better leave shadowing you till tomorrow,’ Cat said.

‘Wise,’ said Rachel, ‘that’s fine by me. I’m going directly to the hotel anyway.’ Massimo stood, walked a step and a half to his bike and then cycled slowly away, for a last coffee and another piss before the start. Cat began to walk away. Rachel called after her.

‘Yesterday,’ she began, ‘I mean – I didn’t know.’

‘About Ben?’ Cat said with a spirited smile.

‘No,’ said Rachel, regarding her straight, ‘about the other one.’

Cat looked puzzled.

‘Ben’s a really nice guy,’ Rachel continued, ‘I’ve known him for a few years now.’

Cat grinned, reading this as Rachel’s seal of approval which she was flattered to receive.

‘So?’ Rachel prompted.

Cat shrugged.

‘This guy?’ Rachel continued. ‘Back home?’

‘Who?’ said Cat, genuinely confused.

‘Josh was telling us you are deeply involved with a guy back home.’

Cat was rooted to the spot, her jaw had dropped and her eyes were flitting all over Rachel’s face.

‘Us?’ Cat said in hushed horror, half-knowing what she’d hear. ‘Who was the “us”?’

‘Me,’ Rachel said, ‘and Ben.’

‘Oh God,’ Cat cried, turning away and then back again. ‘Oh fuck. Jesus. I’ve got to go.’ Rachel watched her jog away. She’d learnt no more. In fact, she felt she now knew Cat less. That upset her.

Alex and Josh told Cat she ought to drive the route to gain a true feel of the drag of the mountains and the plummet of the descents. Although she had wanted initially to confront Josh immediately, she was ultimately glad of the chance to restore her composure and concentrate on being a journaliste on the Tour de France.

Everything happens for a reason, she told herself in Django’s words and tone as they reached the base of the fearsome Tourmalet. What the reason might be, she was as yet unsure. The Tourmalet not only provided welcome distraction, it absorbed her entirely. She was driving the 18½ kilometres to the 2,115 metre summit of the mighty mountain. There was nothing average about the gradient; 7.7 per cent was the mean and it was just that.