‘That guy – the weeny Spanish climber,’ Fen says, ‘how did he do that on the final climb? It was like there was suddenly a motor on his bike. Was it my imagination or did he actively choose the steepest part to suddenly power away from the faltering?’

‘Strategy,’ Cat replies, ‘undoubtedly – Velasquez always bides his time and then attacks. Imagine the effect it has on those he pulls away from.’

‘And all for a spotty jersey,’ says Pip contemplatively.

‘And Jawlensky finished ahead of gorgeous Ducasse and diminished the Frenchman’s lead to a minute,’ Fen rues. ‘Did I pronounce Vasily’s surname correctly? With a “y” not a “j”?’

‘Perfectly,’ Cat confirms. ‘What with Velasquez – that’s a “th” not a “z” at the end of his name – in polka dot, and Lomers and Sassetta still at loggerheads for the green jersey, this Tour is being waged on a personal level between Système Vipère and Zucca MV.’

‘But it was so cold, so misty and grim today,’ Pip says plaintively.

‘And that boy went careering off the side of the mountain,’ Fen remarks.

‘David Millar?’ says Cat. ‘He’s fine – thanks to a bush. He lost his bike but managed not to lose too much time.’

‘What do you think will happen tomorrow?’ Pip asks.

Suddenly, Cat wonders. ‘Today changed many things,’ she says, ‘tomorrow, I would say, even more so.’

‘What do you mean?’ Fen probes.

‘Read my report – it’s all in my concluding paragraph.’

‘Er, Cat,’ says Pip, her mind switching from lycra and bikes to flesh and beds, ‘how’s Ben?’

‘Fuck,’ Cat bemoans.

‘What?’ Fen says.

‘It’s complicated and horrible and I’ve created a sorry mess for myself.’

‘Details, please,’ Pip demands. Cat gives her sisters a nutshell version which more than suffices.

‘Well, don’t you dare back off from unravelling it,’ Fen cautions.

‘Humble pie can be quite nourishing,’ Pip says encouragingly.

Django phoned almost as soon as Pip and Fen had gone.

‘They’re bloody lunatics!’ was his opening statement.

‘Who are?’ Cat said, startled at the severity of his accusation.

‘Your bloody bike boys,’ Django brandished. ‘Fancy wanting to ride a push bike up five fuckers of mountains. Bloody mad. Are they on drugs? I’m on double brandy after that.’

‘Good question,’ Cat said a little despondently.

‘Why all the sex?’ Django demanded.

‘The sex?’ Cat exclaimed, wondering if Django would move on to rock and roll next. ‘Where?’

‘On the mountains,’ Django said ingenuously, ‘that lovely Liggett commentator was telling us that certain riders bonk whores.’

‘What?’ Cat exclaimed aghast.

‘Oh yes,’ Django continued, ‘on the mountains themselves.’

Cat fell silent and then grinned. ‘Are you talking hors catégories?’

‘That’s the one!’ Django confirmed. ‘Would it have something to do with those mountains being such a bitch to climb?’

Cat roared with laughter, much to the consternation of a posse of Portuguese journalists near by. ‘Hors,’ she stressed, spelling it out, ‘hors catégorie means “beyond classification” – and yes, I suppose they are the bitch climbs.’