I have won today. I am the Tour de France.

All journalists have not merely a favourite rider but one whom they feel they can appropriate as their own; whose career they always follow closely, whose triumphs they wax lyrical about, whose defeats they play down. It’s favouritism, it’s widespread and it’s allowed. For Cat, though mighty Miguel Indurain was her hero, Luca Jones had long been her special boy.

Cat had watched the last 10 kilometres of the race standing very close to one of the press TV sets. She winced at the welt of sunburn across the back of his neck. She noticed that he’d taken off his gloves, was transfixed by his hands, pale pink in contrast to his bronzed arms. She could practically count all the separate muscle groups in his legs. When Luca had only 700 metres to go she started jumping up and down. As he crossed the line, she leapt high into the air and cheered and squealed.

‘Luca!’

She kissed the person closest to her, which happened to be Josh, whispered, ‘Luca’s done it!’ and ran with the pack from the gymnasium requisitioned by the salle de pressé. Luca, of course, was swamped by a mass of men but she hugged Hunter, cycling to his soigneur hot, wet and ecstatic himself. Then she bounced on tiptoes at the edge of the swarm around Luca before skipping off merrily towards she didn’t know where. Just skipping. High. Delighted. Skipping towards – ah! The team cars.

She slowed her pace to a reverential walk as she neared the Zucca MV bus. Rachel was wiping down Vasily’s legs with a green flannel.

‘Thank you,’ Cat said, bowing her head at the rider. ‘How is Gianni?’ she asked Rachel.

‘He’s OK,’ Rachel nodded, ‘he’s OK. Exhausted. But he can rest a little tomorrow.’

‘Tell him he’s an absolute star,’ Cat said.

‘Ms McCabe,’ said Rachel, stepping away from Vasily and tipping Evian water on to the flannel, ‘have you done your work?’

‘Taverner says I can only have 400 words,’ Cat rued.

‘I meant,’ said Rachel, ‘your work. Ben? Josh? He Who No Longer Exists?’

‘Almost,’ Cat said, imploring her friend not to give her a hard time at such a joyous moment. Rachel raised her eyebrows. ‘Imminently,’ Cat promised. Rachel allowed her eyebrows back down. Cat walked away but within a few yards she was jigging triumphantly again. She practically collided with Fabian Ducasse talking with Jules Le Grand, but she gave them only a cursory ‘Pardon’; for her, Luca Jones might have been 42 minutes behind the yellow jersey in the overall classification but he was the true hero of the Tour de France that day.

Team cars were already whisking riders to their hotels, though the Megapac entourage was besieged by press men and TV crews. Cat changed direction and went to the podium instead, beaming and applauding extravagantly when Luca took to the dais to claim his fame, his trophy, his kisses from the Coca-Cola girls and adulation from the crowds.