She returned to her seat between Josh and Alex without a word or a glance. Her mind was in a muddle. The Stage was being replayed on the televisions but it was Ben’s words, echoing in her head, which provided the incongruous commentary.

What should I do? Find him? Phone him? Phone Fen? Run to Rachel? Write? Cry? Hit Josh? Thump Alex? In what order? Oh, for order, for some sense of control.

‘Cat,’ Josh said, placing his hand on her shoulder and making her flinch, ‘can I borrow your Luca interview?’

‘God yeah,’ Alex enthused, ‘and me?’

‘I haven’t transcribed it yet,’ she said to Alex, unable even to look at Josh. ‘Perhaps once I’ve done so,’ she continued, staring at her screen.

With all that was buffeting around her mind, writing her article was the perfect way of taking time out from it all. Amazingly, the words flowed on the tide of emotion subsuming her whenever she replayed Luca’s victory in her mind or caught snatches of it on the screen. She pleaded successfully with Taverner to let her have an extra 150 words purely for the purpose of purple prose and finished her work well before Josh and Alex. When she came back from transmitting her piece, she took her seat, glanced at Alex and then turned to Josh.

‘Josh, I need to talk to you.’

He turned his cheek slightly towards her but kept his eyes on his screen and mumbled, ‘Sure.’

‘No,’ Cat said, looking at him, ‘I really want to talk to you.’

Josh stopped typing and looked at her ingenuously. Why shouldn’t he? After all, what had he said? What, if anything, had he done wrong? There was not a malicious cell in his body, only affection for Cat.

‘What’s up?’ he asked.

‘In private,’ Cat said quietly, regarding his fingers resting, mid-sentence, over the keys.

‘Are you OK?’ Josh asked. Cat shrugged and tried to raise an eyebrow in a Ben-like way, unaware that the result was more startled fawn than nonplussed doctor. ‘Let me just finish up,’ Josh continued, ‘then we’ll go for a quiet drink, yes?’

Cat sat quietly, happily watching the replays on the TV screens. What a tremendous day’s racing. Luca Jones. Four hours, thirteen minutes and sixteen seconds. It should be written in full. He deserves glory for every fraction of each moment.

Here’s Luca heading home with just under 5 kilometres to go. This is when the cameras focused on his hands. Here they are. Gloveless. Pink. One silver ring. Slender fingers. Cat found that she was standing up and knew she had just said, ‘Oh my God!’ out loud a number of times. She looked from Alex to Josh, both of whom were regarding her somewhat puzzled. ‘Oh my God!’ she said. ‘I have to go.’ And she went.

En route to her hotel, Cat makes a detour to the water’s edge. In contrast to the fiery Atlantic Coast which provided the backdrop to her initial coupling with Ben, the Golfe du Lion is mellow and affable. The water is lapping lazily, as if it always does so, as if this is the preferred pace of the place, regardless of whether 175 men (two retired) hurtled into town at 60 kph that afternoon. She lays her hand lightly in the spume and feels the bubbles tingle and effervesce, senses them burst in a tickle when the water pulls back. It is dusk, the water is warm. If she was wearing a bra she’d undress and swim in her underwear. But she isn’t, so she doesn’t. She looks at her hand, all glistening, and dabs her tongue against her salty fingertips, sucking them at length and thoughtfully.