‘But I want you – I do – now!’

Cat was rooted to the spot.

‘Look on this as a taster – I’m going to whisk you away tonight, I know of a place. It’s private and beautiful and we’re going to have sex there.’

Cat remembered distinctly how, at that point, Ben had had his fingers inside her. And even if she’d forgotten, the sound of her rhythmic, lust-urgent breathing would have reminded her.

Isn’t technology marvellous! How sensitive dictaphones are! See, it can pick up and project the unmistakable rasps and clicks of two people kissing and it can preserve crystal clear and loud the sound of Cat imploring, ‘Don’t go – oh God, Ben!’ It is a shame that the salle de presse isn’t quite so sensitive to allow a private situation to remain so. But can you blame them? Have you ever heard anything like it? Luca Jones. Sex. Gossip. On the Tour de France. Compulsive listening. I dare anyone to switch it off.

What did Cat do? What could she do? What do you think she did? What would you do?

She gave a strangled yelp. She turned on her heels. She ran. Fast. Just to get the fuck away from there. And fast. It probably wasn’t the most logical thing to do, nor the most constructive because it would of course make her return – and she would have to return, it was her job – all the more difficult. But she acted on impulse, reacted to the sheer horror of it all, and all her senses barring common sense had told her to bolt.

Was the dictaphone then switched off? What? And miss Ben having his private wank? The tape must run to the end. After all, say Luca came back with a fantastic quote? Fast forward? No, no – wouldn’t want to run down the batteries.

I could fly home from Toulouse.

But you’d have to inform Taverner at the Guardian.

And he’d want to know why.

And then, of course, so will Maillot.

And yarn-spinning obviously lands me in more trouble than the truth.

Plus, if you left under a cloud, you’d have no control over the way this whole débâcle will be recounted.

Jesus. Before you can say maillot jaune, legend will have me live on video shagging the entire Megapac team.

How long have you been sitting there? It’s drawing to dusk. Isn’t the sand damp and your bottom wet?

I didn’t go to the hotel for fear of being followed. I found this secluded chink away from the main beach. There are rock pools. The sand is dry.

There is a funny side, Cat, you do know that? But you alone can orchestrate the way this afternoon is preserved for posterity.

I know. It would only take Rachel or my sisters to point it out, but I’m actually too humiliated to contact anyone. Even Ben.

Instead, Cat opted out of the present tense and sat a while longer, by herself. She analysed how the clouds simpered up to the moon and over it, having their edges singed brown like the circumference on a cup of espresso coffee. Then she made the clouds appear to stand still so that she imagined the stars to be making a reverential pilgrimage towards the moon. Then she saw the night clouds as a slow, silent procession; like a line of melancholy people moving quietly, secretly away. Finally, she scoured the sky for the constellations she knew and she mused a while on how, at different times and in different places, she’d seen Cassiopeia as a W, an M and a 3. Finally, she admitted that such meanderings were just pointless displacement activities and that facts had to be faced and that faces had to be braved.