‘Wait up,’ she said to Alex and Josh, ‘can you two flank me?’

‘Oughtn’t you be wearing sackcloth,’ Alex teased, ‘not that floaty little sundress – a bag over your head at the very least?’

‘But it’s hot,’ Cat remonstrated.

‘And the press gang’ll be even hotter,’ Alex remarked, eyeing her up and down.

‘I can’t go!’ Cat declared, coming to a standstill.

‘Come on,’ said Josh, linking arms with her. They escorted her in, which was a good job really as she was too busy scrutinizing the ground just millimetres in front of each foot fall to take notice of where she ought to be headed and obstacles to avoid.

Shit. Has everyone gone quiet? Or is my heartbeat just drowning out every other sound? I daren’t look up.

The boys sat her down between them and Cat started typing immediately; furiously and with her head close to the keyboard and masked by the screen.

COPY FOR P. TAVERNER @ GUARDIAN SPORTS DESK FROM CATRIONA McCABE IN DAUMIER

The memory of yesterday’s Repos faded fast (God, I wish it would – I’m going to have to relive it again when next I speak to my sisters) as the Tour de France headed for Provence. The deep massage and physiotherapy the riders would have had yesterday was in retrospect not so much to soothe their limbs from the exertion of 11 days of racing, as to prepare and cajole their bodies for a further 9 days. (Jesus – what’s that? Oh my God, people are clapping.)

Though a slow round of applause intruded on Cat’s concentration, she decided to give everyone the benefit of the doubt that maybe, just maybe, they were merely applauding a breakaway or hot-spot sprint. She was desperate to watch the race, the Repos had been very nice, thank you, but Cat had withdrawal symptoms for cycling. However, she didn’t dare raise her head though her neck was aching and her shoulders stiff. Josh sweetly whispered a running commentary and Alex supportively denounced the clap-happy posse as a bunch of tossers. Neither could do much about warning Cat that Jan Airie was leering behind her because he had slunk up unannounced, as was his wont.

‘Catriona!’ he breathed pungently and invasively close to her ear, forcing her to retreat even further into the questionable space offered by her laptop. ‘I do believe you interviewed young Luca Jones – I’d love to hear your tape – I’m sure it is very interesting.’ Then, though his humour stank and his laughter reeked, he wheezed himself silly at what he perceived to be his great wit. Cat wanted to throw up or hit him, but as the former would mess up her keyboard and the latter would entail face-to-face propinquity, she sat stock still. Airie, proud of himself, skulked off, taking a seat directly in front of Alex and taking a good look at the computer screens of his immediate neighbours. He helped himself to a cigarette from one and stole a swig of Coke from the other.