Fen and Pip sat in a daze at a café.

‘We have nowhere to stay, we can’t reach Cat and we caught just a glimpse, just a flash, of cycling.’

‘And only by standing on our tiptoes, standing on other people’s toes and elbowing complete strangers,’ Pip interjected.

Fen twitched her mouth, frowned and looked at her sister. ‘We get to see more on Channel 4,’ she said extremely quietly.

‘How are we going to get from Grenoble to L’Alpe D’Huez tomorrow?’ Pip asked. ‘I doubt whether we can hop on a bus or cadge a lift.’

Fen shrugged and contemplated her kir. ‘If we do make it there, where are we going to stay? Under the stars?’

‘Where are we going to stay tonight, more to the point,’ Pip pointed out.

‘Come on,’ said Fen, ‘let’s find Cat. Let’s go back to the salle de presse.’

‘But we hovered for ages,’ Pip bemoaned, ‘with no luck in any language.’

‘Come on,’ Fen said, boosted a little by the sight of a team car with its roof-load of bikes.

On their way, they passed Ben York but it meant nothing, of course, to any of them. Though Ben is head-turningly handsome, Pip was too engrossed in a map and Fen’s head was already cramped with two men jostling for attention. Ben glanced at the women but his priority was half an hour with Cat before he dispensed electrolytes and glucose.

The salle de pressé in Grenoble was housed in the Palais des Sports, built for the Winter Olympics. Every entrance was guarded by officials refusing to understand English or establish eye contact with anyone not wearing a pass. Which was a shame as both Fen and Pip were excellent in the art of doleful eyelash-batting. It was most unfortunate therefore, that the first journalist they accosted happened to be Jan Airie.

‘Ex you sum wah,’ Pip enunciated in plummy English, hoping that the journalist might be American and his heart might soften at her accent alone.

‘Huh?’ Jan said, puffing halitosis liberally.

‘Cat McCabe?’ Fen suggested, rather nasally.

‘Catriona?’ Pip added. ‘Journaliste, le Guardian?’

The man sniggered. ‘Whore!’ He waddled away, laughing to himself.

‘What a charming chap,’ Pip muttered. They took it in turns to approach other journalists leaving the salle but their English, their poor French and their pigeon Italian met with apologetic shrugs.

‘Everyone looks shattered,’ Fen remarked, ‘bags under the eyes, crumpled clothes.’

‘Some look like they need a good scrub,’ Pip added, ‘and a haircut, and a cutthroat shave. There – that bloke looks friendly – your go, Fen. Try him.’

‘Monsieur?’ Fen asked Josh.

‘Oui?’ Josh replied, thinking she looked familiar but, seeing no pass, not dwelling on it.

‘Cat McCabe?’ Fen asked.

‘Journaliste, le Guardian?’ Pip interjected.

‘What about her?’ Josh said.

‘Oh good, you’re English, we’re looking for her,’ Pip replied.

‘Who are you?’ Josh asked.

‘Who are you?’ Pip retorted, wondering why everyone was so accusatory.

Josh looked down at his pass and twisted it the right way round. ‘I’m Josh Piper, as it goes,’ he said, ‘and let me guess – you’re her bloody sisters, aren’t you?’