‘Big Mac,’ Cat whispered, eyes still closed, ‘large fries,’ she continued though an excess of saliva made her voice a little odd, ‘and a vanilla milk shake.’

‘Now and only now,’ said Josh, squeezing her shoulder, ‘are you a true press man of the Tour de France. Congratulations.’

And so, over supper at MacDonalds, while Alex, Josh, Cat and Ben indulged in their fantasy meals in appreciative silence, Fen and Pip told Cat all about their journey, their arrival, their day and what on earth and where on earth would their night take them.

‘They could have your room,’ Ben said, removing a glob of Special Sauce from Cat’s chin. Everyone nodded, especially Alex, who, resuscitated by the splendour of such a meal, suddenly had designs on both sisters and enormous self-belief that he could have the one, the other, or both, whenever he so chose.

‘Tomorrow,’ Alex said, ‘we’re staying in an apartment at the ski station – so you two can crash with us there.’

‘Please,’ Pip said, thinking Alex quite handsome actually, ‘where’s best to watch the race? We hardly saw a thing today.’

‘L’Alpe D’Huez,’ Cat said, ‘but there will be at least a quarter of a million people on the mountain – many of whom have been there for days, literally.’

‘Oh,’ said Fen, dejected.

‘Oh,’ said Pip, disappointed.

‘I could drive you there at the crack of dawn,’ Cat said, immensely touched that her sisters had come to find her, but moved to the extreme that they had come to see the Tour de France.

‘Ben?’ says Cat, as they lie on their backs, post orgasm, with their heart rates thundering, their bodies gratifyingly sweaty and their erogenous zones well satiated.

‘Yes, Cat?’ Ben says woozily.

‘I think I’d like to go back to my hotel, if that’s OK?’

Ben rolls over, takes Cat’s hands above her head and regards her in the half-light. Everything about her is glossy; her eyes, her hair, her skin. She smells fantastic, she had tasted wonderful. ‘Is that OK?’ Cat says again.

‘Of course it is,’ Ben whispers.

‘’Sme,’ says Cat, knocking at her hotel room door. The sisters snuggle against each other, as often they have, in a rather small double bed. They stroke faces and hold hands and natter well into the night, as often they have. They settle into a very short sleep before waking at an ungodly hour to make the pilgrimage to cycling’s mecca, L’Alpe D’Huez.

STAGE 14
Grenoble-L’Alpe D’Huez. 189 kilometres

‘Jesus, how are they going to get up this?’ Pip gasped as Cat turned off the flat road and L’Alpe D’Huez soared skywards immediately.

‘Twenty-one hairpin bends?’ Fen asked Cat, hoping there’d been some mistake and the peloton would actually have only half that number to contend with.

‘Yup,’ said Cat, driving around the third, ‘a 14 k climb.’

‘And they’ll have ridden three other big ‘uns first?’ Pip said, holding on tight as the car swept around another bend.

‘Yes,’ Fen answered, holding on to her stomach, ‘including the Galibier – is that right, Cat?’