‘Yup,’ said Cat, gripping the steering-wheel and swinging the car around another bend, then up, always up, interminably up, ‘the Galibier is over 18 k and at 2,646 metres, even higher than L’Alpe D’Huez.’

People were sleeping on the slopes of the mountains, their sleeping bags emerging from the shadows like huge slumbering slugs. Elsewhere, opulent campervans protected their inhabitants from view and dew. Already, people were milling about, ghostly grey in the pre-dawn light, some holding cups of steaming liquid, others draped in the flags of their nation, carrying tins of whitewash, some carrying tins of beer. Cat pulled over three-quarters of the way up the mountain. ‘It’ll be a slog for you to walk the rest after the Stage – but you can spare a thought for the boys who’ve biked it,’ she said.

‘Look!’ Pip marvelled at a posse painting riders’ names across the tarmac. ‘Whenever I see the graffitied roads on the TV coverage, I worry that some riders might have been overlooked. Let’s befriend someone with paint, Fen.’

‘Will you do one for me?’ Cat asked, suddenly wishing that, just then, she could have the freedom of a fan rather than the restrictions of a journaliste.

‘Sure,’ said Pip, ‘who?’

‘Luca, of course,’ said Cat.

‘Give us some names to paint,’ Fen implored.

‘Xavier Caillebotte,’ Cat said, ‘or Didier LeDucq.’

‘Ones we can spell,’ laughed Fen.

‘I’m going to do Ducasse,’ Pip proclaimed.

‘Are you now!’ Cat teased.

‘Who’s the yummy Yankee?’ Fen asked. ‘The dark one?’

‘The postman,’ Pip clarified.

‘George Hincapie,’ Cat said, ‘US Postal.’

‘Him,’ said Fen, ‘I’ll do him.’

‘Lucky George,’ said Pip.

‘Do Marty too,’ Cat said, ‘and Tyler.’

‘Better make a list,’ said Fen, anxious now to be on foot, on the great mountain, painting names and waiting for their holders to pedal past.

‘What time are they due?’ Pip asked Cat.

‘About five-ish,’ Cat said.

‘It’s six-ish now,’ Pip remarked, not at all concerned that eleven hours separated her and the cyclists.

‘He looks friendly,’ Fen nudges Pip, ‘ask him.’

‘Monsieur? Parlez-vous anglais?’ Pip asks the man.

‘Yes,’ the man says, ‘you speak Dutch?’

‘Um,’ says Pip, ‘not terribly well.’

‘OK,’ the man laughs, ‘we stick with English.’

‘Could we have some of your paint?’ Pip asks assertively.

‘Sure,’ says the Dutchman thinking that eleven hours in the company of these two would be most welcome.

Pip paints for Cat.

V A S S I L Y

Pip paints for herself.

‘One “s”, stupid!’ Fen says, midway through F A B I and trying to remember if it’s E N or A N.

‘Must remember Didier,’ Pip says, ‘let’s do his name really huge.’

D I D I E R

‘I haven’t had so much fun in ages,’ Fen says, flicking Pip surreptitiously when her back is turned. ‘Mind you, I’m a bit bloody cold.’

‘Maybe Mr Rembrandt will have something warm for us,’ Pip says prior to collapsing into giggles with her sister before they compose themselves and return to their whitewash duties.