Sunflowers, lavender and cow parsley provided a gentle aesthetic antidote to the rock faces on which firs clung precariously. Local women, laying claim to their favourite spectating spots, sat under parasols, compounding Fen and Pip’s feeling that they were driving through an Impressionist painting. Until, that is, the tifosi began to gather in force and en masse, their sodden clothes from yesterday drying on mountain safety barriers, shrubs, even the tarmac itself. The sisters grinned proudly while the fans cheered, waved and rang huge cow bells as the Zucca MV car passed by.

‘Madeleine,’ said the soigneur with hushed reverence, stopping the car near the summit of the great mountain. ‘Please,’ he said, hand on heart, as if it were his grave responsibility, ‘I wish you to have a very good day.’

‘Mille grazie,’ said Fen.

‘Trille zille grazie,’ said Pip.

‘Prego,’ said the soigneur with a humble but flattered shrug and smile, ‘prego.’

‘Everyone is so lovely,’ Fen remarked to Pip as a vast Spanish family made room at the roadside for them, and an elderly German woman whose face was painted like her national flag offered them cold sausages.

‘It’s like a huge family,’ Pip agreed, thanking three young Spanish boys for sharing their orange juice. ‘I can’t believe you’re making me go home tonight.’

‘I have to go to work tomorrow,’ Fen bemoaned, wanting to stay in the Alps, stay on for the Time Trial, for Paris, rather than head home to trying times and impossible choices.

‘And Ben is going to drive us to the station in Grenoble,’ said Pip. ‘He’s lovely, isn’t he?’

‘It’s only about 70 k from Gilbertville,’ Fen retorted, wondering how on earth she had the space in her mind to be confused about Ben when she was dithering over two men of her own. ‘Wouldn’t you rather Alex drove us?’ Fen crossed her arms and raised her eyebrow at her sister who almost choked on her orange juice before brandishing a very wicked smile.

‘Naughty Philippa,’ Pip chastized herself with great pride.

‘And?’ Fen pressed.

‘Who would have thought the Tour de France was sex and drugs and rock and roll?’ Pip marvelled as a nearby Danish contingent danced terribly to terrible Europop and a Dutch posse enjoyed cake whose main ingredient was obviously far more mood-enhancing than just flour, butter, eggs and sugar.

In the Gilbertville salle de pressé, a large marquee by the Arly river, Cat sat on a rickety plastic chair as if it were a veritable throne.

Taverner didn’t cut a bloody word! she marvelled to herself and anyone else who chanced upon the Guardian, spread before her. If this doesn’t swing the favour of the Maillot office, what the fuck will?

‘Andy? This is Cat McCabe in Gilbertville.’

‘Hullo, Cat McCabe in Gilbertville,’ said Andy from offices in Pentonville.

‘Have you seen the Guardian?’ Cat said, trying hard not to squeak with excitement, nor sound deflated when Andy said he hadn’t. ‘Well, I gave Taverner twice as much as he’d asked for and he hasn’t cut a word.’