So his dream of a King of the Mountains hat trick has vanished?

I know. And I can’t get hold of Rachel to find out how he is. Her phone’s switched off. And I know her well enough to know there must be a reason for that. And I’m hoping the reason is that, for once, she’s prioritizing herself. If Rachel’s phone is not on, it’s a blatant Do Not Disturb sign. And I’m happy to respect that. As long as she gives me a full report in glorious Technicolor tomorrow.

‘What’s the time?’ Rachel asks André whilst she folds and refolds the batch of laundry just retrieved from the dryer in the Zucca MV team truck.

‘Nearly nine,’ he replies, checking his watch fastidiously. ‘Your team had a very bad day.’

‘My job is not to judge, not even to comment,’ Rachel responds, ‘but you’re right. Your boys must be pleased – Fabian taking a minute from Vasily and Carlos taking the polka dot jersey from our Massimo. Poor Mass, he’ll probably shave his goatee off. Or dye it.’ She leans out of the truck and pulls the door shut, locking it from the inside. ‘I really should be tucked up in bed,’ she muses, taking an empty bidon to her lips and sucking thoughtfully.

‘Early massage for the boys, early night for Rachel?’ André laughs, hoping she won’t take him literally.

‘That’s what I told them,’ Rachel says a little guiltily, wondering whether a white lie warrants comeuppance. André glances around the truck. It’s pretty much identical to the Viper’s. He turns the taps on and off at the sink and Rachel fiddles with a scrunched-up piece of cling film.

Just bloody kiss me, you bastard!

André, however, is expressing polite but excessive interest in the quality of the melamine fittings.

‘Your English is very good,’ Rachel says as huskily as she can. André responds to the flattery not with a lunge for her breasts, as she rather hopes, but with a chronological account of his schooling.

Oh fuck it, Rachel thinks to herself, I’ll bloody kiss you then.

André is saying something about something or other when Rachel flicks off the light in the truck and, knowing the layout of her second home off by heart, finds the mechanic, holds his face and presents her lips to his.

There’s something about the situation, the furtiveness of it all; the scent of the almonds from the frangipane, the hum of the washing machine, the smell of chain grease, the confinements of the truck interior, the build up of a few days of glances, of emboldened flirting, that touchdown between these two pairs of lips inflames. Suddenly, clothing is being torn away, André’s textbook English is replaced by throaty Gallic exclamations and Rachel’s tough talking transmutes into soft gasps and moans.

Massimo Lipari couldn’t sleep – what was the point when his dreams had already been dashed? Whenever he closed his eyes, the nightmare of reality accosted him. His body was sore, he had bad road rash down his entire left side. His head hurt, scorched by the incessant what ifs, if onlys, why didn’ts and I should haves tormenting him. He had a room to himself and though he had craved the solitude in which he could weep unchecked, now he did not trust or particularly like his own company. He was more appalled that he had bonked than he was outraged that Carlos attacked when he was down.