Maybe everyone would think of you and André as a fine pair and, in time, perhaps, in love and all.

And the hatchet between Système Vipère and Zucca MV would be buried? Hardly. One or both of us would get the sack, more like. I’m going to leave a message for Cat right now. Oh, I have message waiting. Stefano. Whoa! Abuse! Bloody men. Stefano and his bloody thighs. I’ll have an hour’s kip and then I’ll wake him with a rub so vigorous he’ll weep for mercy.

‘I have a surprise for you,’ Ben murmured, tickling Cat to awaken her. Cat regarded him with mock supplication and spread her legs obediently, a winsome expression on her slumber-soft face. Ben smiled at her, shook his head, was about to tell her instead that he loved her but, glancing at the clock, decided against it for the time being. ‘No,’ he said, whispering his fingers up her inner thigh, ‘not that kind of surprise – but I like the way you’re thinking.’

‘What, then?’ Cat asked sleepily, a little disappointed.

You could tell her you love her now, Ben.

Not enough time. Not the right moment.

‘You’ll see,’ was all Ben would say, leaving the bed though Cat tried valiantly to grapple him to stay.

Jesper Lomers woke alone and lonely. Jules Le Grand had talked to him at length the previous evening about contracts and the future. Jesper knew that, in terms of his career, staying with Système Vipère was the only option. But he couldn’t fathom whether his career should be his life or whether his marriage should be his career and if, therefore, Anya were to be his partner, whether they could build a strong enough business of their marriage.

How could he be most happy, he wondered, as he went to the bathroom. Surely one’s happiness is ultimately one’s own responsibility, he pondered as he smothered his legs in shaving foam and began to shave. He remembered how Anya used to love shaving his legs for him, taking her task most seriously, turning him on intensely. Shaving foam fights. Sex on the bathroom floor. Laughter. Togetherness. When was the last time? The last time that she had shaved his legs? The last time he had felt her, fondled her thighs? When did they last laugh together? When were they last together and actually experiencing togetherness? He nicked himself with the razor but did not curse, merely put his finger against the blood and then licked it pensively.

Could he be happy not riding for Système Vipère, he wondered, using a new disposable razor for his other leg. Could he be happy not cycling at all? He knew the answers to these questions. But oughtn’t life to be about sacrifice? Wouldn’t that make him a better person? Would he thus experience more of a sense of achievement there, than in keeping the green jersey for a second year running? He patted his legs dry and phoned Anya at his home, then on her mobile. No reply. He did not leave a message.